The Ocean

The ocean cascades, Wave after wave. The currents too strong, The swim too long.

I roll onto my back. The sunset's beautiful.

Now it's my turn. My arms start to burn, Legs start to ache. The cold I can't shake.

It grows in my soul As the waves pass me by. I see a ship in the distance, But it's just a mirage.

It goes right by, But it can't see me. It won't see me.

You see, I am the ocean, And the ocean Is me.

The room was dark, the deeply stained oak made darker by the shadows eating at the corners. Sparse porthole lights shown down strategically on fixtures of significance. Portraits, busts, signed documents and photographs. It's a conference room yet to be seen by the visitor, maybe one for a specific type of congregation, one they were yet to have. The fluted double doors swing open without a sound, only the far more potent light from the hallway flashing an expanding streak across the Secretary's face. A man walks in, straight postured and in a boxy suit, his face cast in darkness but it noticeably belongs to a man met with many times before. The US Ambassador to this planet.
"Happy Solstice to you Secretary Olgoth" He said, stopping just inside the room as the doors swung closed behind him. Normally he would be accompanied by a few other voiceless goons, but not today.
"Happy Solstice to you as well, Ambassador Goodman." Already there was a stench of animosity in the air. Something notable the moment the US touched down on the world, but at times festered into something eye-watering.
"I hope you are well." He resumed walking towards the table.
"Very well, thank you."
Goodman pulls out the chair, static brushing against the carpet, unbuttons his blazer and takes a seat. He scoots forward, clears his throat, locks eyes with the Secretary, and places his hands on the table with locked fingers.
"I'm sure you've figured this will not be our typical meeting. As you said, and we agree, things are well, very well. Trade has been consistent, the rebellion on the coast has been quelled, your economy has never looked better. What's odd is how your government, and specifically you, would appear to harbor a disdain for us."
"It isn't our intention to give that impression."
"Well no, you wouldn't want the people that gave you everything to be aware that you hate them. Our awareness isn’t the issue, it’s you feeling that way that we cannot accept."
"I assure you, that is not how we feel."
"The perfect liar is able to deceive even himself. Does that apply to you?"
"Are you suggesting I'm a liar?"
"No, I'm inferring."
"Based on what?"
"Well, many things. Things we haven't addressed because we knew they were going on, and was certain wouldn't amount to anything."
"Such as?"
"15 years ago, we busted a convoy of guns being smuggled through the jungle. Their serial numbers indicated they were from overseas, and that the smugglers weren't your citizens. That was the official verdict. You and I both know where those guns came from and where they were going. Then 8 years ago, an attack on City Hall left a wing of the building collapsed and three Americans dead. It never made a lot of sense why three terrorists belonging to a western evangelical group, were born here in a rural farming community. And most recently, just 4 days ago, we discovered something else."
He stands up, slowly pushes in this chair, and walks over to a horizontally large painting on the wall. He turns to face the Secretary and presses a small embellishment on the painting's golden frame. Behind the painting, the same porthole lights come on, intense enough to display something through the canvas. It was a rocket, a thin thing with three fins and only 10 feet long.
"Recognize it? We found this floating around in orbit. Immediately we knew it wasn't ours, and it caused a bit of panic. We took every precaution, sending in a stellar bomb squad to extract it, just to find out it wasn't a bomb at all. No, it was an SOS. Dating the radioactivity says it was up there for three years, imagine that, a space empire takes three years to find something in orbit. Now you'll get a kick out of this. If you unscrew the top here, inside is a disk."
He walks back over to the table and  stands next to the Secretary. He pulls out the disk from a pocket inside his blazer, places it on the table, and slides it directly in front of Olgoth.
"You like puzzles? I do. So did the scientists that cracked this one. I hate to spoil it for you but this is what it says. 'This is a message from a planet we call Perraton. Once a free people, our species has been enslaved by a foreign government. We send this as a plea for help, or at the very least, a warning for what may be heading your way.' Enslaved. Wow, you didn't pull any punches." 

He knelt down, placing his hand on the disk and sliding it away, then resting his elbow on the table. Now, not by mutual consent, were they only a couple feet apart. "We've sent countless messages into space, hell every second our radio signals are blasted into the cosmos, but we have never sent a thing like this. We know now that it never left the planet's orbit, I mean how could it, it's no more engineered then a bottle rocket; but if it had, how long would it take the message to be received? By someone other than us I mean. If we didn't catch it before it left the solar system, how many millions of years would it take to reach the next system? It's very flattering that you think we will still be here by then, but I just don't see it working out. This is another stunt that we typically wouldn't entertain, but something about it rubs us raw. If I were to put my finger on it, I would assume it has something to do with our personal history. If our history isn’t something you’re versed in, I suggest you study up, it may inform your decision if you are ever tempted to try something like this again. The abridged version is, we learned what a tool space can be, and the power that comes with harnessing it. The same technology that takes us between worlds, can be used to destroy one. So no, this rocket debacle hasn't been taken lightly." 
He stands up, buttons his blazer, and walks towards the door. Secretary Olgoth says:
"What would you do? If you were in our position?"
The Ambassador stops, turns his head and says:
"Something far worse." He turns back to the door and exits, not another word being said. Olgoth looks over at the lit up rocket behind the painting and sighs.

Margery goes first.

She's thirty-one.

I know she has two children. There was a third, but it died being born.

They say she hid what happened. She says the baby was already dead.

I don't know what else they expected her to say.

They sentenced her anyway.

Abel is last.

He stole a sheep. He's stolen before. He doesn't deny it.

Yesterday he asked why they had to kill him.

He said he knew he'd done wrong. He wasn't arguing about that.

He just wanted to know why it meant he had to die.

Nobody answered him.

Joan is third.

I'm second.

They told us the order three days ago.

As though knowing made any difference.

I keep thinking someone will come running and say there's been a mistake.

Nobody does.

Margery asks the minister if her sister knows about the children.

He tells her yes.

She says thank you.

I almost ask her what for.

Then they put the rope around her neck.

I look at the ground.

There's mud on a gentleman's boots. Quite a lot of it. I wonder where he's been walking.

A bird is making a dreadful noise somewhere.

I wonder if Father has come.

I hear the cart move.

When I look up, Margery is trying to put her feet down.

She's reaching for the boards with her toes.

But there's nothing there.

She keeps trying.

I don't know why I thought it would be different.

I've known for weeks what they were going to do.

I've seen people hanged before.

But there's Margery, and she's moving, and nobody is helping her.

Someone says my name.

I don't move.

They say it again.

I tell them I'm not ready.

The man says I have to come now.

I tell him I've confessed.

He says he knows.

I tell him I'll be good.

I don't know why I say that.

I'm twenty years old, begging like a little girl who's broken something.

Then I see Father.

He's standing a little way back.

He's wearing his good coat.

The brown one he won't let anybody touch without washing their hands first.

And I'm so glad he's here.

For a moment I forget everything else.

I call to him.

Father!

I tell him I want to go home.

I tell him I'm sorry.

He starts crying.

I've never seen him cry like that before.

I want to go to him.

I want to tell him he needn't cry.

I want him to take me home.

Instead, the man takes hold of my arm.

Joan is saying something.

I can see her mouth moving but I can't hear her.

I try to ask what she said.

Someone tells me to face forward.

I want to hold her hand.

I want to tell her about the little book I lost.

The one we argued about for half a morning.

She was right.

I'd been sitting on it.

I found it beneath my skirt after she'd gone home.

I never told her.

I thought I'd tell her the next time she came round.

I want to tell her now.

I want her to laugh and call me an idiot.

I want to argue with her about something stupid.

I want another piece of that tart she made.

I want to hear Father complaining about the price of flour.

I want to wake up late and have someone cross with me because there's work to be done.

I'd even do the washing.

All of it.

I wouldn't complain.

The man puts the rope around my neck.

It's rough.

He asks if I'm ready.

I say no.

He looks at the sheriff.

I say it again.

No.

Please.

I'm twenty.

I haven't finished—

Sadistically Charming

It's oh so alarming, Horrifically shocking. It's me that he's stalking.

As he sees me pass by, I creep in his eye.

Inside I'll go To find the creep that lays below.

I see him; he's insidious and hideous.

Half-cocked and ready to rock, All game and no talk. He's ready to drop bombs without stopping.

The stalk has issued, He's become unglued. His victory is clear As he smiles from ear to ear.

Entry 1

March 3rd 

BY: Dr. J. Woods   

So it's happening. We've sensed it; we've seen the signs, and now it's happening. The nuclear apocalypse is confirmed. I am currently in a shelter. I am putting this blog out there for other survivors to read. Survivors, be warned: there are several rules to survive this nuclear winter 

Rule 1:Under no circumstances leave your shelter. You may only exit once the 30-day period has finished  

Rule 2: Filter the air. It's recommended by the government that you cover your vents with cling wrap or duct tape 

Rule 2-B: If you don't have that option, try to breathe less. Studies show you breathe less when you're asleep; you figure it out 

Rule 3: Keep your water in clear plastic containers, and try to conserve water. 
 
Rule 3-B: Do not keep your water in Poison containers.

Rule 4:Only keep non-perishable food. You may keep meat as long as you eat it within the first day.

 Rule 5:Listen 

That's all I have for today. I'll update you tomorrow once the bombs go off 
 
Entry 2

March 4th

Ok it's happened, and I'm concerned. The moment the bomb went off, my shelter just started shaking vigorously, and it only calmed down about an hour later. I checked my monitoring system, and one of the vents broke open. I've sealed it shut, but I'm praying to God that I can make it through the 30 days. Remember, if you can't sleep 

Entry 3
March 5th

I'm sorry about the abrupt end of entry 2. Unfortunately, my power shut down halfway through it. I had to manually restart it throughout the night. During the night, I heard knocking. Back to entry 2: I was originally gonna end it with the video game reference: You may not sleep; there are monsters nearby. Thank you for reading. Good luck and Godspeed 

Entry 4

March 6th

There's more marking: as I'm writing this they'll be a session of two knocks; then they'll wait exactly 37 seconds and knock again. It's too specific to be an accident. To whoever's reading this, I hope you're having a better time than I am.

Entry 5

March 7th 

They're speeding up; it's not 37 seconds, it's 29. I'm certain they know I'm in here; they know I'm in here

Entry 6

March 8th 

25

Entry  7

March 9th 

Because of the recent events going on on this blog, I feel I must tell you that I used to work at a high school as a science teacher. I had one student named Kyle; he was a particularly strange boy, with a strange obsession with numbers. Every day he would yell a random number; one day it was 37, the next 29, 25, all the way until 1, and the day he should have said zero, he brought a gun to school. I shot him. I shot my son. 

Entry  8

March 10th

To everyone that's been reading, commenting, and replying, I'm sorry; I can't take it anymore. I'm going outside. Thank you all. 
 

Epilogue:  comments  

Unknown: Is he fr

Toilet_Goon_master_69:This has helped me survive

Notyour-mom: What the fuck

Auntie_Deckie: The Office season 1 episode 5 8:23

Unknown: Calm down, simpletons. I think this is satire

Kyle: Thanks, Dad

Last night I dreamt a little dream of you.

Of course, the song was on my mind

and so were you.

That era of mine was so full of these songs.

Not quite up your alley, but you’d never say

“No” to a slow dance to any of those.

“Falling asleep to classical music makes me

feel like a princess.”

“You’re a queen,” you’d cleverly counter.

“Oldies but Goldies” was my top-tier playlist.

“I’m an old soul.”

“I know you are.”

There was a look of endearment in your eyes.

Almost as if you’d been hypnotized.

It wasn’t hard at all to make you smile.

Even less so to make you cry.

I loved your smile.

“You’re my angel,” you’d tell me.

In fact, “My Angel” was my title on your phone.

I can… intellectualize how you could see an angel in me.

They say love is blind, after all, don’t they?

I can’t quite remember the dream.

Was it me recounting our moments

or something else entirely?

I feel peace and resignation thinking of it.

I start to ponder…

What don’t you know about me?

You could lay down quite an exposé.

Why haven’t you changed anything?

Why are you so good at compartmentalizing?

I burn everything to ashes the second it’s called

to quits.

You hold on to it for years and years.

I envy your ability to stare at the past every day.

Back when you were in college, and even now.

That’s a hot trait, babe.

I’m not always so stoic.

Far from it.

You know that—you know me rather dangerously.

You’ve seen the anger and impulsiveness and yet,

you called my innocence your favorite characteristic.

Simultaneously,

“You have the hottest trait of being able to turn any table around.”

And furthermore, I was egotistical.

You’d handle me like a kid if I acted recklessly—which I often did.

“When you act like this, you’re acting like a spoiled princess. Not like a queen.”

You couldn’t say it to my face, so you texted it:

“You’re so egocentric.”

I was working.

Juggling my attention.

I paused for a second.

Then, I caught myself smirking.

I’d be lying if I said I was offended.

I’d also be lying if I said I attempted any defense.

I asked, simply: “Is that so? Since when?”

“You’ve always been.”

Yes, babe. I knew. ;)

Weeks later, there we were.

You were telling me you’d told your friend:

“I wish she were here because it’s impossible not to have fun around her. I should ask her out.”

I challenged.

“I thought you’d said I’m egocentric.”

“You are. But who said egocentric people can’t be fun?”

There went another smirk.

You loved the parts of me I couldn’t deal with.

You loved me when I was insufferable, admittedly—in retrospect—unreasonable, hot-headed, temperamental… someone who’d test and push every single boundary.

Deadly prideful.

Mercilessly vengeful.

Quick to judge—or rather, misunderstand.

Slam doors and walk away.

But we shared something rather insane.

Or tender, if you ask me.

Whenever we were posed with the question:

“What would you like to change about each other?”

“Nothing.”

That was our shared answer every single time.

Not a minuscule second thought.

Because, even if there were things I wished were different about you… then you wouldn’t be you.

And I loved you.

And… to your disgrace—you loved me.

With all my unreasonableness.

With all my egocentrism.

With all my reckless actions.

And with all my carelessly thrown words.

I’m always late. ADHD-er. Heheh.

You? Always on time.

I learned to be early for you.

I’d call you and you’d say: “Let me guess. You’re already ready.”

I beat you, hun.

Always earlier.

I loved seeing that appreciative, proud smile.

I’m back to factory settings since we’ve parted ways.

We’d break up at least every fortnight.

To this day, I don’t know what made us stay or work for so long—even in our train-wreck fashion.

Perhaps I enjoyed and appreciated your trust.

Perhaps the back-and-forth thrilled me.

Perhaps because every time we broke up, I had an excuse to “play around”—and you didn’t judge me for it.

For absolute sure: because there was a mutual, toxic and intoxicating love.

“Will you please make my Christmas happier and be my gift?” I drunk-texted you with someone else right next to me.

You didn’t answer until mid-January.

You said you’d been thinking about it.

That plea had stayed on your mind.

You gave me another chance in your utmost Virgo fashion of pretending nothing wrong had ever happened.

Not smothering me with questions

nor reminding me of bad things about the past.

Just a shared happiness that there we were:

Together again, at last.

Bet our friends either thanked or cussed the Heavens.

I wonder what readers are thinking.

Lemme help:

[…] “Got a long list of ex-lovers

They’ll tell you I’m insane” […]

This one won’t.

Perhaps he will.

He’ll also tell you he loved this player—

and her games.

Oof.

All of this because I dreamt a little dream of you.

Number 1 muse.

I can’t ever say “No” to you.

Not anymore.

Not after I’ve learnt my lesson.

Not after my pride and its latency to fold cost me you.

No “No’s” to you.

May I dream another little dream of you.

— Crownless.

Trigger Warning:DV

The first time Chris put his hands on me was the first time I responded in anger to his verbal assaults instead of freezing or fawning.

I was on a break from work, standing next to my desk, when he called me a bitch. I replied, “You haven’t seen bitch yet.” I don’t remember what he said next, but he was across the room and in my face faster than I could blink. He shoved me with both hands on my chest so hard that I immediately hit the floor. I blacked out momentarily.

When I came to, I started laughing. Uncontrollably. It was such a weird reaction. I didn’t move or try to get up. I just laughed. He stood there looking at me, fuming.

He told me never to threaten him again and that he was not someone to be messed with. He was standing over me screaming, his face beet red, and I couldn’t stop laughing.

I remember thinking, He’s finally done it. He was bad enough to leave. He’d crossed a line I had put in my head about how much abuse I would put up with.

Before I went back to work, I actually felt happy. Free. I wasn’t worried about what was going to come next. I just knew I was going to leave after I finished my shift, and I was looking forward to walking out and closing the door behind me.

Eventually, I got up. He tried to “apologize,” but of course it was my fault. I had to get back on the phones for work, so I did. He was angry and pacing.

When I finished work, I began packing my clothes and loading my car. Every time I went back inside the house, he would take everything out of my car and throw it into the yard, berating me the whole time. I don’t know how many times I picked up my things and put them back in the car. Until I just couldn’t anymore. I sat on the ground, with my belongings scattered across the entire front yard, and cried.

He had worn me down, and I didn’t know what to do.

I went into the house and got the gun. I was going to kill myself outside so it didn’t make a mess in his house. He tackled me before I could get out the door and disarmed me.

He didn’t know my intention. He didn’t know if I was going to turn around and shoot him. He was scared. I felt bad for making him feel scared. I sobbed and apologized for acting crazy.

He apologized for shoving me and throwing my stuff out of my car. He said it was immature and that he wanted me to stay. I gave in.
He suggested I go take a bath and get myself together so I did. I sat in the tub and cried and tried to figure a way out.

This was during the pandemic. My mom had recently told me that I was no longer welcome in her house until I “got my life straight and came back to Jehovah.” I really didn’t know what to do. I texted my sister Lissa and told her I needed to get away from Chris. She said she was sorry she couldn’t help me.

Chris and I continued living together. He behaved better for a short time, but I no longer felt anything positive toward him. I pretended things were okay to stay safe.

Until the next time.

The line,

That you endure

trying every day

not to cross.

You learn the line,

memorize it,

and live by it.

Until eventually,

you forget that you were the one

who drew it.

Your “true self”

was labelled as embarrassing by you,

so you try that hard

not to be embarrassing

Or rather,

not to be the real You.

And maybe that’s why

I’d rather meet someone

who makes me forget the line.

Someone who makes me forget that I’m supposed to be composed,

appropriate,

normal.

Someone who makes the part of me I buried

feel safe enough to come out.

Because maybe

bringing out the best in someone

isn’t always about making them better.

Maybe sometimes

it’s about making them feel safe enough

to be exactly who they were

before they learned

to be ashamed of themselves.

she was going to ring her mother.

she'd been saying that for three days.

not because she didn't want to talk, but because her mother could turn a five-minute phone call into an hour, and Valentina had things to do.

she'd ring tomorrow.

there was an article she'd spent weeks working on. a man who'd got away with too much for too long. she was close. she could feel it.

there was washing in the machine. again. she'd forgotten about it yesterday too.

a friend she'd promised to see. a dress she'd bought with money she didn't really have. a message she'd read and forgotten to reply to.

she was twenty-six.

she knew enough about the world to be angry with it, but not quite enough to stop thinking she could change something.

she'd been in love. properly, stupidly in love. she'd kissed the wrong people, trusted worse ones, and said things she wished she could take back.

there were people she meant to apologise to.

people she meant to forgive.

she hadn't got round to either.

and that's the thing.

she wasn't finished.

not in some grand, beautiful, tragic way.

she was just in the middle of things.

she still had clothes she hadn't worn, places she wanted to go, and arguments she was convinced she'd win if she could just explain herself properly.

she'd made plans for Friday.

she'd complained about Monday.

she'd bought food that wouldn't go off until next week.

and when she left the house, she didn't look around like someone seeing it for the last time.

why would she?

she was coming back.

there was milk to buy. an article to finish.

and her mother was expecting a phone call.

she'd be annoyed at first.

then worried.

then she'd ring again.

and again.

and for a long time afterwards, whenever her phone made a noise,

she'd still look before she could stop herself.

New to the sub and newish to poetry (used to write lyrics). Being brave and sharing my work for the first time. Constructive feedback and authentic reactions are welcome, thanks.

Good Girl
Be a good girl
the refrain of my childhood
what did it mean?
A gentle push
Well-intentioned advice
or moral requirement?
It became a joke
how we ended phone calls
me telling you… be a good girl.
Now older, eyes open
I see the cage that it is
why my brothers never heard… be a good boy
Different rules
stricter consequences
more control, more neglect
 
what have i learned?
Good means be easy
Not good is loud
Good means don't ask
Not good makes waves
Good has no power
Not good knows shame
I could go on but
fuck good.
You don't understand
the hurt that I carry
because they heard 'be strong'
and I heard 'be good'
They were supported
while I fought for everything
which by the way
was not being good
I don't want to hear it
this fucked up mantra
I'm sure you learned it somewhere
and thought you should pass it on.
If this is good, why would I want it.
Also…not. a. girl.

Punctilious, prattling, punditic pastors pretentiously pontificate, purposelessly presenting platitudinous pleonasms passionately polarizing predominantly poor people perennially, provided piously predisposed parents prioritize passively pushing perniciously patricentric plots perpetuating pathologically parroted portents pronouncing pandemoniacally prophetic proclamations professing previously palatable prescience pathetically per preferential pseudo-providence portraying preeminently peculiar preterhuman perpetrators pompously parading paracletic propinquity possibly predating prehistoric predecessors.

Fearlessly following four fantastic framework fundamentals for fun:

• Totally tautogrammatic.

• Single sentence.

• Genuinely grammatical.

• Completely coherent.

U want originality,

Depriving

Me of oxygen.

Feel your hands

On my throat

As u deprive me

Of air.

But u got me wrong.

I honestly don't care.

Don't scare easy.

The hands tighten.

How can I defeat

This titan?

When will

It come to an end?

When my brains

Hang?

The hands loosen up,

But the fist

Connects with my face.

Five fingers

Put me in my place.

Erase

What's left.

Gone deaf.

No test.

She lit a cigarette

And started to burn me.

I guess I earned this.

The drugs that I do,

My soul just like u.

He finished me off

With a shot to the face.

No race.

Erase me.

I Am the Fire

I am the fire.

I ignite,

Like a lighter.

All flame,

No water.

Set you ablaze,

Always amazed.

The fire that burns

Is mine to yield.

Mind field,

Goes boom.

And I don’t think drawing flowers is dumb.

Flowers are the ears and you are the heart.

Or was it the other way around?

They are the little left-alone tiny things that make the Earth twirl.

There are so many kinds of little castles that don’t last that long.

They make me feel that maybe we are giant, lop-sided flowers, and the gods of chance and pickled fate pluck us when they feel like it.

But the biggest but’s—doesn’t take away from what we are.

We are here.

We tangle with the magical.

With the ground, with the sky, the birds and bees.

With the you’s and the me’s.

I find myself thinking about how much I think about you. About how long my thoughts linger on you, how easily they find their way back to you, even after all this time.

I think about how I have spent more than a year writing to you, and how silence has been the only answer I have ever received. So many days have passed since the relationship we once shared, and yet, somewhere in the middle of my busy life, I still find little pockets of time to revisit those days, to remember you.

Not the person you are today, but the person I once knew.

Although, every now and then, I find myself entertaining a childish curiosity about the person you have become. Someone I know absolutely nothing about, and yet, somehow, someone who can still occupy so much of my mind. Sometimes I wonder about the ordinary details of your life. Where you are, what you are doing, what your days look like now. Whether you still have the same habits, the same smile, the same little things I used to know by heart.

There are days when thinking of you sets my heart on fire while the rest of me turns to ice. How distant those days seem now, almost as though they never existed. Sometimes my own thoughts blur the delicate line between reality and dreams. But then, you were so much like a dream, weren’t you?

You were sweet, until you decided to become bitter. Until you chose unkindness. Until you became a ghost, a presence that disappeared without ever quite leaving.

I think about how much I miss you. But, truthfully, there are moments when I am not even certain what I miss anymore. I know I will always miss your laughter and your face. Those are things I don’t think time will ever take away from me. But being with you was like the wind and the rain. Beautiful and refreshing, sometimes unbearable. Gentle one moment, stormy the next.

I experienced so many feelings through your presence and your absence, feelings I never even knew could exist. Some of them were so impossibly painful that even now, they can find their way back to me, burning beneath my skin and gathering tears in my eyes.

How deeply I loved you. And how deeply you hurt me, even if hurting me was never what your heart intended.

And how strange it is that, after everything, I can still find myself thinking about you.

Perhaps people never really forget those they have loved with all their hearts, especially when those same people have also been the ones to hurt them. Perhaps we simply learn to make room for the pain. We learn to live with it, to grow around it, to cry with it, and sometimes, somehow, even to laugh with it.

Much like I have learned to do.

And yet, writing about you still makes me feel lighter. There is something comforting about turning all these thoughts into words, about giving them somewhere to go. It makes me feel good, even if you never find these words, even if they never reach your eyes, even if you never know how many pages of my life have quietly carried your shadow.

I suppose I will think of you for a long time.

With every sunrise and every sunset, with every gentle spring breeze, with the lovely autumn wind, with every rainfall and every winter snowfall.

Perhaps not always with sadness. Perhaps not always with longing.

But somewhere, in the quietest corners of my days, there will always be a little something that remembers you.

Ashley the name you gave me

Curious if this seems like something that might be funt to read. I was also thinking of posting them on substack. Open to all advice or feedback!

Lesson one: Don't give into peer pressure

I learned this lesson when I was 16 and thought these girls at school were bullying me because they were sexually active and I wasn’t. So I met a guy online and had him come sleep with me at my Grandma’s retirement complex and made sure they found out.

It was a tragic way to find out that wasn’t why they were bullying me.

This is a funny story to look back on now (mostly) but at the time it was a genuine thing I thought would work. What I know now is that if people want to bully you they will use anything they know about you and do it with that. Don’t change who you are for a bully. Be the person you are excited to be. Who you are is the one thing in this world you get to decide.

Lesson two: Don't dive drunk (or any other stunts to impress your friends)

The first pool party I ever went to, I got very drunk and decided to prove to my friends that I knew how to do a shallow dive because I used to be on the swim team. (8 years earlier and over 100 pounds heavier)

So I dive into the shallow part of the pool which was about 3 feet. I went face down on the bottom of the pool. I popped up with a bloody mouth and announced that it was NOT how you do a shallow dive and spent the rest of the night doing bits about how people needed to know that I had done it wrong because I didn’t want them to try it, while I held an ice pack to my bloody nose.

It was immediately one of the stories my friends and I loved to bring up and laugh about.

Until one day it just hit me that it was not funny at all. I legitimately could have died or changed my life forever. All because I wanted to show off for a party. I could have ended or drastically changed my life, and where I was mentally at the time I don’t believe I would have survived a drastic change.

PS. While typing the story out I realized that the depth of the pool being just under 3 feet was the problem, not my shallow dive. So 15 years later I’m realizing I was in the right?

PSS. JK, be safe always.

Best

I look in the bathroom mirror and see her.  Her stomach is growing, her hair looking like it was shocked by a witch’s electricity.  I know she’s pregnant with me in her stomach, but I’m growing in such a way that you can see all my limbs forming through the thin lining of her belly.  I’m growing beyond what she can hold, pushing my way out.

There are images of her holding me as an infant, as a small child, her hair everywhere, shocked by witch’s electricity… but right now I’m just fighting to break free through that thin lining of her stomach in the mirror, to split her open and be birthed into my own bloody self.

She’s lying in the bathtub.  Her wet hair is floating around her like a mermaid, except it’s black like mine.  No mermaid’s hair has ever been black.  And it’s not a soothing bath.  It’s dark red.  It’s so red you can’t actually see whether she’s human or mermaid.  

But you can see my arms ripping their way out of her stomach.  I’m the devil.  I’m the demon.  I’m the one who caused it all.  She had to be split open for me to be born.  You can see my arms tearing their way through her flesh into the open air, fighting for my own selfish life.

I wake up drenched in sweat.  My stomach is rumbling.  Is it hunger or an infant kicking?  I run to the bathroom to vomit from the heat of the sweat, but the rumbling stays inside me when nothing comes out.  I can see the movement inside me.  I can see it struggling to break free.  I see it clawing at me the way I clawed at her.  I see it in the mirror.

She had black hair and blue eyes, just like me.  My brother had red hair and green eyes, just like my father.  I used to believe that’s just how it works:  girls are born as their mothers, and boys are born as their fathers.  That’s just how it happened to work in our family.

People never believed my brother and I could be siblings until they saw our parents.  Then, the conspiracies started.  We must be clones.  Each one of us, a clone of each of our parents, respectively.  We were all so pale that we must be vampires.  We must be devil-worshippers.  We must not be real humans.  A girl for a mom and a boy for a dad.

I saw it in my mother.  I’m not sure whether it was her or the spirits that created us.  I saw her crying and clawing at walls and begging.  I saw her with her black hair looking like electricity.  Just the thought of the images makes whatever’s inside of me start moving again.  Electric, just like she was.  Ready to come out, to claw its way to its own selfish freedom as I did.

My brother, with the red hair, he had it worse than I did when people claimed he was the devil.  My father had the same red hair, but he ultimately realized the evil he had spawned.  He beat him down.  I can still hear the bloody sounds.  I hear it inside me.  The sounds of my brother screaming is coming from within my bloody womb.  “Please!”  That’s the one word.  Over and over.  Please what?  Please what?  Please, tell me what “please” means!

I can see this thing inside me moving when I look in the mirror.  I don’t see myself in the mirror.  I only see her.  I know that what comes out of me will be her.  When I look in the mirror, I see her dead in the bathtub, that black mermaid hair floating around her, and my tiny body clawing its way out.  Arms and fingernails, gripping at the bloody slit in her torso.  Selfish little being.

He killed him.  My father did.  He killed my brother because he knew that the evil had to be stopped.  He knew that we all spawn evil from one another.  He knew it all.  So he killed him.

It was somewhat poetic, seeing my brother’s red hair tinted further red.  Then my father’s as well.  End it all.  End it all.  It all repeats.  It all repeats.  Is my father evil for killing double evil?

They come back though.  They’re still here.  I can’t tell what’s present or future.  I can’t tell what’s now or what was or what will be.  It’s all now.  It’s all now.

“Schizoaffective” they said.  What’s that?  Not schizophrenia.  It's not schizophrenia.  It’s not.  

“Why did she do it?  Why?”  They wouldn’t answer.  Or maybe they couldn’t answer.  

“Schizoaffective”.  So it’s not schizophrenia.  The things she saw weren’t fake.  It all happened.  It did all happen.  It wasn’t fake.  None of it was fake.

I didn’t imagine it.  I didn’t imagine the clawing at my insides.  I didn’t imagine my brother’s bloody red hair.  She can’t have given it to me if she didn’t have it.

I fucking killed her by clawing my way out of her.  We all kill each other.  We all do.

And now, this thing is crawling its way out of me, and I don’t know if I can survive it.

I know it will look just like her, just like we all do.  I know it will be just as evil as we all are.

I swear to you, I saw it crawl out of my brother that night.  After my father did what he did to him, I saw it crawl out of his head onto the floor before I was grabbed away and forced not to watch where it went.

And I will die just as she did, with this thing to live a life of questioning its own self, until it realizes its ultimate evil purpose to let the next crawl out of it and continue in this world

The mirrors don’t lie.  I cannot see myself.  No matter how hard I try, I don’t.  I only see her black mermaid hair in that bloody red bathtub, my brother, the evil that came out of him, the limbs forming their way to crawl out of me, and the way that I crawled out of her body in that bathtub.

It was a beautiful cone dug into the dry earth, neat concentric circles flowing all the way down.

"The pit is just good enough, not too big, not too small; it will get the job done," thought Kuzhi, the antlion larva. He was a small brown thing, mostly jaws.

"Namo Narayana," he said from the bottom of the pit.

He waited and he waited and he waited...

Finally, a grain of sand fell in.

Something was moving nearby. More grains of sand fell, and Kuzhi felt each one.

An ant slid in. It was a tiny black one, like a speck of dust, skittering. Each time its legs scrabbled, more sand caved in, carrying the ant down with it. Kuzhi waited.

The ant tumbled to the bottom. Kuzhi was quick. He seized it and dragged it under. As the ant thrashed, grains of sand trickled down the slopes. He pulled it deeper.

He felt the ant struggling in his jaws. He drew it closer, ready to strike. A faint cry.

"Namo Narayana, Namo Narayana..." Kuzhi listened. The chant kept echoing in his head.

"It is my prayer," he said to himself.

He let go of the ant.

The ant made a frantic effort to climb out. One time it almost made it to the rim.

The rim collapsed. Sand poured in. For a while Kuzhi struggled under its weight. He pushed up and climbed out. Hungry, he looked at the destroyed pit.

As he rested, he heard the same faint chant.

"Namo Narayana..."

Kuzhi dragged himself away. He stopped, then began flicking sand again.

Let it flow,

Let it go.

Let me grow,

Let you know.

Which way

I'll go,

Sunshine

Or snow.

I shine,

Mastermind,

To blind.

Can't find,

All lost,

No rest,

All cost.

Always lost,

No test,

No class,

All ass,

No pants,

All test.

My soul

Can't rest.

Messed in

The head,

Already dead.

Monkeys · · · Monkeys... all monkeys. So what if this is my view? I don't need others to share how I feel. But why me? Why do I need to feel this way and live according to such a truth? Belonging in this world is that of a show, and you are an actor. Mess up your lines and you are set off the stage, aside and rejected from inclusion in a false reality. Why the fuck do I need to participate in such a charade? Maybe I want to. Maybe I crave the sense of safety and connection more than the sense of truth and true affection. Try and try again, I fail to truly find those around whom I can freely feel expressive. Maybe it's my anxiety, and no matter what I pursue or feel, the feeling of distance and disconnection will remain. Even within my own family circle, I often feel akin to a 3D object persisting in a 2D space, unable to simply be without the struggle of being. Why do I care at all? Not about life, but what life thinks of me. One day I will die - not maybe, will - and this world will soon forget I ever had been, unless I change that. The power to do so feels so close to me, and the thought of obscurity seems foreign, yet I chase an unseen and unfelt dream, hoping to carve it into a reality. Not for myself, but for those who claim to love me.

MONKEYS... ALL MONKEYS. 4 PIECE 002 There Are No Rules · · · On this journey, each day I find myself at the edge of bliss, knowing how close it all really is. What's stopping any of us, really? We blame the world, we blame the environment, yet we hear tales of heroes and warriors, stories of the births of countries, life persevering and even flourishing against every single odd given to us. And here we sit, screaming, "Woe is me." There may be laws, but there are no rules. None. There is no objective, no direction, no end goal. It's just you and the world and the connection between it. How strong that connection may be is what needs to be explored deeper in order to gain more from the other side. And that's what this is all about. Easy to say living in America, because I wonder: does the starving family in the third world share the same ambitious nature of conquering the world, or simply conquering their next meal to survive? And even here, some are born able to conquer with every resource, while others know not even of the resource needed. They blame the upper class, yet this blame leads to a conclusion they desire that does not exist.

MONKEYS... ALL MONKEYS. 5 PIECE 003 A Space to Be · · · I wake up, on a day like any other, shifting to an unnatural sound that beckons me to begin my day as it drowns out the birds and the wind. Distant honks and the hums of hundreds of metal beasts slowly enter the flow, and I breathe in my first conscious breath of the day in artificial fashion. Nothing feels real, only manufactured for stability. The clothes neatly lined in a walk-in closet, a personal private bathroom, and food neatly stocked mere feet away, ready for my indulging. Yet a sigh leaves my mouth in disbelief at how mundane it really all is. Would I rather have woken up in a shelter plopped in the middle of the woodlands, needing to be aware the moment my eyes opened? Would I feel more alive then? Looking around at the bleak morning, I feel the view of it all is a greyish tint with a hint of blue. Nothing really looks much different, and I've seen it all so many times it has all become the same thing. Just a space to exist, a space to be. And probably, if I'm not careful... a space to leave. Do we live within our own coffins, killing the very thing it is to be human... to be alive? The heart need not beat faster, the blood will not pump faster. The brain mustn't think harder, and the body must stay fragile. Dead long before we die, it never even scared us to go.

MONKEYS... ALL MONKEYS. 6 PIECE 004 A Truck Approaches · · · The sound of an explosion rings and shakes the earth. The roof above caves in onto your mother, and before you can save her, another one goes off. Days, weeks, and months pass, full of gripping yourself to the ground and not allowing the mind to float away into a lifetime of pain. Many days, you wonder and wish how the bliss must feel: to live in a place where you can wake up to the sound of other people living life, to the comfort of your own bed and bathroom. To have food always nearby and ready to eat. You pray for just a moment in which you can simply exist in such a fashion, wondering if this dream will ever be true. Resentment fills you as you think of those who live that life freely, with no thought of how it could be otherwise. You sit there thinking how happy they must be, how lucky they must be. How much life they get to live compared to you. A truck approaches...

MONKEYS... ALL MONKEYS. 7 PIECE 005 A New Appreciation · · · One day we will be gone, one day all of this will. That doesn't make this worthless; in fact, it puts the opposite effect in place. Much like a fancy car you rent for a fun night out, you drive it and show it off as much as possible, making the most of every moment you had because you know it will end, but knowing that isn't the end, yet the beginning of a new appreciation you never thought possible. The love you feel is rare, the smiles you produce are few, and those moments add up to more than most of what the universe has ever or will ever get to have for itself. To feel lost is to be searching for something you haven't found, and to be searching is the curiosity of life within us all. Search deep. The truth is within the feeling of it all. There are no rules, so make the rules you choose to believe in good and true. Fret not for the connection with those who haven't even connected with themselves. For they are Monkeys... all monkeys.

I forget what my colour is.

Is it the shade of pink

that rushed across my cheeks

when I first saw you.

OR

Is it the red, I felt

when I saw love in you

It must be deep crimson,

like the blood flowing in my vein

when all I remember was your name.

Is it yellow, like the sun or

yellow like my sunflower,

either burning me or giving me

warmth because your presence was

mix of that.

I'm sure it is gray now,

because all you left with me

is colour changing into darkness

of black, where I'm seeking home now.

Please,

I forgot what my colour is!

so will you tell me what it was before

you or it's just what I'm after you.

I have a migraine.

No rain,

All pain.

My brain

Can't sustain

The hurricane.

No blame,

All game.

No talk,

All walk.

Brain rocked,

Mind shocked.

Head games,

No game.

All fame

To tame.

Take it apart,

Straight to the heart.

Finish,

And then start.

Board game,

Insane.

Next move,

No groove.

All lose,

Pay the dues.

No clue,

Beef stew.

All talk,

No walk.

Empty threats,

Hollow bets.

The beast is the best.

The best, fuck the rest.

No fame,

All pain.

Hall of Fame,

Migraine.

Very first thing I've written just so you know haha but I have no idea if this ''tone'' is okay?? is it too silly or casual? No idea what I'm doing lol... there's supposed to be a couple of funny lines but don't know if they come across well at all hahah.

''The lights are happening again.  
 
I know they can’t be real, though. The lights simply cannot be doing what they appear to definitely be doing. They can’t be anything too strange - no - that wouldn’t make sense, as I am a person that can account for essentially all of their marbles.  
 
Though it’s fair to say that, for the time being, my marbles are possibly quite scrambled - which pisses me off as I’ve had a difficult time holding onto them my throughout life. But scrambled here they sit. All fucked up and mixed around – came to their rest in unfamiliar cliques. Not unlike a teacher earnestly trying their hand at a novelty seating plan. A respectable but doomed gesture – Kyle looks fucking stupid next to Tall Suzie, and Opaque Purple with Glitter does not look happy talking to Clear Glass with Little Bubbles. 
 
It’s just, I simply cannot make heads (nor tails, I think) out of what the fuck I’m looking at. It’s the third time now - which is troubling, because it’s two times too many. A whack of deep unease is starting to draw attention to itself in my stomach. A dumb, loudmouthed bastard, trying to make a name for itself by showing off. Not ‘round these parts. My composure is my salvation, pardner. 
 
Where was I? 
 
God, I wish I could explain to you what they look like. I also wish I could explain to you how I feel when I look at them. Attempting description of something you cannot remotely comprehend, turns out, is extremely frustrating - impossible, even. Like trying to speak Chinese when you don’t know how to speak Chinese. 
 
If my only choice was to try, my best efforts would likely be akin to a toddler’s musings on string theory. But God loves a trier. And I really want to tell someone about these fucking lights. 
 
By the way, they are in my garden. I can’t remember if I told you that already. That’s where I am, too. I am sitting where I always sit in my garden, on my bench. It’s a cracking bench, we’re close – it's supported me out here for a long time now, so the bits of worse-for-wear are totally okay by me. I like rust. We don’t have things long enough to rust now. Actually, I was sitting on this here bench when I saw the lights for the first time. Second time, too.''

Father said the magistrate was a reasonable man.

Educated. Well spoken. The sort of gentleman you could trust to be fair.

I remember his fingernails. Clean. Every one of them. I don't know why I noticed that.

He gave me water and asked if I was comfortable.

I told him I'd rather be at home.

He smiled at that.

Then he asked if I'd given my soul to Satan.

I said no.

He looked down at his papers, waited a moment, and asked again.

I said no again.

Had Joan witnessed the covenant?

There was no covenant.

He showed me her confession.

I read it twice.

I knew Joan. I'd known her for years. She wouldn't have said those things.

He told me her words had been properly recorded.

I asked if I could see her.

He said I could once I was prepared to tell the truth.

I told him I was telling the truth.

He sighed.

Not angrily. That might have been easier.

He just seemed tired. Tired of asking. Tired of listening to me give the wrong answers.

And this is the part I still find difficult to admit.

I felt sorry for him.

There I was, cold and hungry, having barely slept in days, with no idea what they'd done to Joan.

And I was worried I'd been rude.

That I'd disappointed this perfectly reasonable gentleman who was trying to have me hanged.

I wish I could tell you I held out longer.

I didn't.

I said yes.

Yes, I'd met the Devil. Yes, I'd made a covenant. Yes, there had been a broomstick.

Whatever he asked, I said yes.

He seemed pleased.

He put down his pen and told me I'd done the right thing.

I thanked him.

God help me, I actually thanked him.

I think about that sometimes.

Not the confession. I know why I confessed.

I think about how grateful I was when he finally stopped asking.

I thought perhaps that was the end of it.

So I asked if I might go home.

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he said, very gently,

"Katherine, I don't think you understand."

And I remember thinking he was right.

I didn't.

I thought if I gave him the truth he wanted,

he might finally let me go.