Magical, strange, an abyss one does not know how to voyage across.

The space between our stars is the space between our hearts, and we can’t comprehend that one day our bright lights will burn out.

And when they do, the Earthlings won’t see it for years upon years upon years, decades and perhaps centuries will have passed before they realize our glimmer has faltered.

We are supposed to burst in a supernova, blinding the vast galaxies in the ashes we send soaring across the night sky, and our light is a reflection on the dark but we feel of one anyway.

And just because we live to strive of ourselves doesn’t mean we should be taken advantage of, broken and hurting and disowned.

We should live like the sun and the moon, unequal but treated equal, whom we trust all summer, and winter, and warm and chill out hearts down.

The space between our stars is space ununderstood, and we think that it’s the rivalry that matters, but it’s really what holds the rivals apart, differentiates and stands between them, that truly matters.

Because how else can they be separate beings? What else makes us unique?

No reply. Let’s watch the stars.

Options are far too great, far too many, and I can’t make sense of which is right

This moment is a gift, the present, and it will always linger, day or night

So to decide whether to be happy during the collapse, happy for a life lived and deeds undone

Or fall when the world sparks back like electricity, fall because the pain no longer unites us, makes us one

They school me just to rule me, what if I don’t want to be a professor, what if a comedian speaks my fate?

Maybe I want to live on scraps, call concrete a home, not even remembering if this morning I ate

And it doesn’t matter because that thought is beautiful, to live like ancestors not so carefully nurtured

Even though it kills off emotions, yes, it will hurt sure

But you can’t make decisions for me, I dream on an independence unimagined to blossom

And my only friends will be the drumsticks and the possum

Decisions, decisions, decisions

We can’t win it, we win it, so be it

I must kill to be innocent

My emotions rage inside my head, uncontro- llable

I’m a thief, I’m a liar, I’m too gullible

If they tear me apart like my bones are flimsy flower petals

If they think they’ll receive prizes for my pain in shiny gold medals

I have to fight, right?

Idiot, idiot, idiot

They are so foolish in the wisest of ways

Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound jots me awake out of my rocky slumber. At first, everything is dim. That’s what makes it so deceiving. It took me a hot minute to realize that I wasn’t on my soft, warm bed, my chocolate labrador snuggled next to me and and a cup of green tea perched pleasantly on the nightstand by my pillow. No, I was lying on the cold, hard ground, a dirty one with a strange stench. Gasoline, perhaps.... “What the heck!” My guard jumps, I jump too, my hair bobs up and down, hiding that minuscule brain thinking “Oh my god oh my god oh my god.” Back into the wall, SPLAT! into its wet sur- face. “AAAAH!” The wall doesn’t mind. The wall stays pleasant, staring at me so innocently, as if I’M the crazy one. Maybe I am. My brain is about to explode like the coronavirus in America’s face when I notice the scraggly blue bicycle tire propped up in the dark corner of the room, seemingly the only thing in plain sight. Next to it is a sad pile of bars and wires, what I’m guessing was once a beautiful, shiny race bike but now a rusty pile of the ashes of its former glory. I reach out to touch something strange sticking out between the deranged contrap- tion and the totaled tire as my brain screams at me, “DON’T DO IT! IDIOT! FIND A WIN- DOW! BREAK IT! LEAVE!” But there’s something about the stained concrete flooring and creepy fluorescent lights that just makes me want to keep searching for more, find more information, get a clue to what this place is. I grasp the object, and it feels smooth and cool underneath my sweaty fingers. Slowly, I pull it out, and its appearance starts to become revealed to me: a glass bottle, filled with something white and with a bright blue picture of a happy, cartoonish cow on the front. Milk. Why milk? Was it a milk delivery boy, and this was the bike he was riding? The cogs in my brain are spinning faster than clockwork, in my sorry attempt to piece everything together. Thinking, thinking, thinking...thinking.... da-DUNK! Something, something heavy, drops from the roof. WHAT!?!? I quickly turn my head up to the ceiling to see a massive hole, revealing the bright white clouds lighting the room. No lights after all...and the tapping had suddenly stopped. Feeling absolutely confuzzled, I walked over to the small rectangle that had quite literally fallen from the sky and picked it up. It appeared to be a Bible, with a black leather cover and gold lettering on the front. Opening it up, there is red splotches all over the pages, like red Kool-Aid...or something else.

Sorry, it was too long to finish but maybe you guys can come up with your own ending. :) Tell me in the comments.

                         Scene 1

Laura sits on a wooden stool, staring out into the distance. A man in blue overalls walks up to her and offers a peck on the cheek.

Laura: Ew! (stands up) You disgusting, lying, son of a foul mouth!

Man: (confused) What do you mean? You looked forlorn, and—(look of understanding) You don’t remember me, do you?

Laura: Stop acting like we’re star crossed lovers! (walks of stage)

Wind breezes through the trees like a distant whisper in your heart

Water ripples with such knowingness, like that kid in third grade who pretended he was all too smart

Autumn, pretty leaves fall to the ground, oh, what an art!

Cold and winter, movies by the fire, snow is off the chart

Spring comes, hold hands and hope they never depart

Hot summer beaches, little kids selling lemonade on a cart

Mother Nature, the way she can make things fly by and hit you like a dart

Nature, oh nature!

Larcy Indigo.

She has long black hair down to her waist, it sways like a graceful dancer in the soft autumn breeze. Her skin is dark, tan, but not that Cheeto dust look you get from a machine. She spends all her time outside, collecting rocks and planting cheery little flowers in her small garden.

The way she talks, it’s compelling. You have a craving to here her say more, and nothing in your immediate state of consciousness can explain why. The way the words roll off her tongue are gentle, a small stroke across your cheek, rather than people like political parties, sentences bursting up their throats like dynamite, then coming out harshly like a stinging slap to the face.

She has the power to make you feel. If she cries, you cry. If she laughs, you laugh. If she gets up and dances, you have the sudden impulse to do so too.

That girl, Larcy Indigo.

“Babies are flowers,” my mom tells her, smiling that happy, graceful smile I know so well. “They blossom and they bloom, and they are wonderful beings of joy. But beware, because some day, they will also learn to talk.” She laughs a small chuckle, a tiny thing, but it still manages to sound like peaceful bird song, or a faint breeze through the trees. My aunt smiles nervously, rubbing her stomach over and over like it’s a golden lamp, and she’s Aladdin. Only she doesn’t wish to be a thing of riches, a thing of royalty. She just wishes for an easy birth, a painless one, really, and a beautiful baby. One of elegance and delicacy, yes, kind of like a flower. “I just hope she doesn’t turn out like her father.” Pink streamers cover the walls, little weavings of binkies and rocking horses draped on the backs of the chairs. It is Aunt Lucy’s baby shower, and I am honestly only looking forward to the chocolate cake we get to eat after the watery broccoli soup. “Oh, I’m sure she’ll turn out just like her wonderful mother,” Mom says quietly, obviously knowing that she’s stepping around eggshells with this topic. Just when my aunt’s about to respond, an all-too familiar man opens the door. His beard’s down to his chest, his cheeks are smudged, he’s thin to the bone. Overall, even though he’s a grown man, he looks like such a pitiful sight that I can’t help but feel sorry for him. “Theodore?” Aunt Lucy gapes, her bulging eyes looking like they’ll pop right out of their sockets. “Yes, Lou, it’s me,” he replies in an obviously anxious voice, and everything shatters.

You are worthy of life

Think about all the things you want to accomplish, make your name heard before your life ends

If you die, the pain doesn’t go away, it’s transferred to someone else, someone you love and who loves you back

You’ll never get to date your crush, and you could be their one and only significant other

What about the kids you won’t have? They could cure some deadly illness and make a difference in the world if you gave them the chance

You’ll never again be able to listen to your favorite music, the song that digs into your soul, makes you think

About what you don’t know yet, and never will know if you die now

Don’t you want to travel, meet new people, try new foods?

Some day, it will get easier

The chances are low of you even being born, so you HAVE to have been born for a reason

I’m not asking you to smile, but just to try

Dear ___ and ___

As reluctant as I am to offer you my forgiveness, to let you know that all the mistakes you’ve made are okay, I’m trying my best to do so every day

You fight, you scream, you smash, but I must learn to accept that

I deflate, I cry, I hurt, but I have to learn not to do that

I just hope it’s not me next,

Or worse,

It’s BECAUSE of me

At this point, my emotions are flowers, once vibrant, but now stomped on and wilted

I’ll forgive you, but can you forgive me?