She has taken photos before. The reflective surface would always show her. She was sure photos were just a maddening way to lose your mind. The quickest way as well, but she would take them nevertheless. The photo crinkled beneath her fingers. Her knuckles were white by how hard she gripped. There were little water marks bending the paper all over, and more kept coming. This photo was different. Perhaps the girl finally realized? She remembers the most recent photos she's taken, not counting the one she's just took. They were all shameful. When she looked at them she had wanted to cry. Her face was all wrong, a little too chubby to look pretty, and she never thought she could look pretty. Over and over and over again, she had tried the photo booth, but she only got one result, an ugly face peering back at her. So she decided she would do it once more. Paint no longer colored her face like the hundred of other times, her skin was wrinkled and droopy. She was old, and yet this was the photo she had wanted to keep. For once she could confess to her closest friend (but the most recently made) that she had loved herself.

It was dark before she came. Nothing could be seen for miles. A perfect infinity of tenebrosity. Then she appeared. It was faint at first. Just a mere candle flame. It was lit up by an elder. His days were numbered. His foot was already halfway into his grave. Flakes would fall off his rusted face, yet he still kindled the spark. The next light that shined was a child's. She had seen the beautiful flame; it would dance in the wind, you see. Though the elder who had lit it was long gone, the fire burned bright. Perhaps it was more vibrant than before. Yes, the child beheld the light in all of it's glory, and so she turned on her spark. This one was in the shape of a cat. It had been made from the clothes off her back and paper from the bin, but she had made it herself, so the night-light shone fiercely, with a determination the elder's kindled fire lacked. The glow would then spread. The girl had shown her creation to her friends. They wanted their own source of light, not just relying on the girl's. Some of their lights seemed almost artificially made, plastic even. Nevertheless, time went on and almost every child had a spark to call their own. It had been wonderful. Truly a sight to behold. The world shone so brightly, yet it did not blind. For a while, a few peaceful moments, it was nice, but it would not last. The first light to go out was a man. No older than thirty, but the children in the yard made him seem that much older. There was no new adventures for him. No new friends. He had to eat and sleep and work. His once beautiful spark, red and gold it was, dimmed and faded till it was no more. If only he had stayed a little longer, for it was he who lit that one faithful candle so long ago. Over the years his face flaked and his joints ached. He never truly understood, but once his eyes rusted shut, once he could no longer use his legs or speak what he wished to say, he did. But it was not enough to light the first spark for the candle's wick.

I am a cat and I am immortal. There is no more information needed. That will not stop me. It has been many moons since my last owner. Died of heartbreak that one, or maybe it was I who died of it. Yes that's right. I had died of heartbreak and she of the glorious concept of old age, but I had not in fact died. It was particularly sad. Her death I mean. One could argue all passings are sad, though I humbly disagree. Through the years I have experience any and all trials; hunger, war, peace. Some times were trying. It was difficult for me to even stay alive. I would have been a ghostly figure by now if it weren't for the heavenly forces binding me to this shallow world you humans call Earth. Actually, I was excited my first time around. It was wonderful, my birth's day of a hundred years. I had lived longer than any other mammal I knew. I did believe I was God for quite some time. Tested it too. My hypotheses went to one hundred fifty-six to be exact. None were pleasant, but science persists, unlike human lives. I did make a friend over the years. Larry the tortoise. He was humongous. Well over twice my size, but he aged slowly, as did I. Larry was what you'd call a best friend. He'd live outback, and though I was older than him, a couple hundred years older, he would always seem the wiser. "Your alive, so act alive." He would always tell me. Oh how I miss him. He would carry me on his back, his shell warm from the sun he bathed in. That would be my favorite resting spot you see, on top of his back. Sadly, I could only enjoy ninety-one years with him. On his hundred second year (January 28, 8:13), the cold got to him. I did not see him again. The next hundred or so years I dedicated to not feeling. I decided it was best to be a regular cat afterall. I did not talk with any tortoises. I just lazed around. The dog was chatty, but she too would not last long, so I would not try. Years went by and by they went. Over and over and over again. It was deathening. My mind would always wonder. My current theory was that I could not die simply because I was not alive. Whether I be a figment of some child's dream or a remnant of an elder's loneliness, I believed I was not living. The fur that made my body was synthetic, the organ's artificial. What was the point of this? Ahh yes, my owners passing. Anyhow, after the thousandth year, Larry's words finally hit me. I was alive. To all the humans, this may seem like a simple conclusion, but for me it, to put it bluntly, changed my entire perspective. It must be the years piled up on me, but my back was heavy. Humans think they have all the time in the world. They don't even have a quarter of what I do. And so, that must be why I never truly felt alive. At that moment I decided to change that. It was my owner who would tread that line with me. I've been in the same family for generations. I had seen the same eyes look at me for hundreds of thousands of years, but never have I seen such a calming green before. It was like removing a filter off of the world. My owner took me everywhere. Places I've been. Places I haven't. It was perhaps the best sixty years of my life since Larry. I knew she would die someday, yet nothing could prepare me for it. Nothing could ready me for the final words spoken from her dry, wrinkled lips. It was like she had known all along about my curse. She had looked straight into my eyes. Though she had been on her deathbed, she managed to pass on some wisdom before she, herself, passed on. The words had seemed familiar. Larry probably said something similar, maybe I had said something similar myself. She had said, whispered really, "For old times sake." Actually, looking back, I don't believe she had ever finished telling me what she wanted to say, but it was enough. It will be enough.

"You've come back, " She spoke softly, yet her voice carried volumes, "But I no longer need you." That was the question. Everyone had once asked themselves it. Do I need it. It was whispered from the child at the store, from the woman at the club, and even from the rusted man in the grave. It was told to people. "No," the mother would say when her little girl, with her hair hung proudly at her side, would bring another doll to add to the collection, "You don't need it." Then the father would say to his son, "You no longer need it." Though the son only wanted support, not a toy like others. Those words have been uttered by anyone who has dared to say it. At the least, it would be spoken thrice. One each at dawn and dusk and twilight. For the sun to rise, but they don't need it. For the sun to set, but they don't need it. For another day just to come, or the opposite, for none at all, but they no longer need it. The women, however, did not want something. Well, incorrectly said, she no longer wanted something. I believe it was herself she was talking to. It had to have been, there was no one else in the room. Yes, that is it. She was telling, not asking, but demanding herself. She had said, "You've come back, but I no longer need you."

He was the Key Bearer. Ever since birth he could open any door, he could unlock any chest, and crack any lock. A master criminal. Despite being the greatest thief in existence, he couldn't steal the one thing that mattered. A heart. You see, as the Key Bearer grew up he realized his gift related to humans too. Secrets were known and innermost thoughts were heard. He loved it. No one could lie, cheat, or deceive themselves in front of him. It was great, until of course, he found it difficult to find something stimulating. He knew everything that was interesting. Girls' drama. boys' trauma and overall deep dark secrets. It was hard to get to know anyone. This was constantly on his mind. He couldn't get to know anyone the traditional way. He could just, well, know. The summer breeze was nice. A sharp contrast to the warmth from the sun. The park was bustling with life. Shrouded in secrets. He saw kids playing. One had sharp blonde hair, the other dark green. The blond one would push the green one off playground sets. "I'm the winner!" He would yell. The Key Bearer chuckled, his voice full of warmth. To the Bearer all the scene was, was the blonde wanting to impress the green one. Little kids were so cute. Beside them, there was an old couple. They had to be well in their sixties, but they were still holding hands. They still had the small sparkle in their eyes as the first day they met. The Bearer would hardly find genuine relationships. The exceptions were mainly little kids and old people. It's because kids haven't lived enough to become deceitful and the elderly have lived to long to continue the lies. That was the one benefit to his gift. He actually got to see real feelings. Everyone else just had to believe in kindness and good, genuine intentions, but he knew they were they. Maybe not everyday. Hardly any day, but they were there. Like a fresh day outside in summer. Rare, impossible for some, yet, despite all odds, it's there.

The world was ending. I mean it was only time. 4.5 billion years is a long time. I could only feel rejoice? No, that's not it. Maybe relief that it ended this way. The red streak in the sky was only a countdown. Ticking closer every second. Everyone tried to prevent it. For once, all of humanity banned together. If we were all dead anyway, why not. It was poetic of sorts. How we only found piece before the end. Perhaps it was horrible to some, but to me? To me it will always be the most beautiful thing of all. I'm glad to say, to know, that humanity didn't kill itself off, but something else did. ................................................ It was hot. The end I mean. Much hotter than Florida should be. The sky was a gorgeous deep red. Ironic for a situation that was nothing but. The first rock came crashing down the neighbor's house. The second my lawn. The third was right by my pool. All the rocks were no bigger than a fist. Oh, but they kept coming. I guess this was the closest Floridians would ever get to hail. I was running down to the kitchen. My sister and I huddled close together. Even when sitting I had to bend my neck down, so I wouldn't bump the table. My sister was scared. I was too. I don't know how long we were under that only table. I don't know how we managed to fall asleep with all the cracking noises from up top, but we managed. We managed to expect to never wake again. ................................... I took a deep breath. The air was musky and dry. My breathing was raspy. It hurt to take breaths. The meteor crashed. We're still here. How are we still here? Are we still here? The red streak was still in the sky. Maybe it worked the same way as stars. How they could die and we would still not know years later. Huh... It's weird. Everyone thought we would have died by know. People spent their money, ate what they want, did what they want. I let out a chuckle. People now have to face the consequences. There would be wars now. No doubt. Countries across the world are in dept to each other. Science is expensive. And science was, apparently, never needed at all. I suppose it might be a blessing that we all lived, but, personally, the aftermath might be worse than actually knowing death. Nothing to do know than to face what we've done. There's no time like the present, so I told myself a silent apology to get started on this world's habilitation. "I'm sorry for wishing the opposite."

A poet is only as good As their definition of poetry much like a story could only be judged by its context it's interesting how an art effects those who prow those who look for that one specific painting one specific book people are waning much like the moon but unlike it they come and go and never come again it's easy to quit so they look when A poet defines poetry much like a person defines life short and empty like them so they can feel something before the end.

Its ugly this sweater But I wear it each week No matter the weather Its ugly this face But I wear it each week No matter the place Its ugly this body But I wear it each week No matter how gaudy Its ugly this reflection But I see it each week No matter the direction Its ugly these eyes But I wear them each week No matter the prize Its ugly this heart But I have it each week No matter, it falls apart Its ugly this person But I wear her each week Its okay if I worsen.

His breath was steady, determined. He's done this routine a number of times. Heck, he could do it in his sleep if he wanted. His knuckles grew white as he held onto the pole. It was cold, the metal. Red stripes decorated it, yet it still shone like Christmas morning. And he was going to bring the present. His footsteps echoed. The stage was hollow for the magician's phony tricks. The ones with trapdoors and pulley wires. To be honest, he'd never liked them. He never could. It took years for him to hone his skill and become true entertainment. No deceit was necessary to put on a show. But he couldn't worry about that now. The curtains would open soon in 3, 2, 1... Lights flooded his vision. The crowd started cheering him on. He could see little children smiling and waving. This is what he does. This is why he does it. And so, he jumped on his unicycle and started the show.

"I want to be c-complete, not perfect." She stuttered out. The floor was cold, tiles upon tiles were arranged in a floral pattern. She lay there unmoving for quite a time. And then she repeated, her voice cut through the silence. "I want to be complete, not perfect." This time she spoke clearer, no longer muttering the phrase. Blood had started gushing out. It was in too many places to recognise the source. Maybe there was more than one. She repeated, "I want to be complete, not perfect." Her voice was full determination. And a hint of... resentment? Her hands uncovered stapler wrapped in cloth. It was a basic one you'd find at the store. The girl screamed out. blood gushed harder as she stapled into herself. "I want to be complete not perfect." She cried out. No longer the timid soul from before. Her knuckled grew white at how hard she held the stapler. The she grabbed another. At a moment's glance no one would realize she was missing all the fingers on her left hand. Or the toes on her right foot. Her hair was jagged. Bald spots where littered across it, and flesh was red and peeling. They were all scattered on the floor in front of her. She was stapling herself back together. Red gushed out more as she when on. One after another. Her screams would be heard from anyone in the vicinity. There was no one in the vicinity. Perhaps she was lucky for that. She let out one last guttural scream. This time it was more animal than human. "I want to be complete, not perfect."