This brain of mine is a fragile thing, held together with a straying string It leaves my body most nights, diving deep in the dark sea of frights It swims along shipwrecks of loss and pointless dreams, drowning in screams While I stand on shore, lost, alone, without a piece of me so core.
This heart of mine is a broken wing, at night I rip it out and swing As I see it within my sights, I convince myself it’ll reach new heights It’s privy to all my schemes, plopping down into the sea it never gleams I pick it up still on that shore, lost, alone without a piece of me so core.
This soul of mine it doesn’t sing, out from it not even a ping I wonder if it’s lost its lights, or if the broken me afflicted it with my blights Yes, my soul is ripped at the seams, but my hatred, oh, how it beams! I stand on the shore, lost, alone, without pieces of me so core.
He scans the surrounding area, stopping on a tree covered in grey leaves outlined with a dark blue hue. Moving closer, he sees that it fits the exact image of the extinct Storm Tree he found in that tattered antique book years ago. Once at the tree, he reaches up, touching one of the leaves on it’s lowest branch. Within that touch, the tree demonstrate’s it’s true power as a storm flows through his body like he’s a desolate land awaiting rainfall.
He jumps back with a fear that incapacitates him, his mind becoming dull as a numbness spreads through his body.
“It’s real,” he mumbles, coming back to himself as he thinks of how with just one storm leaf he could bring a future to his desolate home but to take a leaf from a storm tree would doom it to wither and die.
His mind goes to the starving people in his town and lingers on the image of the families destroyed by their loved ones dying. His own mother, sacrificing the little food they had to ensure he survived. He thinks of how her body turned to bones with skin that seemed to barely cover it.
Without another thought, he reaches out for the leaf and pulls, solidifying the fate of the tree and his town.
Brenda expected to spend her twenty-first birthday alone in her home in the quiet village of Charmia just waiting for the day to pass her by. She’d done everything she could to insure that attention didn’t come her way. She grew her own gray cloud stalks, created a pond for her massive horde of frogs, and planted grains so she’d never have to visit the baker for bread but even though she kept to herself the villagers still turned their nosy eyes in her direction. The morning of her twenty-first birthday, she expected the sun to greet her with its welcoming shine upon her glossy straight black hair but when she opened her windows there were villagers holding torches, prepared to burn her cozy home down.
“Witch!” They screamed in unison, fingers pointed at her who stood with a confused look as she scratched at her head.
“Hello…” Brenda started, the faces of the villagers all unfamiliar to her.
“Look at those strange plants, she’s growing, she’s planning on poisoning us!” Someone, a middle-aged woman, holding a baby in one hand and a torch in the other shouted.
Brenda scrunched up her face, confused by the villager’s loudness when they stood but a feet apart. She looked over to her garden which contained a hefty amount of gray cloud stalks ready for a plucking.
“Oh, those aren’t poisonous,” she laughed at the thought. “Why, I use them for—“
She stopped herself. Ever since her mom died in her fourteenth year of life, Brenda’s found herself casted out of many villages. Here, however, she’d finally made a home but that didn’t matter to the angry villagers in front of her. The true usage for the gray cloud stalks stayed glued to her tongue and her lips seemed sealed as they spoke her true nature again with disdain.
“Get the witch!” Someone in the back of the crowd yelled, which is how Brenda ended up tied to a wooden pole carried by two men who were taking her to the dragon’s den.
“So, you burn down my house and garden, kill my precious frogs, but you’ll have a dragon do your dirty work?” She laughs as they walk closer to the dragon’s den.
“Shut her up,” says the man carrying the front part of the pole to the one carrying the back.
She didn’t know how long they carried her but not once did she see his face. But she knew if she did it would not display a friendly one. The man carrying the back of the pole is young and burly, there’s an aura of confidence that oozes off of him and his face, while handsome, did little to hide the ugliness of his heart.
“You both do know dragons aren’t real, right? I’ve traveled to many villages where they claimed such and every single one is actually a lizard named Bob. I think they have a network…”
“Shut her up!” The man in the front of the pole says again and all Brenda feels is pain in the side of her face then darkness.
Brenda awakens lying on her side in a large cave full of glowing bugs that seem to cover every part of it. Her face is puffed up, her hands are numb still tied up to the pole, and feel as if they’ll fall off at any moment. There’s a soreness in her back from what she suspects is from when they threw her on the cave ground.
A pained groan escapes her lips. She closes her eyes, ignoring the sweet song the world whispers to her. Her frogs were gone, she’d had them since they were tadpoles and now they're all gone. Everything she tended to with love is gone, wiped out in that hateful fire. Tears fill her eyes, the world’s sweet song is trying to get her to listen but she ignores it. How could a world that sings to her not understand its melody made her an outcast. Her mother always called their magic a gift from the world but what is a gift if it must remain hidden?!
A curse.
Maybe she should’ve locked herself in her home as they burnt it down.
The sweet song of the world’s melody changes. It is full of disappointment. It is pleading. There is light in this song and it’s begging her to take hold of it.
Brenda doesn’t want to. She ignores the world’s song, sinks into darkness.
And screams.
She hears the sound of flapping wings. It brings about a heavy gust that places a chill upon her. She descends into silence. The flapping wings stop and there is a heavy drop.
“Are you alright?” Brenda hears a deep voice say.
Brenda wants to laugh at the question. So she does. She laughs. And laughs.
Her laughs become sobs.
Heavy sobs from a broken body. A broken heart. She closes her eyes, squeezing them shut as she continues to cry. The sound of footsteps, large, tentative, get closer. Soon, she feels the presence of something looming over her.
She keeps her eyes shut. Within seconds, her tied hands are free. She feels her hands drop on the ground of the cave. Whatever loomed over her doesn’t do so any longer. Opening her eyes, she flips herself on her back.
Her eyes meet the cave ceiling but she feels something beside her. Turning her head to the side she sees a creature with its head tilted downward and a gentle smile on its snout… a dragon.
She blinks, her head pounding and wonders if the hit she took conjured this impossible image.
“Let me guess your name is Bob,” Brenda utters to the conjured vision.
She’d seen images of dragons before in those awful books for children where witches were always evil and scheming something. Maybe all the villagers talk of a dragon made her mind come up with one of her own.
“No. Bob? Whoever heard of a dragon named Bob? My name’s Grief,” Grief, the dragon, replies in a huff.
“Grief, what a strange name,” she replies, blinking at him, waiting for him to disappear.
“Strange, no, it’s a great name. My full name’s even better Grief Grave, the 99th,” he introduces himself, raising his snout in the air.
“Oh, the 99th? Okay…this is very detailed for a…”
Another pain throbs in her head. She lets out another pained groan.
“You should come inside. I’ll whip you up something that can help with the pain.”
Brenda studies the dragon with knitted brows, taking in his snout, sharp claws, along with sharper teeth and a large form that almost touches the ceiling of the cave. “You…cook?”
“A little. Gotta find some use for that fire in my belly,” he jokes. “Would you like me to help you up?”
He offers out a claw for her to take a hold of. She grabs for it, expecting to touch nothing but air but instead touches the scales of his palm.
Inside, her stomach twists with a fear that seems to numb everything inside her but her tongue.
After a minute, she says, “So you're real? This is real…I’m talking to a dragon.”
She drops her hand and lets out a scream.
“Hey! What’s that for?”
“You’re real! A dragon! A real dragon!!! The villagers sent me here to be killed by you!” Brenda shouts, trying to stand up and scurry away but falls before she can. “My ankle.”
Grief, the very real dragon sighs. “I’m not a killer, no dragon is or well they would be if they weren’t all hunted out. I—I’m the last one left. I haven’t had a visitor in over six hundred years, think it’d be very rude of me to kill it.”
“Six hundred years? So dragons are and …you don’t want to kill me?” Brenda looks at him, hesitant. “Why do you want to help me?”
“You need it,” he responds back.
She looks away from him, her hands clenching. “I—I’m a witch.”
Brenda’s shoulder’s slump, her eyes close shut, as she prepares to feel heat spread through her body and a snarl of hatred from Grief’s deep voice but it doesn’t happen.
“So was your mother,” he replies in a low voice.
“How did you…” she opens her eyes and turns back towards him, afraid.
“I can feel your grief,” he lifts one of his claws upward. “It claws at you.”
She stares at his claw. “Today’s my birthday, seven have passed since I’ve spent it with her and I spend most days wishing I could join her.”
“Are you disappointed I do not wish to hurt you?”
“No, I’m relieved,” she admits but her words sound hollow. “When the villagers were accusing me I could’ve done a teleport spell and ran…I’ve done it before. This is my thirtieth village in 7 years and I thought I finally had a home here but…I was wrong.”
Brenda looks away from him.
“It is hard to live in a world that doesn’t accept you, isn’t it? Especially if the world takes away the only people who ever did.”
“It wasn’t the world that did that but its inhabitants,” she spits. “The man who killed my mother, they protected him and my magic…it won’t allow me to do any harm.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Grief remarks.”Of your mother. And of your home.”
“Thank you,” Brenda says, turning to look back at him. “I’m sorry for your loss too.”
“I’ve come to peace with it…” he replies, frowning.
Once again, he puts out his claw for Brenda to take. She scoots forward, takes hold, and stands up, using him for support. Her legs wobble and even with the support, a fall is imminent. Grief lifts her up, carefully, and takes hold of her in his scaly arms. A shock expression crosses Brenda’s face and she starts to protest but knew she couldn’t walk on her own two feet just yet. She closes her eyes, taking in the coolness of Grief’s skin that eases some of the pain in her body.
Around her, the world sings its sweet song, offering her its light once again. As she drifts off to sleep, she takes hold of it and though her pain lingers, a dream filled with loving memories welcomes her.
Will didn’t oppose the idea of treading the land all day but once they reached the estuary it became clear they were running out of land to tread. His fellow traveler, an older man by the name of Mort wore a decisive look on his face as he felt around the land. Will watched Mort head over to a large pile of rocks. Once there, Mort touched upon them and Will stared on full of regret.
He’d given up everything because he believed the old man’s ramblings but what if everyone was right and he was stuck following a mad man? After touching one particular rock, Mort let out an excited cry.
“What? What did you find?” Will asked.
Mort didn’t reply instead the sound of something rising from the water filled both their ears. Will looked over at the estuary, a large metal building rose from the water. Will’s mouth dropped, staring at the rising building with both terror and fascination.
Once it finished rising, Mort walked over to the building entrance which held a hand scanner to the side of the door.
Scanning his hand, the door opened. Mort looked at Will expectantly.
“Well, are you coming?”
She wants to know his secret. He hasn’t decided what is yet. His true secret must remain locked away, tucked in the depths of his melded mind because if she finds out the truth, the entity he made a pact with will unleash. So he thinks of less harmful secrets that won’t lead to the end of the world but things can get complicated when the love of your life is a sleuth. After years of being lied to, she can spot him wracking his brain for another so after enlisting the help of a talking book possessed by an ancient being she manages to get closer to her love’s secret than ever before. But is this book her friend or foe? Can the man stuck searching for a lie pull the wool over his love’s eyes and prevent the world’s end? Most of all, can this couple’s love survive after years of being built on a lie or is their love doomed to end? In this possessing tale, we’re asked who’s really in control? Us or the unknown.
A single tear can kill a man Or send them to life in the can In days of old, it got them whipped Hidden smirks as their skin ripped What power lies in those tears! Oh, how an encounter fills my fears. Tears which can take all one holds dear Tears which inflict pain on those near
Those tears have stripped those of childhood Turned children to adults where they stood Those tears have excluded, stripped, and crushed Those tears inflicted on others whose pain they purposefully hushed
Womanhood is a conditional thing Once those tears start to spring You find out you’re not apart of their fights Even though your foresisters helped secure their rights And you stand there confused, stuck with a bruise Trapped in a system they chronically abuse
Sometimes they’ll slip that pink invite But only if you renounce your race by tonight If you say no the fragile tears will fall Reddening faces as they make you feel small In their eyes, you’ll become a towering beast With one call you’ll be a victim in their murderous feast
Yes, the endless power held in tears Is something that ignites my fears.
It's been a while since I've been stuck in the role of me. There is no spotlight on my face, yet the light of the sun is just as unforgiving as a disgruntled light technician. Around me, there are charred remains of a world I used to stand atop of. On my back, I carry a backpack stuffed with supplies that will only last me another week. Before the end, I used to have anything at my fingertips with just a text or a quick call. Now, I spend my days scavenging around for things that will help me survive, hoping that I’ll run into someone that won’t crave my flesh and will engage in a conversation that’ll end in a harmony of laughter.
I don’t know how much time has passed. And I think a part of me doesn’t want to. When I go back in my memories, I see my childhood best friend, Laila, singing in the passenger’s seat of my car as we ignore the paparazzi trailing us not knowing that hours later the world would end. Hours later, I’d hold her hands in mine, and try to pull her out of a mutated person’s iron-clad grasp but I’d fail. I could still hear her screams, feel my cowardice as I scrambled away, desperate not to share her fate. I still fight to live but I’m not sure what I’m even living for.
Right now, I walk cobbled streets in high heels without heels because I used them to pierce some mutated monster’s eyes. My face is bare from makeup, but dirty from sweat and stained from soot, after raiding a burnt down house streets ago. I’m still in designer clothes, dressed in the exact preferences of my long-gone stylist. The clothes are impractical and look like an experimental fashion disaster that’d end up on at least ten worst dress lists. When I catch my reflection, I don’t see the graceful flawless-looking woman who advertises skin care on posters plastered in ravished stores. Instead, I see a splintered version of her, I can’t seem to glue back together.
Interviewers used to describe me as someone who seemed to know all the answers as if I didn’t carefully rehearse them. Now, no one’s feeding me lines or giving me questions beforehand instead life’s become both unpredictable and predictable at the same time. It’s predictable because of the chronic monotony I experience. Yet, there are times I encounter a mutated creature or end up getting less supplies than I need and it’s a struggle to survive the next week. Sometimes, I pretend I’m back before facing the problems past me experienced. I’d read an old magazine at the checkout lines, chowing down on a box of cookies as I grumbled while reading an article that speculated on my love life.
Apparently, I’ve dated my bodyguard, every single one of my co-stars, including ones that have played my father, oh, and just about every guy I’ve been seen speaking to. My friendships weren’t safe from rumors either because if I wasn’t publically seen hanging with my friends in months then we’re clearly on the outs. One thing I don’t miss is society’s vast obsession with analyzing me just so they can have a valid reason to tear me apart. If I lose weight, it’s because I got work done, but if I gain it, well, it’s because I’m letting myself go. I couldn’t even be caught with food in my hand because there’ll be a bunch of altered photos and comments mocking me for gaining weight even if I always kept a steady one. The only weight I ever gained was muscle and I couldn’t gain too much of that because then I wouldn’t be attractive enough. Whether it was the media, the public, or a head studio boss, I was always reminded that my body wasn’t mine to use as I please. Everything about me, every movement, every projected thought had an audience. Now, it’s just me, walking around this deserted burnt-down scenery full of silence that’s killing me like a tea laced with poison.
I miss the sound of people. The chaotic laughter of my friends as they read out ridiculous leaked rumors about me. The sound of an adoring crowd after I gave them a performance I put my all in. Most of all, I miss the chatter ignited on sets as I passed by and I took my place and immersed myself into someone or something new. There’s no one to pay attention to me now. No crowd, no friends, no anticipating chatter as I prepare to perform. Only silence. And me. Just me.
What’s a world without an audience?
It’s not much of a world at all. Everyday, I navigate life on autopilot, waking up and going on an immediate search for food and supplies, seeking out new locations as I try to evade the mutated monster's hunger with an endless emptiness inside. I scan my surroundings, anxious to get out of my own head. To my side, I see the most beautiful sight one could see, a theater. Like all the buildings on this street, it’s burnt down but I jimmy the lock and break in. As soon as I’m in, a beam falls overhead and I jump away, falling hard on the ground.
My breath’s come out harsh but eventually go back to its usual rhythm and I pull myself up. I take careful steps further in and soon I come upon its firmly intact stage. Half the seats in the theater were melted together but the stage stood firm, anticipating a performer to utilize it and let a story unfold. I walk to the stage, hoisting myself up and throw my backpack on the ground once I’m standing on it. I look at the empty melted seats in front of me and imagine them restored.
I see a vibrant audience with anticipating looks on their eyes as they wait to see what I’ll do next.
“Welcome, to the show,” I announce with a wide smile. “I’m Winnie Day, your star.”
I hear the imaginary applause fill the room, the sound of whistling, the loud ground-shaking cheers lift me up like I’m a leaf caught in the wind. I douse my hopelessness, my doubt, and I add kindling to the fire of my dream. I’m not alone in this world. There are others out there. I know it. I know my audience awaits, searching the world for their fallen star.
Passionate beam upon my aging skin
Numbered days in this body, yet I grin
Shine upon me, my beautiful spotlight!
The brief moments shared are life’s greatest win
I glow upon that fiery gaze at noon Night, approaches and I wait for that spin Do you remember me, beautiful sun? Hidden away like a forgotten sin
I put the groceries on the counter, taking a look at my pristine kitchen with awe. I organized every spice by name, every recipe in the recipe box by color, and I knew how to get a stain out of everything. I’m the perfect wife, the girl next door that all the upstanding adults told the boys they’d be lucky to marry one day. If I had to describe myself I’d say I’m every man’s dream come true. It’s a shame there’s not a man out there I could say comes even close to my dream standards. It’s unfortunate, I’ve prepared my whole life to take care of a thriving loving home yet every single time I settle down I stumble upon unfortunate prospects.
When I married, I didn’t marry for love but possibility. Jerry had untapped potential but lacked motivation. If you want my honest perspective, it feels like most people lack it. I always see someone weighed down with simple issues they could just carve away with a knife. Jerry, charmless and without motivation, chose to work as a door to door salesman selling tupperware. I used most of my connections with the other housewives to acquire him some customers but one day Jerry surprised me by taking initiative. He’d often stop by Mrs. Melville’s modest home to let her try out a delightful set but she’d never seem to agree to buy. Still, my Jerry stayed persistent. One night, he came home late, lipstick on his collar and a small squabble happened thereafter. They say one’s first kill is the messiest because it’s always rooted in passion of some kind and by golly it’s true! Luckily, I know the perfect combination on how to get blood out of carpets but disposing of the body, well, it’d take some creativity.
The next morning, I went over to Mrs. Melville’s home with a meaty pot roast with some mashed potatoes covered in a special carmine colored gravy. Probably, one of the best meals I ever made, and I felt such joy watching her chow it down. Her husband, Mr. Melville is a sad excuse for a man and since she likes to take a bite out of other people’s meals I thought I’d help her out. Months ago, I invited him here to look at my clogged drain and well, he’s the one who left that tempting wrench exposed in his toolbox. Could one blame me for bashing it against his head as he moved out from under the sink?
After I did that deed, I made a hefty ham with a leafy salad covered in crimson dressing. The next morning, I went straight to Mrs. Melville who gulped it down as she gossiped about Mrs. Davis’s husband gambling addiction. I’m an empathetic person and I felt deeply for Mrs. Davis' plight which is why that next week, I went to her house with meatloaf after her husband’s unexpected disappearance.
I shake my thoughts, moving over to my knives which are in desperate need of sharpening. I quickly sharpen them and make my way to the dining room where I set the paper on the table this morning. On the front page, there’s an article discussing an influx of disappearing husbands who leave not a trace behind. I don’t know why anyone would bother looking for them especially with how I’ve helped their wives solve all their problems, why I even make sure they always get a delicious meal and keep them so well fed.
The article talks about how the men are suspected to have been killed. How disappointing, because I’m not a killer. I like to think of myself as a fixer of homes besides I always put their bodies to good use. Why, Mr. Ellison’s thighs won me a first prize ribbon at last week’s fair. I place the newspaper down, upset but my eyes stray to the image of the reporter who wrote the article. His face is plump, a five o’ clock shadow surrounds his jaw and I can pair him so well with some spam. Maybe I’ll make him for dessert…I feel my fingers twitch in anticipation.
Yes, tonight I’m in the mood for something sweet.
