They boy stared out the window at the torrential rain that seemed to fall for weeks at a time. He wondered if it would stop before he died, or if the rain knew he dying at all. Then he wished he could be rain….And that rain could become him

Elias Kingsley was a name synonymous with success. A venture capitalist with a golden touch, he had turned dozens of small startups into global powerhouses. His name graced magazine covers, and his words commanded standing ovations at tech conferences. He was the man everyone wanted to know, the icon of modern ambition.

But success, as intoxicating as it is, often masks the cracks forming beneath. Elias’s troubles began with Spectra AI, a startup he had personally championed. Spectra promised revolutionary artificial intelligence that could predict market trends with uncanny accuracy. The company’s pitch was dazzling, its projections astronomical. Elias poured millions of his firm’s funds into it and secured additional investments from some of the wealthiest and most influential individuals in Silicon Valley. His confidence in the venture was absolute.

As months passed, Spectra’s progress lagged. The revolutionary technology remained vaporware, and its developers began to hint that the concept itself might be flawed. Elias ignored the warnings. He was not a man who entertained the possibility of failure.

“Double the budget,” he told Spectra’s CEO in a private meeting. “Hire whoever you need. Just make it work.”

But no amount of money could solve the problems Spectra faced. The technology wasn’t merely underdeveloped—it was fundamentally impossible. Whispers of mismanagement began circulating. Rumors that Elias had been blinded by hubris reached the media, and questions about his judgment grew louder.

Elias doubled down, publicly defending Spectra at every opportunity. He dismissed doubters as “naysayers” and “short-sighted critics.” In private, though, he was unraveling. His once-unshakable confidence gave way to sleepless nights and angry tirades.

one day the kid was going to be a killer one day he wish has come true he killed his brother and his sister he sent to prison about two weeks later then he was killed by a black bear and he won he is strong and he was the muder the contestants said who killed the siblings in his family he is a muder

Dreams are a silly thing. They can be an escape from reality or a wonderful fantasy. Either way my dreams keep me alive. Keep me away from the heartbreak and the pain.

Every night I hook up to the Machine. The Dream Machine, they call it. It keeps us sane. Allows us to stay in line and follow rules without question. We get rewarded in good dreams for a day of hard work. But nightmares come as punishments.

Without fail, the Machine brings me back to The Meadow with a whir. The Meadow. My happy place.

My family used to got to The Meadow for picnics. We would sit in the long wispy grass for hours telling stories and laughing. Fresh spring air cleansing our lungs. I would pick wild flowers and make a crown for my brother who would then get mad and chase me.

My brother, little Jake. I hadn’t seen him in years. Not since They came. The Meadow was my happy place. It had to be. It reminded me of little Jake. His smile, his laugh, how much fun we had. Before his smile faded, before he begged to see more flowers. Before I went to his room to wake him, but no one was there.

Whir. The Dream Machine takes on anoher scene. Me and my best friend Lily lying in The Meadow gazing up at the stars. We are laughing and pointing out constellations. The warm, summer air brings a multitude of lightning bugs. Then we hear a boom in the distance. A firework explodes overhead. How we were so surpised!

That was back when I wasn’t afraid to gaze up at the sky. Before, when I had a friend. A best friend. Lily had gone, shortly after Jake. When the sky had first turned red. With my best friend and my brother gone, I had no one to hang on to. Another moment gone forever.

The Dream Machine changed again. The Meadow was still there. This time it was colder out, leaves falling from the trees. A soft glow came from a crackling bonfire. In this scene I was with Archie. Archie was my first kiss. I remember the feel of his soft lips on mine. And how I felt warm and safe when lying next to him. It had been a beautiful night.

That was before I was scared of fire. The image of burning streets flooded my mind. That was when I had last seen Archie. I saw his eyes flickering among the flames. Too late to do a thing.

Whir. Went The Dream Machine. This time there was only The Meadow. Eerily still. Nobody around.

Was there supposed to be someone? I don’t remember.

I dreamt about a meadow I knew nothing about.

I shuffle my feet, sitting on a small chair to what seems like an even smaller table. The room is loud with kids giggling and chattering while they color. I would usually be giggling with them—I work here as a volunteer—but today is not one of those days.

He stares at me his desk, watching my actions. Every blink, every tremble. To think those disgusting eyes watched me scream; to think they watched me bruised. I shiver when he finally looks away to talk with another volunteer. My fiancé, actually.

My fiancé doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what happened all those nights ago. I haven’t told him. I should, shouldn’t I?

We don’t need this to get in the way of work. Do we, Mr. Griffin?

“Mr. Griffa?”

I startle, looking up to see Lilly, a sweet little Hispanic girl with pigtails, staring at me with a sad smile on her face. Her stare warms me, unlike the man’s.

“Yes, Lilly?” I give her a smile.

“Why are you sad?” This catches the other kids ear at the table and they look up at me.

“Are you okay, Mr. Griffa?”

“I’ll make a good drawing just for you, Mr. Giraffe!”

“Mr. Giraffe? That’s not his name!”

“Yes it is.”

“NO! It’s not!”

“Yeah, it’s not!”

I chuckle, causing them to stop their argument. Jackson, another child, gives me an rock. I hold it in my hand, stroking the smooth marble surface with my thumb. “What’s this, Jackson?”

His eyelashes flutter and his face flushes. I forgot how shy he was. “It’s a rock I found last week. My mom said it was lucky and special. It…it reminded me of you, Mr. Griffin.”

I pause. Then a real smile stretches across my face. “Thank you, Jackson, I love this.”He fiddles with his fingers while the other children frown.

Lilly holds up a picture. “Here, Mr. Griffa! I made you something too!”

Another girl, Hadley, looks around for something before her eyes widening. She takes the green bow out from her pigtail, the hair falling flat in her head, and holds it out to me. “Here you go, Mr. Giraffe. This is very special too! Are you happy now?”

The other kids start to look around for stuff to give me. I laugh, bubbly and full, bringing the man and my fiancé’s attention to me. I freeze again, staring into the bright blue eyes of the man. My hands clench into fists; I look away, absentmindedly stroking the stone Jackson gave to me. It made me calm down, stroking that solid thing that could do nothing to me. It was just there. Just a rock.

My heart stutters back to normal and my face smooths out once more.

It’s just a rock.

Extra Because I’m Not Doing My School Work And A lot Of People Didn’t Come To School Today

“Griffin?” Collins yawns, his arm wrapping around me to pull me closer, chest to chest.

My eyes are already closed, and I don’t plan on opening them. I tuck myself against the soft cotton of his shirt, inhaling his scent: fresh soap, a clinical smell. “Mhh?”

“Are you alright?”A simple question, an innocent question, but it makes me tense up nonetheless. Collins feels it and works his hand against my shoulder. “You know you can tell me anything that’s bugging you.” He pauses. “Except if you’re cheating on me.”

I shake my head, smiling, though he obviously can’t see that. “Nothing like that.”

His hand starts moving again. “Good. Well then, what is it?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” It doesn’t. I just have to make sure it doesn’t happen again. I will never forget it though. That horrible night.

Collins pats my back and quiets. “Ok. What’s with the rock.”

“Oh that?” I hug him.

“That’s my special rock.”

It was bright, and happy, but it was the wrong time and place for this. The entire neighborhood had passed, or left to Nevada. Up on a hill, near the green grass, lay a woman. She was old and was the only one who wanted to stay. Her days were almost over, and she hadn’t seen her family in almost 3 years.

(Might finish this later but I’m kinda busy)

“Until death,” sang a tiny voice from underneath the bench. “until death strikes us all.” The day was bright and pretty. Moments before, the clouds respectfully excused themselves and revealed the sun.

“Joshua, get from under there!” The boy’s mother scolded.

“And quit talkin’ all that nonsense.” His father added.

Joshua crawled from underneath the bench and dusted his pants. His mother walked over to him and wiped the dirt off his face with a damp napkin.

“I wish you would play with the other kids. It’s a beautiful day today, I think you’d enjoy playing in the water.”

Joshua’s attention was focused elsewhere. That’s the thing about him, his attention was always focused elsewhere. As a baby, his parents had a hard time getting him to eat because he was always distracted.

“Give him your phone.” His father said.

“He’s always lookin’ at a screen, Harold. He needs to interact with people!”

Joshua pushed his mother’s hand away and pointed up at the sky. “You see that right there?”

“The sun?”

“Yeah, it’s gonna come down and kill us all.”

The adults all looked at Joshua. His mother hid her face in her hands with embarrassment. Harold resorted to stuffing his face with more food.

“Let him do whatever the hell he wants, Alice.”

Alice looked at her son. In his eyes, she saw herself as a little girl but she was nothing like Joshua. She loved flowers, painting, and had more friends than she could count. Joshua was always alone and he was always talking about death.

“Josh—“

“I’m not just sayin’ it this time! Y’know that song we used to listen to?”

Alice sighed.

“Momma?”

“Yeah I know the song, Josh. But it’s just a song!”

“How does it go again?”

Alice looked back at Harold who was too busy drinking with his buddies to care about what was going on. She usually let him talk some sense into Joshua but maybe he just needs someone to listen.

Clearing her throat, she sang, “Now, he’s always watching. The people downstairs are always talking.. he says, you better get to walking..”

“‘Cause he sees it coming.. he hears the drumming..” Joshua joined.

“Until death.. until death strikes us all..”

“Until death.. until we get it’s call.”

“There’s no preparing for the fall. He’s gonna take us all.”

“O’ angel of death.. let us rest.. O’ angel of death… I better save my breath..”

The wind whipped his his tear-soaked face. He forced his eyes close. The day was beautiful and bright. Kids were playing and food was cooking. Now, it’s all gone. The sun has fallen.

“O’ angel of death..” Joshua whispers, his hands together and fingers interlocked. “let them rest.”

Sitting atop of a hurried slope covered in pleasantries and merriments stays a home for graceful radiance. There it was always sunny and there it was bursting with many bright colors. Early mornings and hard work was rewarded with cerulean blue petunias and peachy walls embraced with positivity that would never quit. One could find themselves feeling a loud sense of longing, or maybe envy for a life such as her life, Branwen Elsher. Or perhaps her daughter, Maple. Or maybe even bitter? What did it mean for such a specific household to gain so much privilege and opportunity when the same couldn’t be said for another? Was it deserved? Was it forced? It wasn’t the same there. In what world did it make sense for one house to be luckier than the other instead of being simple? A frowning face you never did see. Hundreds of folk with the same routine held grins to their faces and found their arms in the familiar labor, surrounded in vibrant happy color. In such a place, envy was a hardly recognizable stranger. In fact, the same was for hate, anger, and lust. Can’t catch a civilian with the feelings of a sinner. Did it apply to everyone? Oh yes, but perhaps there was an exception, or a few needing fixing. But of course we shan’t think such things of others. The kind and beautiful Branwen Elsher was wise to raise her daughter Maple in the same manner for the hope of the next children. It was hoped that a daughter even kinder and more beautiful than her mother would understand obedience and grace. And so it was done. If one is raised to never ask questions then they never will. “Beware of the One of Wings,” innocent bystanders would say on their perfectly cut lawns, a cheerful smile to almost show that it was merely a joke. Who would believe that such a thing could exist in their esoteric realities? It was said a creature of wings, one with one giant bird foot and black feathers as big as Maple’s head shrouded itself in the shadows of the neighborhood and did the most interestingly awful things to people. Everyone had a different story. But the stories could never last long, or else one might feel uneasy. And nobody would tolerate that. It happened to be perhaps a truth, or some truth to it, since it seemed not too long later a big black bird with a human face and one foot swooped down and, to put it extremely lightly, killed a man. Panic could not be raised. That would not do. So for the remaining days of the neighborhood’s meaningless existence, it was unspoken. Completely silenced, so now it was a stranger. A stranger who must go away, or else it might chase the poor childlike positivity into a game of hide-and-go-seek. Perhaps Maple should have been scared, but if to everyone else the rumor was merely a falsehood not to be worried about then of course she shan’t worry. It was in the kitchen of pink and green with neon yellow that it seemed one little moment changed for the worst. Through the clear window quite a few rays of warm sunshine piled through and made its way onto a great glistening bowl on the yellow countertop, filled with sweet brown dough. “Hello sweetheart,” Branwen smiled the same default that if Maple were to be honest, made her skin crawl. Her eyes never quite matched it, staying the same neutral look while at the same time her mouth moved into a grin that seemed simply forced. Maple had to ask about the same thing that had plagued her mind for days. Instead of dwelling on what her mother might say or might act, she pushed forward, for the question pounded in her head like a hammer on a nail. “Is the One of Wings real?” A slight stroke of silence. It created tension like no other thing in the world could. Oh no, what had Maple done? Perhaps it was too late to change anything. Perhaps she was doomed to be looked down upon forever for the way she thought. Curse her. Again, the same smile. But perhaps a little forced. “Of course not. Who told you that?” “Nobody.” This, however, seemed to spark a slight concern on Branwen’s temple. She was quick to mask it, letting it slip, slip, slip for only a moment. “There is nothing out there, I assure you. Would you like some chocolate bread? I’m whipping up a batch as we speak.” Drip. Drip. Drip. A leak in the ceiling? Strange. The roof never leaked. And it wasn’t raining. Both Branwen and Maple couldn’t contain the curiosity that kept them both from speaking again. They looked up. To Maple’s sweet horror, a patch in the ceiling was red, like a lid to the Tupperware. No, like the handmade blanket she kept in her room. No! Like the red roses their next door neighbor grew in their front garden! No, it was like blood. And it dripped through the ceiling from the attic to Maple’s shoe. The second drop came like a slow motion water droplet, and another drop landed and splattered on her shoe again. And almost as suddenly, it was gone. There was now a wet shoe of hers under a ceiling dripping with rain water. And when Maple took a peak out of the window, the sky was still sunny but it was now raining. “Oh dear. Well I guess I’ll have to postpone the extra gardening I was planning today.” Maple looked at her mother again, who was staring out at the rain outside. She couldn’t help but wonder how it rained so fast. But it was like suddenly everything made sense. The questions she’d asked herself, the questions she so wished that she could ask the others, but never could. It all came together like a puzzle too complex to figure. “Mom, why did you kill Henry Gerard?” Branwen, who’s back was turned away from Maple, who was kneading the dough just seconds ago, was now standing completely still, like a timid rabbit among many dangers. It seemed as though now the beast had been caught. “Sweetheart, what an awful thing to ask. Are you feeling Ill? Perhaps a little lie down will fix you right up.” Maple would have most definitely listened to what her mother said and forgotten all about it, but she found herself asking more and more questions in her mind that desperately needed answering in that moment. “Did you simply do it because you found some odd pleasure in it?” More silence. Only this time, it seemed much less tense and more relaxed. Branwen turned to look at her daughter. A new, cruel smile Maple had never seen before graced her lips and once again the rest of her face didn’t follow. Everything in Maple told her to run, of course. But she couldn’t. It seemed completely irrational somehow and it in a strange way seemed like such a ridiculous idea. “Yes, my dearest. What else could it have been?”

I watched pop sitting on the bench just off the beach, watching the surf. It was the middle of summer and a perfect day for beach going: hundreds of vacationers sunning and cavorting, building sand castles, searching for shells; on the boardwalk, I knew he was listening to the clack-clack-clack of sandals passing by.

I was at the fruit stand, getting a bowl for each of us. Pop would maybe take a few bites. I watched him, knowing it was the last time he would see the place he loved.

We were taking him to hospice tomorrow, and he was absorbing every bit of the place that he had loved since childhood. Remembering and keeping it in his heart.

Now it’s a year later, and I’m holding a jar of pop’s cremains. Family and friends all together, assembled at the pier. It is time.

I open the jar and let him go, free now, an eternal summer day.

Butterfly butterfly Look at me All painted colors Beautiful scenes Hiding in heaven High and unseen While underneath me I see the obscene Creatures beneath me Hurting each other Killing each other Sing out loud how it’s Cool to be mean They beat their women. They poison their own seas Happy in the Knowledge That nobody sees Killing their planet They’ve forgotten me. My wings may be small My veins may not bleed Even I understand Their species has been deemed By the most high Their forgotten king He who made rainbows And birthed his own king. I may be small And my veins may not bleed But I’d never do What has been done to me. It would never affect them Even from me A true miracle of nature Uncared for by anyone And yet still clean But purity is relative Like a musical scene One souls requiem Is always another one’s dream