In the quiet cradle of ancient earth,
Where time weaves tales of silent mirth,
Rocks stand steadfast, weathered and wise,
Guardians of secrets beneath endless skies.

From the shimmering quartz that catches the light,
To basalt’s dark embrace in the still of the night,
Each grain tells a story, each fissure a song,
A symphony of silence where ages belong.

Moss drapes like velvet on granite so grand,
While rivers carve paths with a patient hand.
They tumble and dance, in laughter they flow,
A timeless ballet where only stones know.

Mountains rise boldly, their peaks kiss the clouds,
Veiled in the mist, wrapped in nature’s shrouds.
With valleys below, where wildflowers bloom,
In the heart of the rock, life finds room.

Oh, to wander the trails where the boulders recline,
To feel their cool touch, a whisper divine.
For in every crevice, in each rugged form,
Lies the beauty of strength, the heart of the storm.

So let us be like rocks, steadfast and true,
Rooted in moments, in all that we do.
In the dance of existence, let’s stand firm and bold,
For we are the stories, the memories told.

“What the hell happened?” I muttered to myself as I stepped out the gate, feeling astonished just looking at the scene in front of me. Dilapidated and abandoned buildings, police sirens flooding through the air and not to mention the stench of pollution filling my nostrils as the clouds of smoke and gas filled upon the air, covering the sun and sky.

I trudged down the cracked sidewalk, the shuffle of my feet echoing against the eerie silence. People passed by in tattered clothing, their faces gaunt and eyes hollow, avoiding all eye contact. The stark contrast between their lifeless expressions and the vibrant ones I cherished from my past was jarring. It felt like stepping into a nightmare, one that I couldn't wake up from.

The streets were littered with trash, and the stench of decay was suffocating. Potholes, more like craters, turned simple walks into obstacle courses. And the disease—there was an ever-present murmur of coughs and wheezing, a grim reminder of the plagues that swept through the city during my incarceration. The billboards advertised medicines and masks instead of the latest gadgets and movies.

Crime was an unspoken yet undeniable king here. In broad daylight, I witnessed a gang of masked figures looting a corner store, while the shopkeeper lay defeated on the ground. Authorities seemed like relics of the past, their presence replaced by the lawlessness that governed the streets.

As I made my way through this desolate cityscape, I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. My crime, my punishment—it all seemed trivial in the grand scheme of this dystopia. Did my actions contribute to this downfall? Or was this unavoidable, a consequence of a world spiraling out of control?

I needed answers. I needed to understand how we ended up here. More importantly, I needed to find a way to survive, to reclaim a sliver of hope in this sea of despair. As I looked around at the broken souls and crumbling city, one thing was clear: the fight for survival had begun anew, and this time, it was against a far more formidable enemy—our own decayed society.

And yet, as if on cue, the huge jumbotron illuminated the dull city as a paunchy man with clean hair and pale skin came on. “Hello, citizens of Kalistar!” he said with a devilish smile, revealing his pearly whites. “I’m President Erix, and I have wonderful news!” The crowd that had gathered around me paused, their eyes fixed on the screen with a mix of dread and resignation.

“In light of recent events,” he continued, his voice seeping with insincerity, “we are introducing a new mandatory curfew to ensure your safety and well-being. Anyone found outside after dark will be...dealt with.” He chuckled softly, as if amused by his own twisted joke.

Murmurs of discontent rippled through the crowd. President Erix's announcements were never good; they were veiled threats wrapped in false concern. “Additionally,” he said, raising a manicured finger, “we are increasing the tax rate by 15% to fund our ongoing efforts to maintain order. Sacrifices must be made, after all.”

The screen panned out to show his lavish office, a stark contrast to the crumbling city around us. It was opulent, filled with exotic artifacts and fine furniture—symbols of the wealth that he hoarded while we withered away.

“But fret not,” he added with another malicious grin, “we are also initiating a new initiative—Compulsory Labor Camps. Those who fail to meet their tax obligations will have the opportunity to 'contribute' to our society through hard work. After all, everyone must do their part.”

The crowd erupted in angry shouts and fearful whispers. This was no longer just a city plagued by disease and crime; it was a prison under the iron fist of a tyrant. Erix continued, seemingly unfazed by the growing unrest.

“Our vision for Kalistar is one of unity and prosperity," he proclaimed. "And together, we can achieve greatness. Remember, dissent will not be tolerated. We are watching.”The screen faded to black, plunging the city back into its grim reality.

The chaotic murmurs around me grew louder, but I needed clarity. I approached a middle-aged man standing nearby, his face etched with lines of worry and fatigue. His eyes darted nervously, scanning the surroundings as if danger lurked in every shadow.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice barely audible over the din of the crowd. “How did we let it get this bad?”

He turned to me, his expression a mix of confusion and curiosity. “You're not from around here, are you?” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind.

“I’ve been... away,” I replied, choosing my words carefully. “A long time. I just got out of prison.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ah, that explains it. I’m Jack,” he said, extending a weathered hand. “It's a long story, but I'll try to sum it up.”

We moved to the side of the street, where the noise was slightly more bearable. Jack took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “About ten years ago, the economy started to collapse. Jobs were lost, businesses shut down, and people became desperate. Then came the pandemics, one after another, like a relentless wave. The government’s response was... ineffective, to say the least.”

He sighed, the weight of the past decade evident in his demeanor. “Corruption spread like wildfire. Politicians, police, even community leaders—everyone seemed to be out for themselves. Crime skyrocketed as law enforcement crumbled. President Erix rose to power amidst the chaos, promising order and safety. But his idea of 'order' was more about control and oppression.”

Jack gestured to the jumbotron, now dark and foreboding. “Erix started with curfews, then surveillance, and finally the camps. He amassed power quickly, and anyone who opposed him was silenced. It's been a nightmare ever since.”

I absorbed his words, each detail painting a more harrowing picture, “Has anyone ever attempted to stop this dignate?” Jack grimaced at my language.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “One. She went by the name of The Illumination. Strong as an ox, she was. All went smoothly until those enforcers butt in. They shut off the entire thing and killed her in the process.” He gestured to a large charred banner showing the face of a young-aged woman with the words, ‘Beacon of Hope’ cut off.

I winced. “God...”

Jack’s eyes softened, a mixture of sorrow and determination reflected in them. “Yeah, her death was a huge blow to everyone. She was more than just a leader; she was a symbol, a reminder that we could still fight back.”

The weight of that loss sank into me like a stone. “How did it happen?”

“They ambushed us during one of her rallies,” he explained, his voice thick with memories. “We thought we were being careful, but somehow they found out. They came in force, armed to the teeth. The Illumination tried to protect the crowd, buy them time to escape, but...”

Jack trailed off, his eyes lingering on the charred banner. The girl’s face stared out at us, a haunting reminder of what we had lost. “We lost a lot of good people that day,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But her legacy lives on. People still talk about her, still draw strength from her story.”

As we departed, my eyes lingered on the banner. Luckily, tonight was the night where the new camp set in place. One of the enforcers entered an abandoned shop just beside me. I knocked him out with a mighty punch to the jaw and quickly wore his clothes, disguising myself as one of them, holding a sniper to my chest. I copied the walk of the guards carefully with sharp turns and a straight path. One wrong move and I might end up dead.

Eventually, the patrol ended. We escorted twenty people with rusted chains around their wrists, each one following another. My moves were perfectly in sync with the guards, eyeing them with precision. Soon enough, we entered the President’s mansion.

Inside, opulence and decadence clashed with the despair outside. As we reached the grand hall, President Erix's smug face greeted us. "Welcome," he sneered, eyeing our captives. But tonight was different. A quick signal to my fellow resistance members disguised as guards, and chaos erupted.

We overpowered the real guards, freeing the captives. “For The Illumination!” I shouted, igniting a storm of rebellion. We stormed through the mansion, a surge of newfound hope fueling our fight.

In the heart of Erix’s stronghold, we broadcasted a message across the city: “Kalistar, rise! The fight for our freedom has begun!” The symbol of The Illumination lit up every screen, reigniting the flicker of hope in every citizen's heart.

As Erix was dragged away, the city roared in unity. Hope was restored, and Kalistar began to heal. I walked out the balcony to see the crowd of people filled with hope and excitement. Some held banners that read, ‘Long Live The Reclaimer!’ in big bright purple letters.

“Long Live The Reclaimer!” They chanted.

he gets out of prison and is free

He gets fined from swearing He can’t get a beer He has to talk in his sissy voice He can’t wear trousers he has to wear a skirt Banned from everywhere, bars, pubs, and clubs You can’t drive a truck Pink is a dominant colour Barbie is the best the best movie ever and is taught at school Man is toxic Childbirth is outlawed You can’t say him he or she Toilets are all neutral gender Talk in pronouns and neutral Quality is replaced by diversity so he can’t get a job The world has all gone woke

Everybody lives in a virtual world so the cities in the landscape is deserted And it’s overrun by criminal gangs

Out of the jumpsuit. Off the prison block. Form a straight line and follow suit. Head down ignore the shakedown probably another racial dispute. The CO in hot pursuit. Its like a natural birth. But the chains and cuffs. Umbilical cord. Think twice about the meaning of freedom. You’ve no idea what you’re in for.

Do you feel prepared? Or are you anxious and scared? Rewind 20 years, Remember how you got here. Intoxication behind the wheel while visually impaired. But you were a prisoner well before being locked up. Explain how you succumbed to addiction. Was it poverty, living in the wrong jurisdiction? Or the increased cost of living that made you suffer an eviction? Don’t know where you’re getting your next dinner plate. Society already got you in it’s clutches ready to eviserate. So you walk the fine line of staying straight while you wait for the smog to dissipate. This is real shit but I hope you don’t relate. So you dodge drug addiction. But resort to accessible alcohol. Did you read the fine print? Fuck drinking responsibly. That’s when all bets are off and you become a monstrosity. In the back of the paddy wagon saying “fuck, how did this happen.” First offense, metal circlets on but this ain’t no slap on the wrist. Getting of the hook. Is like Kyle Rittnehouse not being acquitted of a murder conviction.

Plea deal helped evade capital punishment. The judge putting you behind bars. Is the same judge that drives home abusing ambien and Xanax bars. The line greys when we decide what’s an acceptable addiction. So just think when you’re about to judge the person who gave everything for one thing. For 24 hours put your phone down. When you reach out to grab it. Knowing you can’t have it That’s what being an addict feels like.

It was 11PM and Sam had just closed his diary for the night. Usually, he would have finished writing by 8PM and passed out on the rock-solid slab he had become used to calling a bed. But today was different and he was restless. Prison is a tough life for anyone unlucky enough to be stuck inside a cell and Sam's experience was no different. His first few years were rough to say the least and he quickly learned who he should befriend, and whom he needs to stay the hell away from... at least, as much as possible within the tight confounds of the prison grounds. Despite horrifying situations he had endured over the years, part of him was grateful of his circumstances. The boy that entered the prison compound was gone, eviscerated and replaced by the hardened man of today. He all chalked it down to his habit of writing in his diary. To keep himself sane during his time in jail Sam had requested a diary from the outside. This was more difficult than it first appeared because Sam had insisted on a real, paper diary. "Paper?" the guard had said to him with such shock, you'd have thought he was trying to learn a new foreign word. "Whatever could you need anything like that for? You know we don't really do 'paper' anymore." He curled his fingers as he said the word paper. He almost sounded sarcastic as if Sam had made up the word. "My mother..." Sam replied meekly.. He was a strong introvert and didn't like speaking. Every word seemed to take a great deal of effort from him. "She always... insisted that I have the real thing. It's more... here." The guard looked at Sam and lightly scratched his head. "Hmmmm...." he said while gently moving his hand down from his head to stroke the tail ends of his perfectly combed moustache. "Well... I'll see what I can do." He said as he twiddled. "But there's no promises from me boy! You'll get what you're given." Sam's mouth contorted upwards at each end, which the guard believed to be a smile. It was not exactly pretty to look at, as if a puppet master had attached strings to the corner of Sam's mouth and started to pull at them from above. The lack of any genuine expression resulting on his face, and the deadness of his black eyes made the guard feel uncomfortable. He mumbled to himself: "Why did I get stuck with him?" before walking away with a grunt.

Despite what the guard said, he made sure Sam got a real paper diary. Over time, something about Sam struck a chord with him. He was meek, timid and honestly quite pathetic. He knew of his crime of course, yet physically, Sam didn't seem to fit what he had been accused of in court. Sometimes he wondered if this walking stick-man was innocent after all! But he perished the thought every time. He was, after all, a lowly guard. Who was he, in the grand scheme of things, to question the wisdom of the system. More importantly, the guard knew about Sam's encounter with the other inmates and felt a degree of sympathy towards him. Perhaps through guilt or a lack of being able to protect Sam, he strove uncharacteristically hard to find exactly the type of diary he had been tasked to find.

When the guard had finally tracked down a paper diary and received it he immediately strolled towards Sam's cell to deliver it personally. He knocked upon the cell grates three times with strong, confident strikes. Sam stirred from his sleep, and stretched his arms out like a lazy cat waking up from a satisfying nap. He sat upright in his bed, yawning and gradually taking in the fascinating scenery that was his room. In front of him: a white wall. To his right: a white wall. Above him: a white celling. Alright, he'd had enough soaking in the view for one day and decided to clamber out of bed. As he stumbled out awkwardly and crashed to the floor, he dragged himself like a caterpillar before tightly grabbing the steel bars of his cage and supporting his weight with them. By this point, the guard was used to seeing Sam's idiosyncrasies and chuckled to himself as he recalled the very first time he saw this sight. At first, Sam freaked him out. He walks around limply, like his body is too heavy and speaks as if the weight of the words he says are too heavy. His eyes sag and there is an emptiness to them as if the weight of his own soul is too much to bear within them.

"Eyes are the window to the soul... definitely not true in his case." the guard used to say when he saw Sam.

When Sam was finally level with the guard, he shook somewhat attempting to keep himself up. When he tried to point at the book with his left hand he quickly thrust it back onto the bar before toppling over. Learning from this, he just gently gestured with his head towards the book the guard was carrying. The guard smiled.

"Here you go boy. A paper diary."

What befell the guard's view shocked him. He suddenly heard droplets hit the floor lightly and thought it may be starting to rain outside. But he quickly realised that the sound was coming from Sam. He was crying, yet the sides of his mouth were strung up once again into an elongated smile. Unlike their very first encounter, the guard was comfortable. In fact, he felt encapsulated in a bubble of serenity. It was hard to describe where this feeling came from, after all, he was merely delivering a diary but, if he had to describe it he would say: he felt like for the first time, he was performing his job and making a difference.

"Thank... you..." said Sam slowly and trembling. The guard gently passed the diary through the metal bars towards Sam.

"You take care of that, boy. It cost me a great deal to find it for you."

As Sam politely took the diary, he mentally noted that it was warm. No-one had ever been nice to him his whole life. He had a pretty bad reputation for freaking other people out, and he was well aware of it. Despite his best intentions people tended to want to be as far away from him as possible. Well... normal people that is. His awkwardness and weirdness stood out in prison which had made him easy pickings in the past.

From that moment of receiving the diary, Sam immediately started a religious habit of writing in it every 7PM in his cell. No matter what went awry that day, he would write. He would write, write and write. The stroke of his pen felt perfect flowing across the pages of his thick diary. If there was such a thing as individual destiny, he had found part of his. But now, today, was the last time he would need to write in his prison diary. Tomorrow, everything would change.

"Tomorrow, I'll be free..." he thought to himself as he stood up from his chair. He looked back at the diary and wondered what became of the guard that gave it to him. They continued to see each other for a while after, but all of sudden, 5 years ago, the guard vanished without a trace. What was so peculiar about it was, to Sam's surprise, he was the only one to remember him. Ever since he disappeared, it was as if he had never existed at all. He stroked the front of the now closed diary and noted that it was still warm. It was reassuring to Sam, and comforted him as if his first real friend, were still there with him.

He turned towards his bed and lay himself down on it. "Tomorrow is a big day", he told himself. "I can't wait to be free."

Sam awoke the next morning at 7AM. The soft glisten of the morning sunshine shone rays of light into his cell. He felt warm and cosy and grabbed his blanket harder so as to ensure no-one would take it away from him. Although he was leaving the cell today, he could surely afford a few more minutes lying in. Then, all of a sudden, a paper aeroplane landed in his ear which jolted Sam awake. I suppose that would be very effective in waking up a tough sleeper! As the paper plane glided back down to the ground after shooting up in the air from Sam's ear, he managed to catch it mid flight and proceed to unravel it, revealing a letter.

*Congratulations on your freedom, boy. I'm sorry for not staying with you inside the prison, things outside are... different to what I suspect you've been expecting. But don't worry, I'll be waiting for you. What you'll face outside, I'll face with you.

Your friend, The Guard"

"The Guard?" Sam thought to himself. "Oh... right, I suppose I never knew his name."

Something about this morning felt remiss to Sam. He knew he was up early, but everything seemed too quiet. Sam was certain that if a pin dropped at this exact moment, he would hear it. He limply approached the bars to his cell and gracefully stuck his head through one of the gaps. As he looked around... silence. Left, right there was nothing. There WAS no one.

Sam, confused slipped his head back into his cell and decided he must be dreaming. As he slowly let go of the bars and proceeded to walk back to his bed he felt a sharp pain in his upper back. As he turned around, he found another paper aeroplane lying on the floor, presumably the cause of his sudden pain. Like before, Sam grabbed and unravelled it. It was another letter but the handwriting was more difficult on the eyes than the previous one, as if done in a rush.

"Open the door to your cell. Don't worry, it's unlocked boy.

Your friend, The Guard."

Sam was concerned, but what choice did he have? The alternative to leaving his cell was staying in at and, as pleasant the view of the pale white walls was, he knew he wouldn't particularly miss the sight. Hence, he stumbled towards his cell door. It let out a loud CREAK as it opened, like the scream of a scary ghost.

What happened next, was quite possibly, the strangest experience Sam had encountered yet. He remembered stepping beyond the cell door and then... and then... nothing. Next thing he knew he was floating above a calm a luscious green field. A pleasant summer's breeze blew across the greenery carrying Sam along with it. He now had no control over his body, no control over where he was going. Sam was completely at the whim of the wind. As he floated across tall hills and through thick woods he caught sight of something in the distance. He couldn't believe it... another paper aeroplane. With his stick arms, Sam tried desperately to swim himself closer to the paper plane.

"Just a little further," he said to himself. But the wind appeared to hear him and sped up his speed. A fire lit in Sam's chest and he felt... no, he just knew that he had to catch that paper plane at all costs! As his velocity quickly increased, the more power he put into his strokes. Beads of sweat slipped off his face as soon as they formed, such was the speed he was reaching. He was now in the final stretch, the paper plane was close and he would reach it within 5....

"Come on!"

4...

"I've got you."

3....

"Gareth, please..."

2...

"I'm sorry,"

1...

"I'm ready to see you now!"

At that moment, Sam, by the skin of his teeth managed to grab the letter. As soon as he did the wind stopped and he slowly descended to the ground. In front of him, a small cottage lay waiting, alongside a tranquil river that was turning a water wheel attached to the house. A memory was triggered in Sam and he realised he knew of this place. He clutched the letter tightly and a pit formed in his stomach. He loathed to admit it, but there was an aura about this letter that the previous one's didn't have and it terrified him to the core. Reluctantly, he opened it up.

"Come inside. Friend."

There was no signature and the handwriting was messier than before. It was diagonal on the page and looked like a child had written it with misplaced capital letters everywhere. Sam's attention now turned to the cottage, and he dreaded what he was about to find.

The walk to the cottage wasn't long, about 2 minutes from where he was stood. With each step he took, the mud thickened. It took on the form of a very thick and lumpy sauce. As he finally reached the steps to the cottage, he grabbed onto the railing and started rapidly kicking each leg one at a time to remove as much mud as he could. Sam couldn't stand the thought of touching it with his hands so this was the next best thing. Once satisfied with his cleanliness, he turned to face the door to the cottage. It was wooden and brittle. Clearly it had been there for a long time. Sam began to think it might be flimsier than him as one touch might send it crashing to the floor rather than opening it.

He turned the handle and checking the door was still fixed to it's hinge, stepped inside. The room that greeted him was cold and empty. But in the shadows, at the back corner, Sam spotted someone rocking back and forth in a creaky old chair.

"Look who it is." said the voice. "My old friend Scary Sam." The man chuckled in his chair.

"Gareth..." Sam gulped. He was straining more than ever to say something and a chill went down his spine.

"Do you know where you are? What you're doing here?" The man named Gareth asked. Sam looked around the almost deserted room. His beady black eyes seemed to narrow, taking in every detail of the room, from the cobwebs to the dust laid neatly on the floor. That's when he saw the outline of chalk. Once again, he gulped.

"I think so..." he said hesitantly. The man in the corner smiled and strained to get out of his comfy chair. He started to approach Sam. With each step he took the more the light beyond the door illuminated him. He was old and grey, with one blue eye and one white eye. He sported plenty of spots on his face as well as a pristinely combed moustache,

"The Guard..." Sam said softly as the old man appeared fully.

"Gareth Ud" he replied twiddling his moustache with a smile. "Now then, I think to the matter at hand. My death... at your lovely hands."

Sam shook.

"Please, I didn't..." but words failed him. His voice started to go hoarse as if he had been speaking for hours.

"Don't fret," said Gareth. "It's bad for your health don't you know."

Sam once again tried to say something but nothing came out. His mouth just hung there, slack as if his puppet master had absconded from his post and left the strings holding Sam's mouth up slack.

"If it's any consolation. It would seem I killed you too." He sounded so nonchalant about it. Gareth then fumbled in his right pocket and pulled out a paper aeroplane.

"Here," he said. "I folded it back up just for you."

Sam grabbed the paper plane and like before he opened it up carefully.

"Role: Prisoner.

Crime: Murder of one Gareth Ud.

Memory restoration: 20 years."

Sam looked up from the paper into Gareth's eyes. For the first time, Gareth completely read them. He took his hand into his other pocket and pulled out a letter.

"Didn't bother refolding this one." he said dryly. He turned the sheet of paper towards Sam who's eyes almost leapt out of their head.

"Role: The Guard.

Crime: Murder of one Sam West.

Memory restoration: 15 years."

"What..." Sam finally spoke. "What is this?"

"From what I can tell, we both killed each other that day. This is some sort of afterlife for people who die together I think. We spend time in a world where are residual consciousness are linked as new people. We spend time with each other again and heal." He sighed. "I think the 'Memory restoration' refers to how long we need to spend living our other life before we're ready for the world to come crashing down around us. For me, it was 15 years."

Sam stumbled and fell to the ground. His hands were shaking tremendously and dark red patches of blood started to leak from them. His hands looked like two tiny fountains.

"What do we do?" Sam asked meekly. His breathing was fast and rapid, he was on the verge of a panic attack.

"The only thing we can do: forgive." Gareth replied. "When my memories started to come back, I was angry... resentful even. I believed that I was in the afterlife on my own and that my mind was dragging a ghost of my killer into this world. But, after leaving my role and watching you, I realised that you weren't fake... you were real. Once I realised that, I realised we died together."

"How could you tell?" asked Sam. "That I was real..." Gareth merely pointed towards Sam's diary that had appeared besides him. Sam's breathing started to slow and he noticed that as his breathing relaxed, the less blood his hands produced. Sam then picked up the diary.

"Start from the 1st page." Gareth instructed.

Sam obeyed his instructions and turned to the first page. It merely said:

"I'm sorry."

That can't be right thought Sam. He spent every night writing in that diary for one hour. He must have practically written a whole novel at this point so how could it be that there was only two words in it! Not to say Sam was particularly prone to writing strong literature but this was ridiculous. He turned to the next page, and the next... they all said the same thing.

"That, was how I knew. Your subconscious had you writing in that diary what you deeply held in your mind. Plus, who asks for paper anymore?" He started to laugh heartily.

Sam tuned to the final page, the one he had written the night before his freedom. This page was different from the other's. Rather than two words, this was a full page. It read:

"Gareth, I know something is about to happen tomorrow. I know that you're gone and that I'm serving time for your murder but I just want to see you again. We were always like brothers growing up. I was there for you, and you for me. You saw past my awkwardness, my weirdness and the looks I can make on my face. You treat me like no-one else has done: a friend. I regret our falling out over something so stupid and if you're watching over me, know that when I leave prison tomorrow I will not be leaving you behind in the past. I will be holding you tight and carrying you with me into the future. Everyday I will be working hard to prove myself worthy of seeing you in the afterlife.

Please, someday, forgive me. I'm sorry.

Sam West"

Sam looked intently at the page and noticed he had started to tear it out last night. Suddenly a memory flashed before his eyes of him and Gareth when they were young. Gareth was a few years older than him and got into the habit of calling him "boy" as a tease. Every so often, rather than using their tablets or phones to write, they would send messages via paper aeroplanes using scrap they had managed to find. It felt old fashioned sure, but they found it fascinating. It was like watching an e-mail being sent in real time.

Gareth looked down with pity upon Sam and, as Sam wept, he knelt down in front of him, placed his hand on top of Sam's shoulder and said.

"I forgive you, boy."

In what must have been the quickest movement of his life, Sam whipped his arms round Gareth and held him tightly in his arms. Gareth didn't need to hear anything from Sam, his actions spoke for themselves. His chest felt fuzzy and warm and he couldn't help but feel tears flowing down his face too. The two of them smiled in each others embrace.

Suddenly, the wall of the house shook and started to crumble until nothing was left but the two of them in an empty wide space. A grand golden gate appeared in-front of the pair. The reunited friends looked at the gate intently and felt at peace. Although they did not know for certain what lay beyond it, they knew what it's presence signalled for their journey:

The End.

Too many things Bangles and bling What does it mean Not what it seems

Another world Not what I heard Life is absurd What was that word?

Try to survive Go and just hide Crime to stay alive Jail my beehive

"Angel, wake up."

   The room was crowded with a dull buzzing sound. Ximena shook her head, as she felt she saw double. For the first thing, the woman/man infront of her looked tall/little and very robust/ petite and stared at her in contempt/pity. 

The one beside them nudged them softly/harshly. "Don't get her hopes up! You only need to deliver the information required."

She/he sighed. Ximena watched as it came closer to her face, until it was inches from her nose.

"Entered at age 20 and offenses are as followed," it began reading off the script in a monotone/peppy voice.

"False witness, cursing, unfaithfulness, gluttonous...."

 The words seemed to fade into Ximena's brain until she bit back a scream. But with what body? Her soul stood at a motionless state, where these entities were the only ones who could travel. 

"....It is still unclear which path you are bound for, so you must abide here."

Ximena silently watched the unearthly beings, and thought,"What is going on?"

The entities seemed to understand and one patiently/rapidly stated,"Your body is disconnected from you."

"Like a coma?"

"A more permanent one, at the very least."

"I do not understand."

"Lost soul, do you not understand? Let me explain in your earthly terms. You are dead."

[Hello, I would like to elaborate on this scene. It is an interpretation of purgatory, everything being neither good/bad, hence the conflicting opposing characteristics of everything. As someone who often wonders about what happens proceeding death, I often find myself trying to list off what might be held against me, like what the angel/demon does to Ximena. Anyways, thank you for reading this far]

I just got out of arizona state prison for beating a man half to death and leaving him out near the boarder. “Was I wrong for what I did?” Crooked teeth dirt in his scabs Bones left as straight as the line I was walking I think not He deserved every suffering as I did in my sentence We wouldn’t of seen eye to eye with a staring problem He did some wrong things As so did I, Well life is a little brighter The sun shines a little better In my heart I know I have solved all the problems in my head But things feel different this time As If I have a new perspective of what being free really means.

The monster tentatively stepped out of the cage. Looking wildly around at its captors, who were standing to the side, it emerged into the abandoned ruins. It glanced at each human, waiting for them to jump at it, but they did nothing, continuing to stand motionless. After a few moments, it took off, running as fast as its six legs could take it.

The old city sprawled for miles. The layout was the same as the monster had remembered it, except all the buildings looked like they had been knocked down. Chunks of wall stood upright, while others slanted at an angle. Rubble coated the ground. The spring air seemed out of place among the desolate roads.

When it could no longer go further, it collapsed by a small moonlit puddle. The lack of wind made the water stagnant and reflective.

The monster craned its neck and peered into the pool of water. Jumping back in horror, it could barely stand to call to mind what it had just seen. In the reflection was a hideous face, torn apart at the side of the mouth and near the right eye. Fur covered the face in small patches, leaving most of it bald. The jaw was a bit crooked, teeth misaligned. Despite the animal-like appearance, it was undeniable... that face used to be human.

Worn out from the day's events, the monster felt itself slipping into sleep.

It was awoken by a small child poking at its nose with a stick. It jerked backwards, startling the child. After a second, the child spoke.

"Hello," she said in a quiet voice. "...What are you?"

The monster tried to remember speech, but all it could manage in its deformed state was a horrific noise. It stood up on its two hind legs. The child watched it closely, not breaking eye contact.

"Come on," she whispered, and held out her hand. The monster reached out one of its arms and the child took its hand. Allowing itself to be led by the child, it slowly moved across the ground. They finally made their way to a small clearing under an archway that still seemed to be intact. The child opened her other hand, revealing a single flower seed.

"I came here to plant this flower. I wanted at least one thing to be alive in this city. I didn't know you were here, but I guess that makes two things." The monster watched her as she crouched down and dug a small hole in the ground. Once she had put the seed in and covered it back up with dirt, she took out of the bag she was carrying a small water bottle and poured water over where she had placed the seed. She then turned to the monster.

"My name's Hope. I don't know if you can tell me your name, but it was nice to meet you. I think I'll come back here. If I do, I'll wait for you right here and you come find me. Okay?" The monster moved its head up and down, as if nodding. Hope smiled. "Goodbye for now, creature without a name," she said.

The monster turned to a clear patch of dirt. Digging its claw into the ground, it began scratching out letters. First was a D... then an O... and an N...

Idk what to write about so- —

Like angels wings Your voice is a calming melody. So speak it.