Im scared I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die

Not yet

Please God Not yet

I’m not ready

I haven’t done enough I wasted my time Sitting staring at a screen

I wanted to learn

Learn everything

Poems History Math Art Language

Everything

And I wanted to love And be loved In a way more that friendship To be held and to be chosen

I wanted to love

Make my mark Make some kind lf difference

Not just fade out With nothing to show

Please I’m not ready yet I need more time

I need more time

Please I don’t want to die

I’m scared

Cleo threw the stack of papers back onto the desk. Rejected. Again. This time she was sure she had written something unique. Years it had taken her to fully flesh out her idea, and it was rejected. The only comment the publishers put was "too unoriginal". It's just too hard to be original these days. People can write something and someone has already done it. Same for drawing, painting, dancing, anything!

Cleo sighed. "Heck, I could write a story about my life and it would be filed for copyright!"

Nothing is new anymore.

Growing up in a house with eighteen other kids, is not ideal. The oldest of us being 25 and still living at home, cue the rolling of eyes. The youngest one being 2, and yes the terrible twos are a reality. What about me, you ask? Well I'm right smack dab in the middle at 13 years old. Most days I'm not even acknowledged and I just skate my way through life. Since I can get away with mostly everything, unless of course it's picking on the younger kids who will sacrifice you as if you were made of hot coal and burning them, I tend to do a bunch of experiments. My first ever experience was on our family cat, I'll spare you the gory details but let's just say I learned what the insides of a cat looked like. I know you may be thinking "what kind of sociopath cuts open a cat?", and honestly I can't blame you for thinking that about me cause I absolutely thought the same thing. Here's the thing though, I couldn't help myself. When I told my friends and family about it, I got so much attention that it gave me an adrenaline rush. Since that day though people never loooked at me the same, but if I'm being honest it didn't affect me any. In my opinion good or bad views on me didn't matter as much as how many people I could get to pay attention to me. I made a vow to myself shortly after that turning point in my life, I was going to be the most known person on the face of the planet.

I continued with animals for the rest of my childhood. Eventually making my way up to bigger game, like bear and moose. It was satisfying to say the least. My favorite part was the fact that I had gotten so good at it that I became the butcher for our small town. Everyone in our town knew who I was and I couldn't have been happier about it. But I knew it wasn't enough. I needed more. That's when I decided I would take things to the next level.

I had built a little spot inside of the bush next to her window. Just enough for my slender body to fit and peek over the edge of the window pane into her room. I toyed with her a bit, starting with tapping on the window in the middle of the night. Every time she would look outside and not see me, even while I was staring right at her, gave me a rush like nothing else. I would spend every night outside of her window and watch her do everything from calling her friends to getting changed. And before you get the wrong idea, no I wasn't being a pervert. I was just simply studying her habits.

Whenever the window was open I would risk a low whisper just to mess with her head. She usually ran out of the room whenever I did that, coming back soon after with her parents who thoroughly checked the entirety of the room. There was one night where I thought I was caught for sure. Her dad had opened the window, took out the screen, and started moving the top layer of branches on the bush to peer down. Luckily I had become an expert in hiding at this point and he couldn't see past my camouflage.

One night however, I came to her window to find the bush had been completely removed. I found a note left in its spot. I'll spare you the mundane contents of the note, but what caused me to snap was the simple fact that they didn't know who I was. They didn't know it was me under the window. Even with the tiny clues I had left in the bush, knowing her dad would get rid of it. I couldn't stand it anymore. I needed them to know it was me. So I did what anyone aspiring to be well known would do, I went to the front door and knocked.

My excuse was that I was starting a new service for the butcher business, the new service was to hand deliver their orders. So I handed over the meat to her dad, told him to make sure they ate it sooner rather than later cause of the freshness of it, smiled, and went back to my truck. The next day the entire family ended up dead. Can you guess what I did?

If you guessed poison you'd be absolutely incorrect. That would've been too easy, you amateur. No, instead I went back to my spot under her window and when I had knocked on it to cause her to call her parents in, I slipped away to the front door. Which I then knocked hard and fast to enforce the urgency needed. As I heard them come running to the front door I snaked my way back to the window and smiled at how well my plan worked. Her dad left the window unlocked. I made quick work of getting in and going straight to the closet. Making sure I didn't leave any disturbances. After some time I heard the family settle down to eat dinner.

Now what I did do to the meat was I put burandanga into the meat and when they had eaten it, they became zombie like and did everything I told them to do. So when I put a pistol in the dads hands and told him to shoot his wife, he obliged. Then I took the gun and put it in the daughters hands, my muse. She was truly fascinating. I told her to pull the trigger, killing her dad. Then I sat and watched as she came out of the trance and turned the gun on herself, realizing what she had done.

Last thing I did before leaving was left a single piece of paper signed with the daughters blood. The signature? "B", B for butcher. Then the games began.

She’s standing at the corner of the 5th avenue. In her hands is a Spanish guitar which she plays while she sings she most beautiful songs. For eight months she’s been here every day, except for Sundays, because those are her days off. She wants to become famous, that people from all over the world will recognize her. She dreams about going on tours and playing big concerts. And one day she actually might be, because every day she’s getting more attention. People stop walking to listen to her songs. Some of them record a video on their phones. Just the other day she saw herself on YouTube and the video had thousands of views and likes. All those things encourage her to keep sharing her talent right there at the corner of the street.

My last TikTok only got 30,000,000,000 likes. That’s not enough; views are dropping. I’m not famous like Ted Bundy or Jojo Siwa. I’m only making just under eight billion dollars a day. Okay, you’re probably confused.

Because I am famous.

Just not actually famous. I’m fake famous.

Here’s how TikTok works. You get likes and views, and the more of those you get, the more you get because you have a more likely chance of popping up on some innocent persons’ for you page (FYP). It’s a cycle.

I may or may not have created over 300 accounts and just watched my own videos on repeat until I had many views. Don’t worry, I liked them all, too. It was actually a very effective method.

But now, a month later, it feels very wrong. I can’t receive my paychecks without sighing from the guilt.

At least I’m rich.

A/N: just needed to post something, I might continue the story in an edit sometime because it’s concernigly short. I’m not in the mood to write (and you can definitely tell) but I wanted to keep my streak lol. And yes, it’s supposed to be exaggerated for humorous purposes.

Infamous Not famous Took the wrong path It didn’t last 15 minutes of fame The unending game Always the same No one to blame

Jonas looked at himself in the mirror, his trinkets strung around the top rim like collectibles from a life at sea. In some ways, he left that way: he just got back from tour, multiple countries, and new items to add to his mirror. Around the glass lay his makeup: lipsticks, blushes, eyeshadows. They made him into the character the world knew him as: Glam. He smudged some of his makeup off and laughed, knowing that right now - people were talking about him, playing his music, watching his performances. He had made a household name of himself. Nobody knew Jonas anywmore. When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t know, Jonas, either.

He fixed the smudge and smiled at his reflection. He would be needed on stage soon for a final performance before he got to rest for a bit, record new music, be creative. That was his favorite part of the life he had made for himself. That, and the screaming fans … He could hear them even now.

He pushed away from the mirror and opened the door behind him. The crowd went wild, waiting for Glam. He grabbed the microphone, thanked them, and began performing his new single.

His neighbors slammed on the walls, begging him to stop the noise. He wheeled around, lost in his daydream, singing to an invisible crowd in his tiny studio bedroom. No one else was there.

“Phoenix! Phoenix! Phoenix!” the crowd cheers as I stare into the bright lights on my left and right. “And for my next song, I will sing a melody I created when I was only 10 years old. It goes a little/something like this…” I say as a guitar riff begins in the background. “Every morning spent like this… I get some coffee, but just a sip… Because… I can’t have anything taking my mind off you… I can’t have anything taking my mind off you… You are… The one for me… You are… The Phoenix! Phoenix! Phoenix! It’s time to get to school, you’re gonna be late.” I slowly rise up rubbing my still tired and yearning to be re-shut eyes. ‘I wish that just one time the ream can be a reality.’ I say to mysef as I grab my mochilla and head down for beakfast.

For breakfast mom made a small omlet consisting of two eggs, bacon bits, and her secret sauce. I already know what it is, I just pretend not to, becuase there’s so much happiness and cheerfullness in her face when she says, “Even though were family, I’ll never tell you my secret.”

I head to the school bus with my paper lunch and my mochilla, I greet Mr. R, the bus driver. No one knows his real name, but sometimes we put words behind the R as a guess. For instance, my amigo Jerry has called him Mr. Rodriguez and Mr. Rosquez. The only name he’s ever lit up to was Mr. Petunia, however that didn’t make any sense, becase his name is Mr. R, not Mr. P.

I have always wanted to be a performer ever since I saw a guitar at that pawn sho almost a decade ago. It resided in a large transparent case and had the signatures f many famous artists, such as Willie Nelson, Johnie Cash, Janis Joplin, and John Lennon.

“You’re late!” Karen barked.

“I’m here,” Sally answered hurriedly tying a black apron over her waitstaff black and whites.

With a practiced hand she lifted a tray of spicy tuna tartar appetizers. Cheek and jowl, Gallery 57 was packed. Trent the bartender gave Sally a weary nod. Outside of journalists no one hit an open bar more than artsy types. Sally wondered what all the fuss was about this time.

“I heard his agent was going to drop him since his sales went flat.”

“Going flat made him famous I’ll say.”

Her eyes flitted over the installations as she weaved through hungry crowd. The canvases were mostly bare flat smears of gesso with a few black squiggles. When a round faced man stopped her to shovel her tray’s remaining appetizers into his gullet, Sally noticed the random lines and smears. The only thing she understood was the red SOLD sticker.

Sally headed back to the kitchen for another tray. She met Manny on his way out with bruschetta.

“It’s a madhouse. Usually these shows are snooze fest,” Sally said. “What gives?”

“ I heard there’s lots of buzz cause the artist just D I E D,” Manny mouthed the last word and did the sign of the cross.

With a heaping tray of chicken satay, Sally went back into the fray. Hands snatched at the tray greedily. Five feet tall, the larger pieces were the similar to smaller ones. More free form black marks on a white field.

“I like his bold intentionality here. Using a child’s toy a marble dipped in ink. Allowing his canvas to create mood. Stunning.”

“ Of the course the power, so visceral. Shame, such a lost to the art world. Such talent,” an art critic said.

Sally served attendees huddled in loose circles. Her feet were starting to ache in her worn out waiter shoes. Over peanut sauce they gushed praise for the artist’s sensitivity, for his bravado. Sally slipped past the crowd with her tray empty. The final piece was largest. Nearly twelve feet tall, the huge gesso canvas loomed.

“That’s the tragedy. His work encompasses the ennui that enveloped us. After working with marbles he wanted to stretch artistically. He used an actual marble slab covered in heavy body acrylic for this masterpiece.”

“He should have used a bowline. Paint is slippery as blood. Miss, are there anymore of those crab thing?”

“Certainly I’ll check with the kitchen, sir.”

Glancing one last time at the large canvas with a dark red smear, Sally hurried back for seafood puff pastry.

(Btw this isnt prompt)

I wont pick up the phone No, I will let it ring I will stay alone, And wont end up a broken thing

I wont give up and go running to your arms No, i will stay right here For once I will listen to the red flags and alarms For once I am sincere

I wont want you anymore No, I will forget that you exist I will sink into galore When I stop thinking of that kiss

I wont wonder what your doing No, I wont wonder what you would say I wont be the one losing I will keep my heart at bay

I wont let you ruin every moment Because my desire for you presence is so strong Without you I will be fluent, In what is right and not wrong

I wont hand you the right To break my heart in half No, I wont let you steal my light With the darkness of your wrath

-Never mind I just like lying to myself I will always answer your call And I will never put these perpetual feelings on a shelf