her wings tarnished her halo no longer vibrant her words silent Like an echo in the absence of light She dances on the edge of the ledge Filling with dred as her once known to be god expels her from her heavenly kingdom I guess life is just never fair With heavens care And hell's glare She’ll whisper into the cold night Reaching for someone who is not there

Hell is a teenage girl they say Smoking into a dirty ashtray Asking for a lighter but never lighting candles laugher echos into screams All the crushed evidence of dreams All her friends yell Shame Her demons return with blame Cursed rage from Within Torn between innocence and the allure of sin

Now she drowns deeper in the abyss From her soothen blood across her wrist And gives the cruel world one final goodbye Her eyes rest her lashes flow her wings are cold and now she joins the untold tales

The Grand Chronometer.

Murkstone-Snatchly was a bustling city. Fires and forges, grime and graft made it a place where the sun was an occasional guest, and mostly seen only as a dim yellow-ochre orb through soup-like clouds. The rain generally failed to keep its distance, and generally failed also to have any cleansing benefit upon the place.

A peculiar thing seemed to be happening at the Murks Hall University. The wizards had been unusually quiet, which, given their normal propensity for loud debates over the nature of magic and the size of their latest vanity projects, was deeply unsettling. It seemed that for the present, their greatest concern was not an imminent magical bonanza or a new form of enchanted celery, but a clock. Not just any clock, but the Grand Chronometer. This monumental timepiece had been ticking away since time itself.

It was, in fact, the clock that regulated time itself, although that minor detail had been more or less forgotten by all but the most venerable, wizened and antique Wizard Emeritus.

The clock was a vast thing of jagged-toothed cogs and levers. Of falling weights, coiled springs and swinging pendulums large enough to knock the head off a running horse. It was housed in the University’s most secure, magic-proof room. Unfortunately, the clock was no longer running correctly. Other, more modern, although less portentous timepieces indicated the errors. But since none of the other timepieces agreed with each other either, nobody was entirely sure what time, in the truest sense of measuring the flight of the arrow of time, it actually was. Celestial calculations, whilst useful, were only good to a few minutes or so, so they were no help. Naturally, this was the sort of thing that would unsettle even the most stoic of wizards. Without the Grand Chronometer, time in Murkstone-Snatchly, and the Multiverse in general, had developed a troubling tendency to meander alarmingly and unpredictably. Unpredictability was not a good thing when it came to time.

As is often the way with matters of huge, multiverse-terminating importance and complexity, nobody was sure what should be done. The Guild of Clockmakers had shamefully admitted that none of their members would attempt a repair since none of them knew how to fix the Chronometer, it being more ancient and complex than anything they could contrive. It fell to magic and wizards to save the day. As usual. Naturally, no wizard of any seriousness wanted to be involved in anything that was likely to end in disaster. The end of the multiverse was considered to be, on the scale of things, more than moderately disastrous.

Enter Bors, the most inept of wizards and, accordingly, the seemingly perpetual student of the Murks Hall University. His greatest achievement in life was keeping himself from being killed in increasingly hair-raising and improbable ways. He was widely considered the most un-promising member of the current cohort of undergraduate wizards. Bors was desperate to redeem his wizarding reputation and consequently he was the only wizard foolish enough to volunteer to fix the Grand Chronometer. He was attracted by the fact that the Guild of Clockmakers had promised a large sum of money to anyone who was successful. More importantly, if Bors succeeded, and it was, let’s face it, a big if, he would also avoid expulsion from the Guild of Wizards.

And if he failed he could be written off as a hopelessly inept meddler, working unlicensed, and therefore leaving no taint on any proper wizards.

Bors’s attempts to repair the clock began with advice from the greatest minds the University could muster who, in the face of all logic and evidence, were currently of the view that time was not a straight line at all, but a rather complicated knot.

As Bors delved into the mysteries of the Grand Chronometer, he discovered a series of realities within the clockwork mechanism. Each gear and spring contained a miniature world of its own, each governed by its own set of rules and inhabitants. It was not that surprising considering that the Grand Chronometer was supposed to govern all of time itself, and time, as every thinking person knows, is both scarce and very big. All pervading and finite, in an infinite sort of way. There are, after all, numerous parallel realities in a Multiverse, many of them inside the Grand Chronometer. And indeed, he found himself navigating a sequence of increasingly bizarre realities - an underwater kingdom where everyone communicated through interpretive dance, a realm where logic was strictly forbidden, and a dimension where the concept of time was replaced by an endless series of tea parties.

What unfolded was a series of adventures, in which he learned that the Grand Chronometer was not merely a timekeeping device but a sentient being with its own agenda. The clock had grown tired of being a mere instrument and sought to reshape time itself into something more entertaining - preferably a form that involved less linear progression and more opportunities for dramatic plot twists. In part, therefore, the luminaries of the university proved to be correct in the Grand Knot of Time Theory. Although, correctness did not really help avert the impending end of the multiverse.

Bors, entirely by fluke, discovered that the key to restoring order lay in understanding the clock’s own internal narrative. This realisation came to him by means of Mrs Maslow, the fishmonger’s preferred squeeze. She was an expert fish-cleaner, filleter and de-scaler. Mostly though, she liked to talk. One of her favourite topics was a her firm belief that everyone existed within a hierarchy of their own wants and needs. Indeed, her partners’ business was entitled: “Fish. Satisfying That Need.” Bors had been buying afternoon tea for him and his cat, Shrowdingle. As usual, he’d listened to Mrs Maslow sharing her pearls of wisdom, but later, whilst wrangling a fishbone from between his teeth, he realised the true value of a fishwife's words.

Each nested reality within the Grand Chronometer was an expression of the clock’s desires and frustrations, and the only way to fix it was to address these existential concerns. For most people, the received wisdom on how to deal with situations of this sort would be to first confront their own fears and insecurities, But this was for Bors, of course, a complete waste of time. His life was fearsome enough as it was, he decided. So, with absolutely no idea what he was doing, he just, sort of, blundered on, hoping for the best.

Nevertheless, with his newfound, if dimly perceived understanding of the Grand Chronometer’s complexities, Bors managed to convince the clock that perhaps it was not time that was flawed but rather its own approach to it. He proposed a compromise: a harmonious blend of linear and non-linear time that would allow for both structured progress and spontaneous adventure, so that at any one moment, time within the Chronometer could be in total flux as much as it wanted, although, when consulted the clock would tell the accurate time. Furthermore, when measured over the course of aeons, the chronometer would be bang on time. Bors decided that he would name this new-found elastic approach to time after his cat and accordingly it became known as Shrowdingle’s Principle.

And so it was that the Grand Chronometer was persuaded to recalibrate itself. Time in Murkstone-Snatchly began to flow more predictably, though with just enough quirks to keep life interesting. The clock’s internal worlds remained an incomprehensible mish-mash of absurdities, but the multiverse was harmonised into a coherent, if somewhat eccentric, whole once more.

Bors returned to the Murks Hall University, not with a heroic triumph obviously, but with a slightly less imminent threat of being expelled. The Archchancellor was surprisingly magnanimous, having been rather pleased by the newfound predictability of his breakfast schedule. Naturally, the Guild of Clockmakers refused to pay up - citing the minor detail that Bors was not a member of the Guild and therefore was forbidden by statute to earn a living from the business of clock making or repairing. The city of Murkstone-Snatchly continued to thrive, albeit with a new found awareness that time, like magic, had a tendency to be rather peculiar.

Olivia curls up against the wall eyes large as she watches daddy stab mommy. Painting the white walls dark crimson.

Jack gets home hangs his coat on the empty coat wall, the world goes dark, a demons holds his daughter hostage in it’s arms. He screams, frees his daughter and attacks the demon.

Emma has heard of death and was always fascinated by it, sometimes even wishing it upon herself. Now she is not so sure, now faced with her enevatble death she wants to live. She weakly reaches a hand towards the door before blood and pain overwhelm her.

Janet screams and drops casserol, porcelain glass scattering around the front porch.

Henry pulls on his brown overcoat and exits the office into the cold night air. The new case was just same old same old, A father killed his wife but surprisingly left his young daughter alive. What a shame.

Olivia tries to back further into the wall as daddy steps closer and closer. But daddy turns at the last second and grabbed one of two coats from the wall.

Janet backs away from the door porcelain breaking under her boots, a man in a brown overcoat walks out the door.

Jack lyes bleeding on the floor wondering when his wife was going to tell him their daughter wasn’t his.

Henry crosses to the house where the murder took place, he reatches for the door handle. Seeing a dark brown spot on his overcoat he sighs, that’s going to be hard to get out.

Every night there had to be one cowboy, Ember thought. He tossed another handful of sawdust over the sick on the ride’s floor. Days like this made Ember wish he was on one of the classier rides like Pegasus’ Flight. Ember remembered a guy proposed to his high school sweetheart twenty years after high school on Pegasus’s Flight. Gilded winged animals and crying babies, nothing bad ever happens on a carousel.

No tonight Ember got stuck with the King’s Crown, a whirling disk where the locals are strapped in. Basically a Crazy Teacups ride for stupid adults and somebody always has to puke. Ember lit a Black and Mild while sweeping. Marlo had the flu and Gene showed up drunk so the Crown went to him.

The amusement side of the carnival was going to bed. Butchers were still selling bags of popcorn and franks. Clerks were wiping down counters while jointies were trying to separate the last night dollars from the mooches on shady games of chance. A girlish cheer sounded. Ember watched some palooka win a big pink teddy bear for his lady.

The night was for young love and kids who still got a kick out of staying out late. Ember collected trash. There were two good things about the King’s Crown. The fan worked in its doghouse so when Ember was operating the ride he wasn’t melting his balls off. And the dust was off the chain.

Locals lost stuff. Maybe because they have too much. Maybe the glamour of carnival carries them away. Just standing still the gold falls from the locals’ pockets. But on spin rides the dust, the losses, added up to a sweet roll. Between half-hearted sweeps on the Crown’s red and gold floor, Ember picked up lots of coins. An unopened pack of gum, sunglasses, a couple of vapes, crumpled bills including a Jackson, all a decent haul for a ride jockey.

Hollow gold earrings, a packet of condoms, and a pearl pen knife engraved Waco, TX, each slipped into Ember’s pockets. There is a Photo Booth photo, two girls and a guy. Ember could tell one girl liked the guy but the guy was more interested in the other. A pink bandanna that smelled of vanilla. Ember imagined freed curls falling over one eye. He tucked the bandanna into his back pocket. That’s when he saw it. Jackpot!

The silvery glimmer sparkled from aged wooded floor. It was a heart pendant, swirly, on a chain. Ember hoped it was platinum. But his pawn store dreams evaporated when he had it closer. It was sterling silver. Ember could tell it was the kind of gift you get for your first girlfriend, when you are unsure and romantic. Or maybe a kid gets for mommy where you save up your allowance.

Ember held the necklace up to the night. He saw a mother’s day with undercooked toast and lunch at Olive Garden and a white cardboard box and supermarket flowers and joy. The clasp was broken.

“Oh my God you found it.”

Dropping his hand, Ember looked over his shoulder. Woman, in her forties, maybe fifties, dressed cute date at the carnival looked up at Ember. A palooka, probably her husband, was nearby giving Ember the hard stare with Showman Jim.

“Yeah, Ember this lady here lost her kid’s necklace. Real sentimental like,” Jim said. “I said things like that I dunno. I mean we can look but you never know. Right you never know. All lost stuff goes to lost and found. ”

Ember waved the necklace at Jim to shut him up. He walked towards the mommy. Her eyes were shiny. Thanking Ember over and over, she held her hands up like a child. Necklace in hand, the lady put her hand over her chest. She started to cry. Ember watched her story cross her face.

“You’ll need to repair the chain, ma’am.”

The palooka with her shook Ember’s hand, slipping cash against Ember’s palm.

“Thanks,” the palooka said before heading off with his old lady.

Showman Jim escorted them away. Ember listened to his boss’ prattle fade off. Ember put his reward in his pocket. He was ready to call it a night.

Captain Noah Dayton stood at the helm of his flagship The Ark, a colossal feat of engineering and physics. This metal and glass wonder was 1200 square miles, roughly the size of Rhode Island. From where he stood on his command deck, he oversaw a vast landscape of forests, mountains, lakes, valleys, and everything in between. Several cities and towns were spread out below. There were even more beyond what he could see. Above the landscape, artificial clouds hovered and sunlight was broadcast through a focal point at the top. The entire scene was encased in a gigantic bubble where beyond you could see the faintest hints of stars.

He needed everything to go right today. The fate of humanity was resting on his shoulders.

RiVo, his robotic assistant, came up and produced a small microphone from his silver hands. “Here you are sir. They are ready for your commencement.”

Noah took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“HELLO CITIZENS OF THE ARK,” Noah’s voice boomed across the land. “WELCOME AND CONGRATULATIONS ON MAKING THIS VOYAGE WITH ME. AS IT STANDS, THERE ARE TWENTY THOUSAND OF YOU ON BOARD RIGHT NOW. WE WILL BE DEPARTING THE EARTH IN ONE HOUR. ONCE WE ARE OUT OF ORBIT, WE ARE NEVER TO RETURN. NOT THAT ANY OF YOU WOULD WANT TO..”

“YOU HAVE BEEN POSITIONED WITHIN THREE DISTRICTS OF THE ARK. WE WILL NOW BE FULLY ACTIVATING EACH DISTRICT BEORE DEPARTURE. PLEASE MAKE YOURSELVES COMFORTABLE AS WE PROCEED WITH THIS.”

Noah took the microphone away and looked towards RiVo. “All right, let’s fire them up.”

** Mary Vompas, of the famed Vompas family, sat on the balcony of her luxury apartment in the city of New Boston. She gazed out over the cityscape, pristine and colorfully metallic buildings in every direction. Hovercars abound, the finest luxury models, and although this was a lively city there was no traffic or chaos. This was a city made perfectly for the families who had gotten their District I passes.

Mary sipped on her martini and snapped her fingers to the burly robot in the corner who came over and started massaging her shoulders. She could hear her boorish husband in the other room screaming at someone from the front desk about why he hadn’t been notified about a delivery, something trivial and stupid as always.

Mary rolled her eyes and tried to enjoy herself. Come on now, she thought. This is who he was on Earth, why did you think it would be any different here?

Just then she caught something out of the corner of her eye. One of the hovercars had just crashed below. As medics rushed to the scene, Mary felt a sense of unease. Maybe New Boston was actually going to be a LOT like Earth.

** Jason Hackett, MVP Quarterback and seven-time Super Bowl winner for the San Antonio Vipers, was relaxing in his hot spring when he heard the booming voice of Capt. Noah Dayton. His villa was tucked into a mountain on the far side of the Ark. Jason was surprised that the sound could carry this far over but he’d be damned if it didn’t sound like the voice of God himself.

It was a shame that only a couple of his teammates were able to obtain passes onto the Ark. The other Hall of Fame inductees. Even at that, and much to Jason’s surprise, he had to settle for District II passes. Not that he was complaining, his mountain villa was like nothing beyond his wildest dreams. With an array of robotic staff ready to tend to every need of his family’s, and a garage filled with a fleet of luxury hovercars, it really was perfect.

Still Jason couldn’t help but feel a little emasculated at being denied entry to District I. It made his mind race, wondering what sorts of things could be going on up in New Boston or Kennedy.

Just then, he felt the ground shake below him. He then heard a huge CRASH and looked below him as a jet black hovercar blasted out of his garage and took off across the desert below. His wife came running out, asking Jason if he had just seen what happened.

“Oh hell no,” he cried. “Was that the limited edition Vortex?!”

** Trevor Bast was a young man with a bad gambling addiction and nasty drug habit. Somehow he had wandered into acquiring a District III pass from a late night bet in a Vegas casino, and the rest is history baby. Frankly Trevor had no idea how they even let him on the Ark pass or not, he saw the other people here and he was clearly not of the same pedigree. All the same, they situated him nicely with a ranch-style house nestled in a forest along a nice riverbed.

It was tranquil and relaxing. Like something out of a Hemingway novel. Trevor hated it and left immediately.

He marched for an entire day and a half, looking for some sort of action. He came through a small town called Armstrong and stopping at their pharmacy, was dismayed to hear they didn’t have any Zodone.

“The fuck you mean that’s only in District I? Are you crazy?”

“Sorry sir but I am not programmed to know why Zodone is not available here. The closest available resource is located in New Boston at-“

Trevor was already out the door. He walked for several more hours, crossed a border sign that said District II, and eventually came upon a sprawling villa tucked away up in a mountain. He then heard a booming voice, the voice of Captain Noah Dayton announcing they were departing, and his sensitive hearing brought him to his knees. Oh man, he was really going through the withdrawals now.

He hadn’t had his fix for almost three days now and he felt himself becoming more and more a slave to his impulses. His animal brain was now taking full control.

“I bet these rich fucks got a garage,” he said to himself. “Let’s have some fun”.

Captain Noah Dayton sat with his head in his hands, having been informed of a hovercar crash in New Boston that left five people dead, including the driver.

“RiVo, how did someone from District III not trigger the alarms when they crossed over?”

“The borders were still in the process of being activated sir.”

Noah sighed. He glanced out a small window, looking at his creation. “We couldn’t even leave Earth without already finding a way to kill ourselves. Maybe we really are damned as a species…”

RiVo paused. His robotic mind had no idea what to say in response to that.

“Shall we carry on with the departure sir?”

There is a battle happening in a field that once bloomed with flowers of all colors. Now the grass is rusty with dry blood, and the dirt cracking from summer rain that will never come anyway. Not a single soldier is fierce, though they all do fight. There are good and bad warriors on both sides, but each one of them have the same terror pulsing through their veins in the same, fast pace. A person, who is fighting with the side of the war that tried to keep peace, is ruthlessly being targeted by his enemy; more skilled than himself. The poor man barely get to call a battle cry or see the memories of his life before an archer shoots him from behind. The man doesn’t see the arrow as it skewers the middle of his chest, and he falls limp without even twitching. The archer jaw tightens as he breathes in then out, grateful that he is safe hiding in the dense branches of a tree. He grabs for another arrow and hastily finds another target. Shakily he lets the arrow fly. A younger woman with amber eyes, who is fighting with the side of the war who started this ordeal rather rashly, is barely holding on to her sword while slashing at the shield of her enemy. She hears a faint whispering of something flying through the air, then the sound of a body hitting the soaked ground. She searches for the archer in a sort of thanks, but upon finding no one, she continues her rampage. There is a warrior, too young to be that experienced with a weapon is tearing through the battlefield, not a drop of his own blood staining his hands. After he carelessly slaughters a handful of men he sees the woman with the amber and hawk-like eyes. She has killed many, not as many has himself; however, he thinks her growing pride will be the end of her. The too young warrior grips his sword and makes his way toward the woman who wordlessly accepts his challenge. With a fearful yet confident grin she strikes first. The warrior blocks her attack and gracefully pushes the woman to her back. Her sword flies from her hand and only then she begins to regret. The woman cries out for mercy and pleads for a moment until she realizes it is too late for her. There wasn’t a time when the too young warrior wasn’t fighting. It didn’t matter even if he wanted to fight, he just did. I was the same now too. He didn’t have a side in this war. He was fighting for himself because all he had even known was to kill or be killed. The too young warrior was there when the battle settled. He didn’t want to look at the ground when his feet stepped on something that didn’t sound like dry grass. He decided to look, and maybe he would help the injured, though he knew infection would get them sooner than the next bloodthirsty soldier would. At the top of a hill, under the red sky and setting sun, there were two people. One alive and the other… He could not quite tell, but his heart felt empathetic to the person holding the limp body. So the too young warrior went on, but there would always be more fighting he was called to join in on. The alive boy sitting atop the bloodied hill hesitated when he saw the too young warrior. He almost cried out for help, there had been a spark of hope only for a second, then realizing that it would be futile. He had been weeping for what felt like eternity, and he would cry even more for so much longer. The tears would linger for weeks and the rage would last his whole life, and it would fuel every battle he fought in. But right now, he was done being hopeful, and done with fighting. That had cost the life of his friend, and many other scared people, who weren’t ready to die.

There was a man he was dating a woman it turns out he had a twin an they swapped places with each other and then twin had a baby with the other brother girl friend

Try to figure that out

They shouldn't le here. We should have been ready. They needed more training, they Needed more battle that didn't include training pads or helmets.

Jeremy has a hole through his forearm. The bleeding is under control. The hysteria is still building, though I can see he’s trying to be brave. He’s doing his best to keep Jamie and Erin from assuming the fetal position and shifting to a liability.

Gina, holy shit, Gina. The wallflower came alive in the panic. She took control of five others and mounted a real defense once the line broke. A whole new girl looked me in the eye and told me to stop bleeding everywhere.

Liam didn’t stop her. The rising L.T. Didn’t argue about the help. He kept his cool when the chaos hit the fan. He kept everyone’s heads down. He took the help and kept as many alive and uninjured as he could.

When the news broke about the peace accords failing in spectacular fashion, we were knee deep in our typical afternoon training. The kids, these kids I wouldn’t admit I’ve got a soft spot for, were complaining about gnats and mosquitoes. The sun was high, hopes were riding the promise of lunch in the mess hall.

“Sir? Sir?!” Hector called to me, quickly crouching to look me over. My injured arm reached up to console him by the shoulder. The kid always looked at me for confirmation, probably a bit neurodiverse, ‘cause he didn’t wanna do the wrong thing.

“Get me a rifle, cadet!” I ordered with practiced authority. His face lit up, he just needed a task for that hamster in his head to start running on. Hector helped me to my feet, and I instantly pulled him down to crouch with me.

Rounds zipped overhead before a canister spewing gas landed between us. Hector didn’t think, he just grabbed the canister and threw it back. He looked back at me with an expecting smile. I lifted my hand to give him a thumbs up and shouted “Rifle,” and pointed a direction over his shoulder.

Hector ducked into another handful of kids huddled behind rubble. Our training facility looked like fresh dropped shit in Cleveland. The Zah’durs had been stationed a days flight outside our atmosphere. Refueling, resupplying, they told us. It proved to be a damned forward deployment position, and we were the first victims.

Kids. Under armed, under prepared and under strict supervision to NOT have a full contingent of proper ordinance. They came after kids that only had a small chance of mounting a viable defense. A lot of colorful things had been said about the Zah’durs given their slimy, amorphous appearance. I liked to stay out of it.

C.O.’s needed to stay above the petty squawking but these slug-looking sacks of shit were coming after kids. They were coming after MY kids!

A whole line of them popped up over cover to return fire. No spraying, those kids took five shots each before ducking down to deny returning shots any targets to aim at. The Zah’dur rounds flew past with trails of green.

“Andie! Attack that right flank!” I called to the group of them. It’s been weeks of getting this group used to calling each other by their last names. I just noticed I had reverted to calling out their first names. I was worried, I was scared.

Before I knew it, I was huddled with Jeremy, Jamie and Erin. Toby and Zack were hit with a boom, Jamie and Erin pulled from rubble and got them safe. The boys were breathing, bleeding from the ears and lucky to have all their limbs. I tapped Jeremy.

“How’s the arm?”

He looked back at me and held back most of his sarcasm with that pretty boy smile. “I got another one.”

Good, the adrenaline was kicking in. Hector slid into us like a baseball player desperate to get second base. He quickly scurried and handed me one of the rifles cradled in his arms. Jeremy pulled him behind cover as I primed the bolt and switched the safety off. Hector followed as I peaked over cover, got sights up and fired off five shots, two being successful deliveries to slug 1 and slug 5.

Booms erupted with spires of dirt and smoke just behind the group I engaged. None of my kids had that kind of ordinance… unless…

I turned to see Amie, the trouble half between her and Andie, execute a beautiful hook shot to deliver another explosive down range. It WOULD come down to the pyromaniac to be the first to use the ‘fun’ equipment. I had already scolded her twice for trying to persuade me to skip a few lessons and allow her, and the class, to get their hands on them. When that didn’t work, she tried to sneak them. Now I had a smile plastered on my face just glad she wasn’t afraid to go find them.

I ducked down and pulled Jamie close. The poor girl was blubbering, she was back to being ten push-up deep convinced she couldn’t go on. I switched the safety on, opened up Jamie’s arms and shoved the rifle into them for her to use.

“Cadet Algala!” I called to her. Her face jumped up to mine. All her freckles on a background of red said was hyperventilating. “Breathe dumbass!”

Her hand found the pistol grip as she forced her lungs to pull air deep in her. The damn green shit could keep flying, we were here breathing dammit.

“Algala reporting, sir!” She barked back at me with a steeled gaze. I motioned for Hector to come close. I was making a move, the two were gonna give me cover fire in three… two… go!

Andie was holding the line and doing the whole platoon proud, but her little group was growing roots. I made it to them and looked over my shoulder to see Jamie and Hector already ducked

The girl smiles as she walks with her pap. He makes a funny joke, their feet trampling over fine grass. The road mere feet away from where they stepped.

The mum grabbed the steering wheel with her left hand, leaning back quickly to say something clearly to her son. He glares at her with stern eyes, cold and fierce at twelve years of age.

The man let go of his steering wheel as his drugs finally hit him. Head lolling to the side, seatbelt trying to support his flab. The big semi wheels turning as the wheel goes loose.

The girl screams as she sees the semi and car collide beside them. Shrapnel flinging towards them as her pap shields her carefully, throwing both of them further away from the wreck.

The boy gasps as sharp pain ruins his senses, a tang in the air telling he was bleeding. His mum lies to his left, supposedly unconscious, most likely dead. A crazed laughter comes from his esophagus, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing as blackness clouds his vision. A dull thump could be heard as he collapses onto the now bloodied paved highway.

The man flings from his seat belt, already deceased from his drugs. His body gets battered and bruised, cut and slashed, neck snapping awkwardly. His body now lays a few feet from the girl and man, folded twisted and turned in unusual directions.

The older girl who had been hidden in the man’s bedroom of his semi was flung out. Twisting in the air to skid on the ground, her eyes glassy from pain. She chuckles as she spots the corrupted scene, struggling onto her hands to lean forward wobbly. All on her mind was how glad she was that the man, who had kidnapped and planned to do nasty things with her, was now dead.

The girl and her pap now stood, her pap leaning on his daughter. Blood still slowly seeped from a few wounds, they were viewing the disaster disappointedly. They now headed over to the boy, checking his pulse, he was alive. They now headed over to the older girl, asking her if she was ok, but no response came as she fell onto her side in exhaustion.

Their car came squealing to a stop, barely feet away from the bloody and broken scene. The half crushed car lighting into large flames. She gasps, running out with her son, daughter, and husband to go help the injured people.

Others did the same, two other vehicles to be exact. Now all lay either in their graves, or in hospital beds, healing or laying asleep forever.

She is but a little princess With a circlet round her head Born into this noble station No idea what’s ahead

So she reads the hallowed stories Of the royals gone before Kings and Queens long since passed on Leaving life’s wisdom in store

She reads the tale of Noble Richard Leading troops into the war How he taxed the wealthy people To support the starving poor

Queen Violetta, smart as any Decreed that girls may go to school Who preached a love of education And would not suffer any fool

And the brave Princess Katrina Risked her life for her small town She herself fought off the scoundrels Who had sworn to burn it down

But then she reads of other stories From monarchs not so strong and true Her little heart fair swoons and falters Under the weight of what they do

A king who ruled with an iron fist And threw the destitute in jail One who slew a thousand men Who pled with him to no avail

A queen with slaves from distant lands Whom she treated worse than dirt One who threw away tax dollars On bright new corsets and skirts

The poor princess sits and wonders Is she doomed to be the same? Is cruelty and corruption Inevitable in this game?

But no, she has decided If it is her fate to reign She will use her power nobly And end this line of pain