Aleila shoved the rubble aside. The shattered blue doors made her heart sink. It was gone. All of it. The hurricane had destroyed nearly everything, and it was her fault. It was Aleila’s job to keep the ocean at bay, and she had failed. Percy was still following her around like a puppy who was lost. She was mad at him, and she hated that. It wasn’t his fault, she was the one who’d accepted. The Nèréds would be mad. She would lose her position, and then she would have to leave. Fate would determine what could go wrong. Destiny would determine what could go right. And truth would sit silently in the corner, knowing what would happen.

“Aleila!” Percy yelled behind her. She turned tears in her eyes. “Aleila what’s going on?” He said. She just turned, knowing she couldn’t tell him. “Please go, Percy.” She hugged herself with her arms. “Listen, I have lifeguard training in a minute. Where do you want me to meet you?” Aleila turned angrily. “I don’t-“ she stopped short when she saw his face. After a moment's silence, she said “The beach, 8:00 pm. Don’t be late if you want to know the truth.” Percy nodded determinedly. He walked over and hugged her. “You’re not alone Alei, you have people who love you. You need to talk.” He released her from the hug and kissed her on the forehead before leaving.

The air was thick with the smell of ash, a bitter tang that clung to the back of the throat and left a taste like regret. The city, or what remained of it, lay stretched before Jackal like a corpse beneath a gray shroud of smoke. Buildings leaned against one another, their steel ribs exposed, their windows gaping like blind eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a fire still crackled, a stubborn ember refusing to surrender. The sound was faint, a whisper compared to the symphony of destruction that had played here not too long ago. He stepped over a crumpled streetlamp, its bulb shattered, its post bent at a pitiful angle, as if it had tried to hold up the sky and failed. Each step was a negotiation with the debris - the bones of the city - though he wasn't sure why he bothered. No one else was left to hear his careful tread. The streets were empty of people, save for the ghosts that clung to the corners of his mind, asking questions he couldn't answer.

How did it come to this?

Jackal knew how. The memories were still fresh, raw as an open wound. He remembered the crowds, their faces bright with hope, looking to him for salvation. A speech was made, lofty yet meaningless words about change, justice, and a brighter future. And for a time, the world listened. For a time, it seemed as if the path they had chosen - cutting through compromise, dismantling the old way brick by brick - was the right one. But ideals are fragile things, easily shattered when held too tightly. It had started with small choices, the kind you justify in the moment. A bridge burned here, a line crossed there. Necessary evils, he called them, though the words tasted sour even then. Necessary for what? he wondered now, staring at the jagged skeletons of skyscrapers that scraped weakly at the gray heavens.

Jackal reached what had once been a playground. The swing set stood intact, as if mocking the rest of the ruin. Its chains swayed gently in the breeze, a sound like a child's laughter, faint and eerie. He hesitated, feeling the weight of the silence pressing against his ears, and looked down at the ground. There, half-buried in soot and rubble, was a child's shoe, bright red against the monochrome world. He knelt and picked it up, holding it as if it were made of glass.

"This wasn't what I wanted," he whispered to the empty city. His voice broke the quiet, but was quickly swallowed again.

Wasn't it, though? The question lingered in the air, unspoken but heavy. He had wanted change, yes, but had he not wanted power, too? Power to shape the world into his image, to silence dissent, to force the world to be better - by his definition of "better." Somewhere along the way, the line between idealism and hubris had blurred, and he had chosen to stop looking for it.

Jackal dropped the shoe. It landed with a soft thud, sending up a small puff of ash. He straightened and continued walking, though there was no destination in mind. The city was a labyrinth of wreckage, and he its sole navigator. He passed a burned-out bookstore, its charred pages scattered across the sidewalk like fallen leaves. One page caught his eye - a fragment of a story, its ink smeared but legible: "And so the hero fell, not from the blade of their enemy, but from the weight of their own deeds."

He tore his eyes away, the words searing into his mind like an accusation.

What had he believed he was saving back then? A society worth preserving? A people who deserved a second chance? Or was it something smaller, more selfish? The ruins offered no answers, only twisted reflections. As he continued to walk, he realized that he wasn't just regretting the decisions he had made. He was regretting the person he had become while making them.

The fire in the distance flared briefly, sending up a plume of sparks into the grayness above. It reminded him of a phoenix, but no rebirth was coming here. No ashes would give rise to wings. The city would remain as it was - a monument to his failure. And still, he walked, one foot in front of the other, because stopping would mean admitting it was truly over. He didn't know what he was searching for - redemption, forgiveness, or simply the courage to face himself. But for now, all he had was the road ahead, stretching through the ruins like a scar.

I thought I had chosen correctly. I read the right things, talked to many different people with many different views and I considered every aspect of both sides. In the end, I felt 100% comfortable with my choice. I realize now that my decision has helped facilitate this complete and total destruction of my beloved country. In all my research I never investigated the possibility that my choice would not be prepared in the event of a nuclear attack. And now I feel so deeply regretful. Would the other side have handled it better? I don’t know. For now I’ll keep walking with the hope of finding another survivor. If I do, we won’t discuss politics.

I hate it here. I should never have come home. This place is the worst and it brings out the worst in me. Seeing it in this condition, after having been away so long, it just makes me feel worse. Garbage lines the streets. The homeless are fighting each other and shouting; I keep my distance as I make my way. I half recognize the chatter of voices, and the guy I see turn a corner looks like someone I went to school with. I turn up my coat collar and walk faster. The bomb hit here two years ago. The fallout has cleared and it’s technically safe to be here. But everyone who could leave is gone, with those remaining the poorest of the poor. My parents are among that number. “Gerald!” My mother exclaims as she opens the door. I’m embraced warmly, and my father claps me on the shoulder. “We thought we’d never see you again.” I shake my head. “I know, it’s been too long. I want to get you out of here.” My mother stares into my eyes and takes my hand. I try not to see the veins lining every inch of her face, the scales of skin sloughing off. “We’re fine here, Gerald, you worry too much. Come in, sit down.” I sit in my father’s easy chair and they take the sofa. “I have a place for you now; you’ll be safer there.” “Tell us about the outside world. Is it nicer out there than it is here?” I look away. “There are nice parts, in places, a few trees. I have a source for clean water, that’s the most important thing.” My father clears his throat. “We boil all our water, Gerry, you know that. It’s fine! Perfectly safe.” “But it’s better for you to have clean water. And it’s just not safe for you two to be by yourselves here. I live in a compound with like minded people and we look after each other.” “Gerald, we can’t become a burden on you. We are dying. It doesn’t make any sense for you to take us on and try and get us somewhere. We’re going to die anyway, here or there.” “Mom!” I say, the words catching in my throat. Tears are in my eyes. “Don’t say that! Something can be done! You have to try!” She leans forward and takes my hand. “Gerald, there’s nothing to do. Let’s just enjoy your visit.”

As I stumble through the empty streets I can hear the shards of glass crack under my shoes, an almost satisfying sound to listen to, but far to loud. Shivers of fear run up my spine as up ahead of me i spot a torn down sign, the sign reads “Now Entering California.” The rusted metal has three scratch marks running across, making the words almost indistinguishable. The sign brings back so many feelings, memories that i have tried to forget about for a long time. If I remember what happened on that day, i think my will to keep surviving would be lost.

215 days earlier, day one

“Honey wake up, we’re almost their.” My mum says to me with glee in her voice. Sitting up I unrest my head from my hand. Looking out the window i see a tall green road sign that reads, “Now Entering California.” Moving cities is something i never wanted to do, but it makes my mum happy so it makes me happy. She then try’s to hold my hand, her white ruffle sleeves covering her entire palm. We then descend into the underground parking lot of our new apartment, the smell of gas and exhaust instantly hitting my nose. Our car comes to a stop and we begin unpacking our bags. “This is exiting isint it honey?” My mum says. “Yeah, I’m really happy.” As we walk up the stairs toward our aprtament i look out one of the windows overlooking the street. As I watch the cars go by blaring sirens break through the once quiet atmosphere. One after another police, ambulance, firefighter, police, ambulance, firefighter. As quickly as the parade of vehicles started it ends. I didn’t think much of it and countuined upward. The thick apartment door is slowly heaved open and the look of the apartment hits me like a brick. It overlooks a construction site, it smells like a dead rat and it has dirt on the walls. “Mum you can’t seriously think this is where we’re staying do you?” “Look honey it’s just until i get a new job and find us another place, it won’t be for long i promise.” She leans over and kisses me on the forehead. I’m not mad at her, but i can’t beilve she didn’t warn me about the living conditions, but even though i really want to just scream i know she’s trying her best. “Well I’m heading off to the shops, see you in a bit sweetie.” “By mum, love you.” “Love you more!.” Almost simultaneously to the heavy door closing a blaze of heat runs up my back as I’m suddenly thrown against the wall, almost like a giant just punched me with full fource. Blinking awake i don’t realise the blood covering my body, or the thick smoke, i just think of her. “Mum!” I weakly yell, “MUM” i push myself up, adrenaline filling my body. My whole apartment is covered in thick ash and smoke, i rush to the door and pull it open with all the strength i have left, the sight horrifies me. Nothing, just nothing, no floor no walls it looks like a knife had cut straight through the apartment. Trembling I slowly look down and see piles and piles of rubble and fire. But in amongst all of it i spot a singular white ruffle sleeve poking out and blowing in the breeze.

We had all seen him as a great leader. So yes we had all voted for him. Oh, how I regretted that decision now. Exactly 7 months later, our home was in ruins. Bombs seemed to explode every other minute and so many people had died. And in the wreckage, I was the leader. Some how, I was leading a revolution. I tend to regret my past decisions but sometimes I like to think it will affect my, our future, in better ways than ever.

Slowly, brought to ruin.

The carving of buildings, the curbing of vigor, the substraction of growth.

All leading to a broken, despairing realm of lost ambition and shattered hopes.

The riots could have changed things. The uprising could have turned the tables.

But slowly, we were brought to ruin.

Our efforts, fruitless. Our desires, neutered.

Maybe we should have never resisted. Maybe we’d still have somewhere to call home.

But now we only have this. A dismantled array of fraying sanity, lost to the void of sorrow.

This is a continuation of Chocolate Rain (the whole story was too long to post in one story), which I’m submitting for a writing competition.

Ten minutes later, he begins to feel heavy, like an anchor dragging me into a mess bound to end in a sea of tears. I drag my feet across the pavement, searching for open places to sleep. Residents are sleeping up and down the streets; some seek shelter in tents while others bury their faces in their hands, obscuring anyone from seeing the embarrassment I know is plastered on their faces. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot an empty bench directly across from where I’m standing on North Elm Street. I stifle a gasp and begin crossing the street, increasing my pace just fast enough to where I won’t draw attention to myself. I can’t believe no one’s seen it. At this time of night, North Elm is typically filled with dozens of beggars hoping to attract tips from patrons at the local nightclubs, but tonight, everything is quiet — what a blessing. I gently set the child down so he lies flat on the bench. As I do, he wakes with a startle, gasping for air and thrashing about. He stares at me with forced intensity, ruined by the fact that there is no aggression behind his gaze, only fear. He jumps from the bench. “Who are you?” he awkwardly spits as blood continues to trickle from his lower lip. He stumbles around as if drunk by the booze that hit him on the head, and I have to grab onto his wrist so that he doesn’t fall toppling over. “The better question would be: who was that man that attacked you, and why?” I tell him, settling the child back down on the bench gently. He peers at me cautiously. “I do not speak to creeps,” he retorts, and I have to stifle a laugh. I rest my head on the top corner of the bench and ignore the kid — these are problems for the morning and not tonight. “He’s my dad,” mumbles the kid, “I’m Nick, by the way.” Begrudgingly, I sit up, resisting sleep yet again for this child. In the moonlight, I realize just how young Nick is. He has big dimples that make him look like a two-week-old puppy who fits warmly in the curvature of your arms. His eyes still retain an ounce of hope, pretending to be unbothered by the fact that his very own father has done unthinkable things. “I’m very sorry, Nick,” I whisper, my voice cracking with every other word uttered. “I know how it feels to be thrown at walls by the people I used to love and what it’s like to wake each morning knowing that I will be nothing more than a failure — just like my dad said. Every day, I try to get myself to believe I’m more than that.” Nick scoots closer to me on the bench. He intertwines his tiny, trembling fingers with mine, and we sit there for a moment in silence. I don’t know the kid well, but I sure feel like I know his experiences — they’re the early versions of mine. “How long have you been on the streets?” Nick asks softly. I try and run through the numbers in my head — I used to keep track, but now, every day is the same as the last. “More nights than I would wish upon anybody,” I reply. I try not to look at his face because the innocence brings me pain. He doesn’t realize this is his life now, and I don’t have the heart to tell him. Nick talks as if someone will come looking for him, pick him up in their arms, and whisk him away from danger. They won’t. I should know. No one has come for me. “Thank you,” Nick utters, and I can’t help but stare into his big brown eyes. Tears begin to well up in his sockets, and his pupils enlarge at a rapid pace. I place a hand on Nick’s shoulder and pull him into a tight embrace. I can feel a puddle growing on my chest where the residue of his sobs collects. “He’s not coming back,” he croaks. All I can do is hold on tighter — how I wish someone would’ve done that all those years ago. That dreary night, the streets held me tighter than my dad ever did. I refuse for Nick to endure the same fate. I run my fingers through his hair, cautiously extracting stray debris and covering dried blood with other hair follicles. He doesn’t deserve this. Who does? Nick recoils slightly and stares up at me. He’s so young. I feel tears of my own escape from my eyes; they trudge down my cheeks, and when they fall off the tip of my chin, they join the puddle on my heart. I hardly ever cry, but for him, I don’t mind at all. Maybe life will be better with Nick around — seeing that he chooses to stay. I think about the fun we’ll have hopping the streets and spending entire days basking in the sun. I haven’t felt this excitement since starting my life on the streets, and it’s refreshing. Nevertheless, we can’t sleep. I’ve already counted all of the windows in each building and read all the advertisements plastered on the walls. I’ve run out of things to count. So, I try to count my blessings. I’ve never really understood why people find it so appealing because nothing seems memorable enough to be a blessing — until I met Nick. Currently, Nick lies with his head buried in my arms. He wakes every few minutes, rising with a jolt, choking on his tears and gasping for air. As time passes, my mind can’t stop thinking about my dad. Every time I picture him, I can vividly see his hands — massive and heavily calloused. Never once did his hands feel warm, and I felt them on my skin often. They were always cold, like his love for me. Eventually, things became too much, and I bolted — unlike my mother, who continued to soldier on. “Excuse me?” a quiet voice says. My eyes open sharply, and I turn toward Nick; however, he isn’t the one speaking. I direct my attention upward and stare into the kind-looking eyes of a man dressed in a two-piece designer suit. “Marshall Fields,” he introduces himself, reaching out his hand; I shake it confusedly, “I run a local shelter just a few blocks down and saw you two and wondered if I could do anything to help. We have room at the shelter for new residents and are willing to take you in free of charge.” he finishes with a smile. I feel my jaw drop and stare at Mr. Fields with my mouth agape as drool forms at the corners. “Is that a yes?” Mr. Fields asks. I nod excitedly and shake Nick gently. He jerks up sharply, looking at me with worried eyes. I offer a reassuring smile, guide him off the bench, and pick him up on my back. The walk to the shelter passes by quickly, and I hardly register the streets we pass by because I’m so excited. I know I should question the man — but I’m suddenly in a trusting mood. Mr. Fields stops walking in front of a three-story brick building. It leans awkwardly between two apartment complexes as if someone forgot to make room for the structure and had to compress and stretch it at opposite ends. Nevertheless, it looks cozy. I set Nick down, and we follow Mr. Fields inside. He disappears into a storage closet and brings back a few blankets and pillows. He hands them to me and grabs a flashlight from the front desk. I grab Nick’s hand and follow Mr. Fields down a set of curving hallways. There’s a buzz in the air from dimly lit lights, and the air smells of rotten milk. We stop walking once we reach the end of the hallway. Rats scurry about the entrance of the room. Mr. Fields opens the door, and I get my first look inside. It’s beautiful. The contents contain two twin beds, which sit across from each other, along with a mini kerosene lamp, a toilet, and a sink. I shake Mr. Field’s hand once more, and he lets us settle in. I hand Nick the thicker of the two blankets and toss him a pillow before I tuck him in. He falls asleep in about 5 minutes — I find his quiet breathing quite comforting. I sit down on my bed and begin removing my tattered shoes. I can’t help but glance at Nick. Tonight has been one big miracle, and it doesn’t feel real. I can’t believe I began today the same as any other: wishing things would be different. They are. I reposition my body so that I’m lying on my back. There’s a small leak in the ceiling, and drops of water fall on my forehead — I don’t mind. I’m safe, and Nick’s safe, and that’s what matters. Normally, on nights when the wind is screaming, I squeeze my eyes tight and grit my teeth. Tonight, there is no wind — only the drops from the ceiling and the comforting sounds of Nick’s breathing. Normally, on nights when I yearn for the impossible, my brain gets all hazy, and I feel so stupid for dreaming. Tonight, I don’t need to dream, for it doesn’t take the sky raining chocolate for a miracle to occur. Glancing at Nick, I can see now that he is my chocolate rain — pure and strong. I pull my blanket up to my chin so its warmth covers the freckles underneath my bottom lip, and I allow my eyes to close, for tomorrow is another day.

This is PART ONE of a short story I’m submitting for a writing competition. FYI this doesn’t fully follow the prompt but it was my inspiration for the story! Part 2 is out now… Enjoy!

On dark, dreary nights like these, I pull my blanket up to my chin so its warmth covers the freckles underneath my bottom lip. When the winds are mysterious, and I find the noises from the city become too overwhelming, I tuck my cardboard sign behind my back and stare into my cup, waiting for my luck to change. I am a wishful thinker, often yearning for the impossible: sleeping under a roof, feeling someone care about me, and even watching the sky rain chocolate — as if things so silly could actually happen. I don’t have much; you could say I’m not one for things. I have only what I can carry: a flashlight, my cup, the blanket, my sign, and a shredded backpack I use as a pillow. It's comfortable — sometimes. I “live” on South Elm Street right smack dab in the center. It’s one of the best spots on the whole street, fully shaded and directly outside the local drugstore. I’m lucky. I reposition my backpack so it presses against my spine and forces me into a sitting position. I can feel the edges of the brick wall through the thin fabric of my pack. The cool edges align with my scars in a perfect checkerboard pattern. My back has seen this wall more times than I can count, while my eyes usually only see a drunken glare and a foot on my chest. My back is always blessed with pain, but I know that if my mother were here, she would tell me to continue soldiering on, so I try. My face feels older than yesterday. My frown lines are more defined, and the red around my eyes is more pronounced. My ears buzz with the murmurs the drugstore sign produces. I focus on the buzzing, letting myself sink deeper into the wall. Today is one of those nights where everything is peaceful — or so I thought. I hear footsteps gaining pace on the left corner of the street and begin to listen more closely — if they’re in danger, so am I. I listen to the wretched thud as something makes contact with the person’s skull; there’s a dull clang as a beer bottle comes crashing to the ground along with the person’s body. I leap from my spot, grab my pack, and jog down the street toward the danger. The yellow liquid sloshes across the sidewalk, mixing with the blood of the figure that lies beneath my feet; it’s a cruel and vivid piece of artwork. I hover above the figure with no sight of their attacker. I press two fingers to their neck — there’s a pulse. I scoop the figure into my lap, ignoring the blood that begins to stain my clothing. I brush the figure’s hair out of their face, and I’m surprised to see a child’s face staring back at me. He looks no more than eight years old, but the scars that protrude upon his body beg to differ. His eyes blink once, twice, three times before closing them. His lips are pressed in a flat line, and splotchy blood paints his cheeks a deep crimson. Carefully, I reposition the child in my arms. He doesn’t stir, but he hasn’t stopped breathing — yet. I begin to stand up, maneuvering through the puddle of booze and blood, which begins to resemble a never-ending stream as it drifts further down the pavement. I follow the stream back to my spot, but I’m surprised to find a woman sitting smack dab in the middle of the street — in my spot — right outside the drug store. She’s an older woman with no more than twelve teeth in her mouth and has distinct facial features that seem unmovable. Her eyes peer at me, and her toothy grin taunts me. “You seem to be in my spot,” I croak. Unbothered by me, the woman shakes her hand in response. “Finders,” she pauses to cough, “keepers.” Her laugh is cruel, and her grimy hands hold up what used to be mine tauntingly: my blanket, the flashlight, and even my sign. I hate her. I’m tempted to snatch the cigarettes adjacent to her left foot — not to smoke, but to inconvenience the thief. It’s not like I could if I wanted to, considering I’ve got a child in my arms. I stare down at him, staring into his agape mouth; he has all his teeth — I can’t say the same. Drool begins to form at his mouth; his chin is in perfect condition — I can’t say the same because my chin is severed in seven different places. I back away from the woman, accepting defeat, and begin to search for a new place.

The walk was painful, metal chains cutting into her wrists. But that wasn’t the only reason. The town they walked through was completely destroyed; buildings demolished, glass windows shattered, paint chipping, debris littering the dirt streets. The only sound that echoed through the unnatural silence of the town was the scuffing of shoes and the squelch of blood as the prisoners walked through the sweltering heat. But the smell was worse; the worse thing she had ever smelled. The smell of thousands of rotting corpses. Her chest constricted, heart seeming too slow as her stomach dropped. She scanned each of the dead faces as they passed. Some too far gone to even recognize. But some she did. The baker that lived across the street, the shop owner that had always given them the best deals on meat. But worst came as she walked by a body trampled on and pushed to the side of the road, her own. This was her villiage but in this timeline she had stayed to fight.