Writing Prompt

Today I saw a unicorn. It was trotting down the pathway that leads to the village, it’s impossibly white mane floating in the air gracefully. It’s horn shone in the sun, blinding me slightly. It flicked its tail and stopped walking, I got chills as it looked towards me, it’s onyx eyes looked into mine, no, it’s onyx eyes looked through mine. And it smiled. I swear to god it smiled at me. It smiled at me and I could feel all the colour leave my face. I blinked and it was gone. I rubbed my eyes, but nothing happened._ Here one moment, gone the next. _ I was meeting my friends for coffee and didn’t mention a thing. Trick of the light. A really, really convincing trick of the light.

I brush my teeth by the bathroom sink like always, but today something feels off. I’ve felt like this all morning but I can’t pinpoint what feels weird. So I’m going to ignore it, I’m going to pretend everything feels normal. I did not see a unicorn yesterday and today everything is normal. Yes. I spit out the toothpaste, leaning down to ensure it all goes into the sink, and when I look up at the mirror, two ghostly eyes stare into mine. I blink and then they’re gone. Like the unicorn. Here one moment, gone the next. I don’t feel comfortable. I feel as though I’m being watched, “by whom?” The question appears in my mind unbidden, it’s not retorical, the question is expecting an answer. And I don’t have one, nor do I know how to get one. I walk out to the path where I saw the unicorn, half expecting it to be right there, but there’s nothing. The only unusual thing about the path is the tall woman at the end of it. I frown, this path leads to my house, nowhere else. Unless you are coming to visit me, there is no point being down here. And I don’t recognise this woman. She’s wearing a dark purple dress with floral patterns that suits her brown skin nicely. Her black hair bobs just below her chin as she turns to face me. Her eyes, her eyes are the ones I saw in the mirror, and she smiles, exactly like the unicorn. I keep my eyes open staring at her slack jawed, and I feel my heart begin to pound and my blood rushing through my veins faster than usual. My head feels heavy, it feels so heavy. I feel my heart pounding and I think I’ve already mentioned that but I don’t care. And I can’t see straight I can’t think straight and then she’s gone. The woman disappears like everything. _Here one moment, gone the next. _ I fall to my knees and upend the meagre contents of my stomach onto the gravel beside me. But that doesn’t cut it. I shoot my hands out to keep me from falling as I vomit more and more out until I’m dry heaving, until I can’t breathe. Until I decide I can’t take it anymore. I feel sick, I feel so, so _sick. _I feel uncomfortable in my own house, I feel eyes watching me, I feel these eyes _judging _me and I can’t take it anymore. So I stand up and I run. I run into the hills. I weave through the trees protecting our little village. I run until I feel my legs about to collapse, I run until I can’t breathe. I run until I can’t see the village behind us. But it feels like no matter how far I run I can’t seem to escape. I can’t escape what’s watching me.

So I walk. I walk until I can run, and when I can’t run I walk. I walk until the sky turns black, I walk until the sky turns blue again. I am a shell, devoid of emotion, with only one programme, walk. I walk until my legs give up on me. Until my body gives up on me. I walk until I reach a valley, surrounded the by the stars. _The stars, _I think, _are our real guardian angels. _I fall down to the wet grass, and I realise how cold I am. I am so, so cold. Maybe, maybe if I can fall asleep I won’t feel so cold. Or hungry, I realise. I’m so cold and so hungry, and I’m tired. I’m so damn tired. So yes, I think a sleep will help. And then I can wake up and run from the eyes. I can wake up and maybe everything will be fine. Maybe. So I close my eyes and curl my knees to my chest. The cold cuts through me. So cold it stops feeling like cold, just a sensation, right on the edge of your consciousness. And then I don’t feel cold. I don’t feel tired or hungry. I feel nothing. And in my final moments I realise, I am nothing. Here one moment, gone the next.

Illusion Delusion Confusion Contusion Conclusion Protrusion Fusion Snoozing Losing Closing Folding

Set backs at work she rejected me but I’m fine I listen to my job worried I won’t pay the rent but I’m fine stay positive My bank won’t give me a loan to start a Bussiness but I’m fine stay focused I can survive the night cold but I survive I manifest success but success is not comming We live in a hologram universe that’s why I’m surviving against all odds

Algebra is the worst. I have a math final next period and I’m most likely (more like positively) doomed. I walk into the bland classroom and sit as the bell rings over the speakers. “Settle down, class today we have a major final for 50% of your overall grade-“ she says, then suddenly the lighting gets weird. The fluorescent lights go red and wash Mrs. Smith’s face blood red. I look to my right, panicked, but a new kid is sitting there. “Who are you?!” I shriek, falling out of my seat. “Sam! Take your seat immediately!” Mrs. Smith yells, and just like that everything is back to normal. Accept, I never sat down. “I-uh… yes ma’am,” I sputter, plopping into my seat. I run my fingers through my mousey brown hair, trying to calm down. “As I was saying, your final will cover all we have studied the semester, including-“ The lights go green this time. Mrs. Smith is replaced with a strange man with a bushy mustache. “Including product of powers, basic quadratics, and more. Any questions?” He asks. A girl to my left raises her hand, “Mr. Smith, when will we have our grades back?” “Who’s Mr. Smith?!” I yelp, falling out of my chair again. But I don’t hit the ground. I fall straight through, falling through pitch blackness save for flashes of light illuminating new scenes in similar but different classrooms. I fall past classes with male Algebra teachers, female, a dog teacher? “WHAT IS HAPPENING!” I scream, and just like that… my body freezes midair. My arms are forced across my chest and my legs are made straight. “How, how did that happen?” I whimper. I look at you, “Please, I swear I’m not crazy. Please help me!” I scoot towards you, “I’m not crazy! You saw, I felt you watching. You know I’m not crazy. But I was crazy once. They locked me in a room. White and bouncy like rubber. I’m not crazy, you can tell them!” At this point I’m screaming at you, “I’M NOT CRAZY!”

You blink and suddenly that strange girl is screaming at the white wall of her cell in the insane asylum. You cluck your teeth, joy something on your clipboard, and walk towards your next experiment.

Jackson leaned forward at his desk, frowning as his fingers intertwined into a contemplative fist. The lighting of the office illuminated his meticulously spotless mahogany desk excluding the application papers that sat before him. Jackson had scrutinized every word of Willow’s application papers beyond exhaustion. His task was as simple as signing off the approval for the new hire. “She doesn’t have the work experience– any of it,” Jackson muttered, only for his comment to be responded to by the memory of the conversation with Gunnsie the night before. The words replayed in his mind, like a song stuck on repeat. It was almost as if Gunnsie was saying it now, “She’s the top of her class,” he’d said with that irritating, paternal warmth. _“A __natural __with __animatronics __and automation. She can __learn _directly from you—think of her as your understudy.” Jackson scoffed, “Understudy?” he let the word roll in his mouth, tasting the implications of the role. To him, it was synonymous with “charity case.” Jackson took in a breath before speaking to the stale air before him, “Why should I train anyone?” He almost lost his train of thought when he gently chuckled at the absurdity of the idea, him train someone? Lest someone who Gunnsie had plucked from academia, untested, unproven, unbroken… Jackson shook his head gently, his eyes settling themselves upon Willow’s application papers once more. Something about the name Willow Alta felt wrong, it felt distant. It felt like a mask. His eyes drifted to the photograph attached to her application. Her green bow tie stood out sharply against the monochromatic tones of her white dress shirt and black vest. It wasn’t just green—it was emerald. The word hung in his thoughts, tethered to memories he couldn’t yet untangle. Emerald. Why did that color feel significant? Why did this woman’s face stir something in the recesses of his mind? He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. The velvet of its crimson upholstery brushed against his neck, its texture grounding him as he closed his hazel eyes. “_She’s a _gem _Jax,” Gunnsie had said the night before, leaning against the doorway of Jackson’s office with his usual casual confidence. “And to top it off, she’s family. My niece, no less.” Family. That word had struck a dissonant chord in Jackson’s mind. Never once in their decades of partnership had Gunnsie mentioned a sibling, let alone a niece. And yet, Gunnsie had spoken of Willow with an almost paternal pride, his deep voice laced with something Jackson couldn’t quite place. Jackson had scoffed at the time, dismissing Gunnsie’s enthusiasm as another one of his whims. Jackson had suspected that the old professor at the university was just rather fond of this student. Professor Pastor had mentioned something about “Will” being the top of their class. But now, alone with the weight of the decision, Jackson found himself poring over Willow’s file for the fifth time. "Family," Jackson muttered, his Russian accent thick with skepticism and a hint of longing mixed with faint jealousy. “You’ll see,” Gunnsie had added, his German inflection slipping subtly through his words. “She’s a diamond in the rough.” Jackson listened to the clock methodically slice every second through the air with every tick. He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in thought just counting the seconds as they passed by him. In his head, the words of his brother, his business partner, his broken compass only continued themselves.  “We can hire her for cheap. You could say that __Will __had the _way _to** grasp _everything so _quickly**.” _Guns had said that night when he came to work after teaching his final class of the evening. Will sighed as he sat up straight once more and skimmed through Willow’s application paper’s again. He could recite the whole thing by heart at this point, but maybe there was something between the lines that he had missed. “Что делает её такой перспективный?” _“Will has __always __been __fascinated __by our work, she __haunts __my __office __hours just to __ask __about our processes” _Guns chuckled, his hidden German accent slipping through his laugh and re-engraving itself into Jackson’s memory. The echo of his laugh momentarily disorienting him, the echo just as thunderous if not beyond as that of a military freight train. Jackson flipped through the papers on his desk nonchalantly, all the paperwork needed was that signature. Gunnsie could have done it himself, making it ever evident that Guns was giving Luther the option to deny the heavily recommended request to hire Willow. A hire that Guns had been suggesting insistently, borderline naggingly. Jackson restarted his flipping of the pages, that laugh that had felt so lighthearted echoing darkly in his mind. Its tone twisted into that of a deeper plot to thwart and undermine his control in the company. He pauses a moment on the photo of Willow upon her applications. Something about her felt familiar yet Jackson couldn’t seem to place what.  He stood from his desk and started pacing the front of the room, his mind chewing on the details. The smile in Willow’s photo nagged at him. It wasn’t genuine. There was something off about it, something broken. He rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of the gnawing familiarity her face brought. “Emerald,” he murmured suddenly. The word slipped out like a long-buried secret. He froze. Emerald. The name rang in his mind, sharp and clear, pulling him back to a different time. With deliberate movements–a purpose, Jackson drifted over to his desk and returned to his seat as he opened a drawer and pulled out an old file labeled 1978. Inside were photographs from Dragon Land’s early days, back when the park was new and Jackson had personally donned the costume of Cashimer. The photos spilled across the desk, their faded colors a stark contrast to the vibrant memories they held. Smiling children posed with Cashimer, their joy almost tangible. Jackson sorted through them methodically, setting aside the ones with boys and groups. He was looking for someone specific. And then he found her. The girl in the photograph couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, her fiery gaze locked onto the camera and an unmistakable grin that shone even through the faded colors of the photograph. Her wavy chestnut hair was tied back, and her smile—genuine, full of life—was nothing like the hollow expression in Willow’s application photo. Jackson’s chest tightened. “Emerald,” he whispered again, his voice almost reverent. He leaned back, the image of the child and the woman merging in his mind. Emerald had been a fixture at Dragon Land, the park’s most frequent visitor. She had always made a beeline for Cashimer. She’d been relentless, confident, and unforgettable.

And then, one day, she vanished.

“What happened to you?” he muttered, staring at the photograph as if it held answers. Emerald had disappeared without a trace in 1987, and now, years later, she was back—a resurfaced memory. He pressed the photo to his forehead, as if trying to absorb the truth it carried. His mind raced, piecing together fragments of memory and observation. Emerald had been athletic, full of energy and determination. The girl in the photos had been a force of nature, and now… Jackson sighed, flipping the lights back on. The office returned to its manufactured warmth, but the unease in his chest lingered. He gathered the photos and tucked them back into their file, placing it gently in the drawer. He glanced at the application papers one last time, the decision weighing heavily on him. Emerald—no, Willow—had haunted his memories for years. Now she was here, in his world again. With a deliberate motion, Jackson picked up his pen, _“My __niece __has always loved Cashimer, she used to observe Your __creations __and adore them. She has __helped __me __fix __the __flaws __in my own __theoretical __designs.” _Gunnsie’s voice cut through the silent air.  Jackson lifted his head, he could’ve sworn he just heard Guns, but he remained alone.  “It would be wrong of one to not admire my creations… but theory is far different from the real solid world…” Jackson commented. “_She graduates this semester with her __master’s __in mechanics. With an emphasis on __animatronics _and automation.” “Right, a useful education…” Jackson trailed sarcastically, “Of nothing but theory…” Jackson mumbled, “What else is there? Any extracurriculars? Hobbies?” Jackson gently rubbed his temples as he closed his hazel eyes. He sat for a moment or so before recalling the answer. _“She used to observe __your __creations and adore them.” _Gunnsie’s words echoed once more in Jackson’s head. “She’s always been exceptional,” Gunnsie’s words echoed smoothly. “A true gem, Jax.” “Emerald was a gem,” he murmured, recalling Gunnsie’s playful nickname for her during her visits. “Is this your game, G? Playing on my respect for the past?” He stood abruptly for the 3rd time of the night, the legs of his chair scraping against the wooden floor. Pacing the room again, he let his thoughts churn. If Guns had known of his attachment to Emerald, it wouldn’t be beyond him to use that knowledge to sway Jackson’s decision, was it?  Jackson returned to his desk, his gaze falling on the stack of documents awaiting his signature. Willow’s application lay on top, her photograph and Emerald’s staring up at him like a challenge. The questions swirled in his mind, his hands gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. He felt the weight of the past pressing down on him, mingling with the uncertainties of the present. For the first time in years, Jackson Luther was at a loss. He reached for his pen, his hand hovering over the signature line on Willow’s application. The decision felt monumental, as though he were standing at the threshold of something far greater than a simple hire. His hand shook violently and he was forced to drop the pen. He could've sworn he felt his heart stop when the ringing of the phone emitted from his desk. “Fuck” he muttered to himself, answering the insistently ringing device. “Luther here,” he replied , his Russian accent thick. “Wow, someone is in a bad mood… didn’t even throw in a ‘hello’” Gunnsie’s voice comes through the line in a lighthearted manner. Jackson couldn’t help but snap at Guns, “I’m busy, G.” “Sure, and dragons breathe ice, try again.” Guns replied sarcastically, his tone coming across as condescending to Jackson. “Some dragons do breathe ice though,” Jackson returned without missing a beat, his breath shaking and tightening. Gunnsie lets out a dramatic sigh on the line, “Of course you’d say that. Leave it to you to fact-check my metaphors while falling apart.” “H-hey!” Jackson complained, gritting his teeth as his shaking only seemed to worsen.“Я не– я не– I’m not falling apart!”  “You just argued about mythical reptiles. Case closed.” Jackson grumbled, he was irked that this is the course the call had taken, he was being treated as a child. “You didn’t call me to lecture me on Dragons. Try again.” Jackson replied rather snarkily. “You’re right, I called to ask if you’ve eaten today. Or slept, or–”  “G, Guns! I’m fine.” Jackson replied bluntly, choking on his words as he gasped for breath. He was shaking uncontrollably. “Oh yeah, totally. Snapping at me is exactly what calm people do.” Gunnsie paused for a beat, “You’ve got the tone of a man one jolt away from–” The phone clattered loudly, falling to the floor and dragging its base down with it. Jackson gripped the edge of his desk once more, squeezing his eyes shut as he took a deep breath. His chest was greatly pained as he slowly opened his eyes. He was sitting in his seat, the phone remained untouched, and he was gripping his chest with his now still hands.

Her voice trailed in the middle of her sentence, voice fading, arms outstretched postured in a wide gesture. She could tell by the heat on her cheeks, that she was riled about something but for the life of her she could not think of what she wanted her next words to be.

Suddenly the light shining in from the ceiling to floor windows were too bright, her clothes were constricting and itchy, and somewhere she heard a high pitch electric whine coming from somewhere in the room. A long oak table stretched in front of her, with several men and women in business attire looking up at me expectantly. She didn’t recognise any of them.

_What is the last thing I remember? _ __ _Think. _ __ __ The faces in front of her were open, interested.

Nothing came to her mind, no matter how much she willed it.

She breathed in deep, let her hands drift slowly to her side. The red laquer on her nails caught here eyes.

_That seems, odd. _

Looking around the room and finding nothing familiar, worry started to buld in her chest. She closed her eyes.

_Think, think, think. _

She opened her eyes again. __ __ __ The bright light and board room was gone. Scraggly and thin trees dotted the landscape between her and jagged peaks that loomed high overhead. She reveled in the familiar the weight of her heavy armor and gratefully flexed a gauntleted hand. The pungent smell of sulfure grabbed her attention as above the horizon ahead a scaly green dragon climbed high into the sky. Instinctively she reached for the swird sheathed on her back and it pulled free with familiar ease.

_This. This is where I am supposed to be. _

Lemony and warm, like microwaved lemonade, the taste flooded Anton’s mouth. Wobbling, he wrabbed the nearest postcard rack to right himself. Not again? Anton thought.

With careful steps Anton headed to the lighthouse’s deep window seat. He took a shuddering breath. His fingers were a bit swollen from his rheumtoid artritis. Flexing, Anton told himself that was why he was feeling poorly. Outside the pane, another beautiful morning on Tybee washed in. He needed to pull himself together to open his gift shop.

Annie walked into the retail space from the backroom. Stiffening at the sight of her dad, Annie willed herself not to go to him. Instead she hurried to the cashier counter and busied herself with wiping off non-existent fingerprints.

“Heard on the radio it’s going to rain in Savannah. Probably be a light day for visitors,” Annie said.

Anton sucked his teeth.

“Young people always looking to get out of work,” Anton said.

“you’re the one sitting on your hip bones,” Annie shot back.

They laughed. At fifty-five, Annie didn’t think anyone would consider her young people but it made her smile anyways. Her dad was staring out of the window at some spot over the ocean. Unease prickled up her spine. She straightened the custom name key chains.

Ever since he was a boy, Anton would get odd feelings, a taste or smell. Then he knew. Visitors were coming.

Strange lights that only he would see would appear over the ocean. Accrid burnt hair smoke filled the old man’s nostrils. Anton gasped. A blue light shot from the bottom of a cloud cleaving the ocean. His body trembled but nothing swayed in his gift shop.

Something slithy lifted from the ocean. The sound of a a B-52 bomber crashed around Anton. He closed his eyes but his knowledge of history told him what was pulled from ocean floor.

Twenty minutes from Savannah, Tybee Island was known for its 18th century working lighthouse, its picturesque beaches, and an lost atomic bomb from a plane accident never recovered. All his days something had been trying to retrieve the 7,600 pound missile mired beneath feets of sand.

Anton stood. Annie unlocked the front door for Brandy the lighthouse tour guide. Soon tourists would arrive to take photos and ask the same questions. He took up his position behind his cash register. A question came to the old man.

“Will they go after the other seven?’ Anton said quietly.

“You said something, Dad?”

“I said turn over the Open sign, baby girl. It’s not going rain today.”

I looked out the window, sure my senses had been fooled. Fear fueled my imagination, and I didn’t dare to glance at the window again. I wasn’t about to take my chances. What if it was all a dream? What if my brain made the whole thing up? I might never know, if I never look. But what if my fear and my mind are the ones making the whole thing up. That is the scary thing about delusion.

It’s not easy being incarcerated period. I’m sure you would know well, being as it isn’t your first time. Now, when you’re being asked to use the skills that got you in this place to help them take care of a mission in the fucking coldest desert, that’s hard. You’ve got one purpose now or you’re done. If you can fix this GPS system, it’s over; you’ll be free. For now you’ve got to hope that military grade vehicles won’t freeze up.

her hands once soft with comfort now carve their anger deep “my dear it’s much to late for you she’s gonna kill you when you sleep” for the stuffed animals will be the only ones that will hear your silent weeps they’ll be knocking on the door from all the cops and federal creeps your lifeless body laying there, your life remains incomplete the echoes of the silent death, the strain of heartbeat your mothers jealousy would’ve lived in your head “my dear you’d still be breathing but your soul would be dead” she would’ve poisoned you with her words instead of the kitchen cup she would’ve made yourself throw up she would’ve never been there “my dear your mother just simply never cared” she was selfish a stuck up wanna be poet that was living threw her daughter was it never enough to just be your own? fuck you mom your the one supposed to be grown jealous of not beauty but the purity of my soul damn mom all you’ve ever wanted was control choking on your power while i’m trying to stay whole i bet you didn’t know there are pieces of me where no one goes i bet you didn’t realize where i run away to that this home isn’t my home just a place where i stay that im daydreaming my life away have you realized that im not always here that my mind is wandering drifting off somewhere you never saw the cracks, the cracks that run so deep the silent screams i buried the secrets i couldn't keep you made me doubt my worth made me question what was real but i found the strength to fight even when you tried to steal and i'll rise from your shadows i'll stand in the sun because someone has to clean up the damage you’ve done