Breathless

I wonder

What’s the difference

Truly

Between a wildfire

And a candle?

How much they burn

How ones wrath is barely containable

And the other one is stuck in a minuscule world

Bound by gravity and chained by fate

To burn endlessly

In a single spot.

I pondered

Thought

Sighed

And realized

There truly is no difference

Because the candle fire would burn a forest if

Given opportunity

And that same flame in a wildfire

Could’ve instead started on a candle.

So

Today

Atleast today

When I have the most ample opportunity

I’ll try to maybe

To tip myself over

And burn wildly

Because I am a fire

No matter where I am

A candle

A forest

Or

As I rise and

Get situated

for my next sprint

The starting line

I gaze out my bedroom window, watching the fall trees blow in the wind. They move like they’re dancing, swaying back and forth.

I remember Mom always telling me that they would dance as their leaves fell to say good bye. I like to think it’s true, even though I know it’s just a story she made up.

I watch as a orangy red leaf leaves it’s branch and glides slowly to the sidewalk. It lands in front of someone and they bend down picking it up.

As my eyes follow the leaf, I realize that the boy holding it is the boy I met a few days ago. Davian.

I catch the edges of my mouth as they try to sneak a small smile. Davian stands in the middle of the side walk as he turns the leaf over in his hands.

Without rationalizing what I’m about to do, I stand up and head down stairs. I run to the front door, throwing it open as I step over the threash hold.

The door shuts behind me as I stand on the door mat. Davian’s eyes flick to mine as he drops the red leaf.

Lifting my hand in a small wave I force a small smile. Davian waves back, his black eyes still on mine.

Ever since the day we met I’ve been thinking about him. He told me about his parents, how he lost them. And suddenly just like that I felt like I knew him.

My heart races in my chest as I skip down the porch steps and meet Davian at the side walk.

“Hey,” I say as I stop in front of him.

Davian smiles, “Maisie.” He says. “You doing okay?”

Something tells me he remembers our talk as much as I do. Maybe he’s been thinking about me every morning like I have. And not in a creepy romatic way, just you know a way.

“Better,” I reply.

Davian nods, lookig down at his blue and black sneakers. “I’m really sorry.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be, it’s not your fault.”

Davian sighs. “Yeah, right.”

Maybe this was a bad idea. I should have just let Davian pass, I can tell I’m making his sweet smile fade.

“Well,” I bring his eyes back to mine. “Thanks for the other day.”

“Like I said,” Davian’s smile reappears. “Anytime.”

Butterflies make their way to my stomach as his smile enters my mind. Why do I think it’s so perfect. . . I mean I barely know him, plus I shouldn’t even be thinking this.

I force the butterflies to leave, half smiling as a few leaves fall around us. “I love the fall,” I say. “The trees and all.”

Davian seems to relax at my subject change. “Yeah, it’s one of natures many gifts.”

I laugh as Davian’s smile grows. “I did take you for such a poetic person.”

Davian shrugs. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

For a second I’d forgotten that everything about my life is ruined. “Like what?” I ask, forcing myself not to lose my smile.

“You’ll learn,” Davian tells me. “My mom always told me to let people find you, instead of just guiding them. She said if they’re willing to keep trying then that means they care about you.”

I like that, it’s kind of the whole secret to finding the right people in life. Davian’s mom must be the person he gets his poetic side from.

“I like it,” I whisper. “The serect to life.”

Music is wafting through the window On this warm February day The once grey sky is bright aqua Maybe there’s a reason to stay

My bones are aching, but my brain awakes, a magpie shouts, his clatter and splutter. ‘Here is where we belong’, is his song, ‘We don’t take flight, we brave it out, against the weather.’

A leaf drops quietly, falling to its extinction, life played out with unfussy distinction. A web flutters, like intricate lace on the ground below, as autumn evaporates through the air, misty and long-suffering.

Everything packing up for this season, dormice and squirrels frantically storing. It feels like time is disintegrating, speeding up then slowing down, enveloping - cocooning gifts, until the joy of spring returns.

I struggle along, trying to reach my goal. All I need is to reach that house before they find me. I see them in the distance, nasty dogs sniffing out my scent.

They look up and bark. I can hear it even from here, 2 kilometres away.

I turn and run. I don’t have much energy left. Why keep going, anyway? My dearest may not have even reached it. The house is still 1 kilometre away. They are only half of one, and going faster than I. My will to keep running is drained. I may as well be dead.

I almost collapse. Just as I’m about to fall, a parrot flys by me. They are incommensurable this far north, but they can be messengers, due to their being clever mimics.

It tilts its head. “Mom,” it says in my son’s voice, “I’m at the safe house. Please come. You can’t give up. See you soon.

-love, Sammy.

PS, I miss you.”

Message delivered, it turns and flies.

I find the strength to push on. I start jogging. I twist my ankle, but I don’t stop. I take one step…two… three. One… two…three.

I keep going. Somehow I reach the house. They are only a few minutes away. I clamber onto the porch. They can’t see the safe house. I’m safe.

My son walks outside and lifts me up into a hug.

“I knew you could do it,” he whispers, his six year old self able to lift me up, “Are you ok?”

Was it ever tae be, this nation we crave?

I ha’e sought kingship o’ this land o’er barely a year, yet still the southern crown is pesterin’ me. Still Edward’s armies taunt and harry my meagre and dispirited brithers.

Can it be that, wh’tever I may try, the spectre o’ the English sword will hang fore’er o’er my head? What w’ld Wallace advise me now, after Methven? What w’ld he say, knowin’ Longshanks had made me an outlaw in mine ain hame. How I wish that brave patriot were here tae counsel my thunderin’ heid.

Yet, here I sit, a’cowerin’ in a cave, wi’ despair and failure my only freends. How can this be? Was a’ o’ this tragedy, and death, worth the price o’ the men slain in my name? How can I look at the wives and the bairns o’ these men, an’ tell them their loss was justified? When I’m hidin’ in a hole in the ground?

What dae you think, beastie?

Sh’d I tuck my tail a’tween my legs, an’ scuttle aff tae the Holy Land? P’rhaps I can regain my lost trust in God by fightin’ a’side the brave knights just now defendin’ Christendom. That w’ld surely be recompense enough for my foolish ambitions and dreams.

And yet… Scotland is my hame. It is my blood. It is my heart; beatin’ furiously in a tumultuous fight tae live free and breathe oor ain air.

Look at ye, beastie. Look at ye. Ye fall again and again and again. Never knowin’ that ye’re beaten. Always clingin’ tae that sliver o’ silk ye call hope. Are ye a fool? Are ye no’ just wastin’ ye’re life on a futile, impossible dream.

Dae ye no’ realise that I c’ld crush ye? Just like that? Wi’ my boot… naw, no’ my boot… my wee finger w’ld dae the job. Yet still ye work away, ye’re industry o’ercomin’ yer frailty. Why can’t I ha’e such resolve? Why can’t I ha’e the heart?

Why can’t I…

There’s a pencil, half hanging off the edge of the counter. It’s me—teetering on the fine line between barely sane and on the brink of giving up. Perfectly sharpened on one side, and depressingly dull on the other. It’s me—putting on a brave face so he won’t ever know the fear that lies beneath.

There’s a noise at the door, a banging sound. It’s not Nathan—he’s not home yet. He’s always late, doing sluts at trashy bars. I don’t care so much about his cheating as I do the way he treats me. Like I’m just something for him to play with when he feels like it. When I’m not all his for sex, I’m making him food, or buying him alcohol or cigarettes. It’s time I fight back.

Nonetheless, the noise scares me, and my brain (on the topic of fighting) demands I grab the pencil and wield it as one would a sword. So that’s what I do—I pick up the pencil and hold it in front of me bravely, like I know what I’m doing. My shaky hand says otherwise.

But when I hear the door unlock with the twist of a key, and a few murmured curse words, I know that it’s Nathan. I just don’t know why he’s home so early. On a normal Thursday night at 9:45, he’s flirting with a provocative 23-year-old for whom he bought more drinks than you could count on one hand.

He spots me, his wide-eyed, clutching a half-sharpened pencil like it’s a lifeline, prisoner. He slams the door and turns to make sure no one is watching before he turns to me, surprised and enraged.

“Delilah,” he says slowly, “what in hell do you think you’re doing?”

I bite my shaking lip nervously, knowing that nothing will excuse this. Brave face, brave face, brave face. “I-I’m sorry… I didn’t think you’d be home this early, and I figured it… it might be a-a kidnapper, or something… I’m sorry.”

He narrows his eyes, still staring at the pencil in my hand. “Then why are you still brandishing that towards me like you’re some kind of goddamn hero?”

That’s a good question. But I will never, ever tell him the answer. Because he’s right—I’m done being the victim. It’s my time to be the hero. “I don’t know, Nathan…” A pause. A deceitful pause. “I’m sorry.”

“What… what are you doing, Lilah?” He roars, every word a rise in volume.

I back away slowly, still holding the pencil in front of me. I grab my phone and wallet off the counter with one hand and open the back door with my foot. “I know this is a new concept to you, you shitbag excuse for a human, but I’m being the hero.”

Explosions plague his dreams each night. Bullets ricochet off of every surface. Blood seeps out of every pore.

One morning, he decided that enough was enough, he was getting out of there, even if it killed him.

He snuck out of his barracks and somehow made it safely out of camp.

He traveled down the dusty brown road, hiding after any little sound.

The sun was beating down on his sunburnt neck, urging him to turn back. But he put one foot in front of the other and kept going.

He had taken a break to eat when he spotted something behind a boulder. He pulled his gun out and crept closer to investigate.

It was a little doll, her hair and her dress burnt to a crisp, a little smile still painted on her face.

He couldn’t leave, not now. Not when there were so many children depending on him. These children were probably faring a lot worse than he was, especially the owner of this little doll.

He tied the doll into his bag and began to march back to camp, determined he would make a difference in the lives of the locals.

Fact: A mantis shrimp can strike at 23 meters per second, causing the water around it to boil. The force (which is the equivalent of being hit by a .22 caliber bullet) not only smashes their prey's shell, it also dismembers them.

Your name is DD. You go by Dede for long, but no one seems to notice. You like reading, musing, and scaring people half to death. How lucky people are to spy the end before it consumes them.

You’re tall for your age, which, by your last count is somewhere between 156 and 162. The older you get, the more numbers shrink in value. Plus, no one throws birthday parties for the technically dead.

Allow me to explain. You’re too humanoid to be called a phoenix, though, to your credit, you have indeed risen from death’s ashes. You’ve got the blackened corneas to prove it. So, you refer to yourself as a Gwisin. You kinda look like one too with your perpetually tattered clothing. Your near-translucent skin. You have visible lines of thought where veins appear in the living, so you wear black sleeves that hang from your arms like the branches of a weeping willow.

I guess you’re somewhat of a…transposed Gwisin. Light hair, dark clothes. And I guess there aren’t too many water ghosts who wear glasses. You do have one glaring similarity with these spirits, though. You have unfinished business. You have unfinished business, bad.

There was a writer way back over one-hundred-something-odd years ago who lived…er…in the southernish part of the UK (I’ve never been great with maps.) Anyway, he had a name that you hate when I bring up so I won’t… He was a fantastic poet. Wrote stanzas that could bruise even the hardest of hearts. His masterwork was a poem titled "Jawafra, Blade of Fate." Rumor had it, Emily Dickinson once admitted he had “potential.” Well, that “potential” wriggled through his ears and messed with his head. The possibility of greatness fried his will to write. He was afraid and yet expectant. Thrashed his creativity with demands. It was all too much. His confidence was black and blue… and in the midst of that madness, he created you. DD, Defines Delight. You were more than a figment of his imagination. You were his best friend.

The two of you made quite a pair. The proof lay in his manuscripts. And his manuscripts lay in his little seaside cottage. You know, the cottage that…

I remember that day. Boiling waters rose and punched through that living space. Feasted on its innards. Spat out the bones, they did. The ocean swallowed the poet’s home along with all his poetry.

And I do mean ALL his poetry. There was nothing left in him, the poor man. You begged him to try again. To put on his writing spectacles and tease out something new. You’ll never forget that look in his eyes, the day he quit writing. As his tears fell, you kneeled to catch them. They burned through you like fire.

“I am not, so I cannot,” the ex-poet whispered. Then he threw his spectacles into the sea. The force of his throw carried you with it. He drowned his dreams alongside his best friend.

You were supposed to die that night, right next to a pair of dark lens glasses. But you didn’t. And for the longest time, you didn’t know why.

I’m only a voice in your head so that’s a section of backstory that I personally don’t understand. Maybe the gods took pity on you. Maybe it was all just a bad dream.

Or maybe it was fate.

(From the Tilda Universe)

When I look in the sky I search for you. Your smile, your warmth, your eyes, really anything that could fill the hole you left in my heart. I search for meaning in a world that is meaningless. The world looks so much duller now. Full of memories we once shared. My mind feels as if it's stuck on repeat. Playing each memory back to back.

They say time heals but time only shows you what you're missing. What we could have been, and what we should have been. I wonder if you think of us. If you could dream, would you dream of us? Would stay up all night begging God to bring us together again?

Your absence brings pain to a heart no longer able to give love. Tears to the eyes of a dried-up man. It could bring an army to their knees.

Just as I was about to give up, I found a man that said he could take away my pain at a small cost. The small cost being my soul. He promised me riches galore. Wealth only that of kings have experienced. He promised to give me the world!

But, I have fooled this man into thinking he could have my soul but truth be told, God has already taken it. The day he took yours, mine followed along.