Celestine Skymarleen was a very precious child and a very outgoing young lady, her clothing choices and her daily choices were always based off one thing and one thing alone: Will this create an adventure for me.

Celestine was a tall young lady standing almost 6 foot, she was as skinny as a nail when you compared her to others of her age and upbringing. Her long silver hair hung loose and shinning like diamonds as she whipped around to face her deadlies enemy star saber in hand.

"The girl finally found her house and lived happily ever after. The end." He claps and leans back like the just ended the war.

"What was that?" I snort.

Hayden gives me a disgusted look, "What, not enough princessey stuff for your liking?"

"Well," I start, fidgeting with my gloves, "Maybe if you actually tried to do something for once. Something easy like, I don't know, just telling a well structured story?"

Hayden scoffs, "How does one tell a well structured story, when life is absolute chaos?"

"By trying!" I retrot.

"Krystal, your 17, coming up on 18. I'm 20, so stop acting like you know everything." He says sourly.

"I got drafted, you work here by choice so dont act like everything is my fault!" I yell.

"When did I say this was your fault?!" He yells back.

I want to cry, but I'll look like a princesse that can't handle an argument.

"Why are you like this all the time now?" I breathed with a sigh.

"Because I’m older now." He says calmly.

"Yeah, I guess I thought things were just like they were 4 years ago." I sigh again.

He's quiet, likes he's remembering those days. Then when he speaks again, all he says is "Me, too." and reaches for my hand. I grab it and look down.

Sarah coughing reminds me that we are entertaining our group of 12 year olds that we drafted, just like me. I let go of Hayden's had.

"Whatever," I say standing up, "Sarah, go to you tent and get rest, that cough won't heal itself, Daniel and...Priscilla, you're on gaurd duty. The rest of you can stay up or go to bed, I don't care but yoh need to sleep at some point."

Daniel and Priscilla look at each other excitedly, they were always inseparable and I don't know what one of them would do without the other. Sarah growns and heads to her tent while the others stare at Hayden with eyes, begging that they can stay up and play games.

"Fine." He mumbles "But if your not quiet tomorrow you onlt get snack, dinner, and a bottle of dirty water."

"We'll be quiet, we promise Mr. Hayes." Abby, the youngest, whispers.

"Only games I'm allowing tonight are safe archery, building, campfire stories, quiet ball, and going to sleep. You have 2 hours." He says, his eyes fully on me as I walk step into my tent.

I zip the tent closed once I'm inside and sigh as the kids quietly cheer. I loved Hayden, but I knew he doesn't truly love me back anymore.

He didn't even care enough to remeber I turned 18 tomorrow.

🌻I want to make this a book i have a few ideas.🌻

So many thoughts. Email notifications. Meeting and task reminders. Unmet desires. No time for anything, when overwhelmed by everything.

I close my laptop and lay back on my bed. Close my eyes and try to clear my mind. An ambitious thought of meditating. I grab my phone, as if to open my guided meditation app, and go immediately to Instagram instead.

I scroll through the posts. The stories. The reels. Lost in swiping this way and that, to the side for some, up and down for others. Each click opening another path, a different thread in the never ending web of social media.

Suddenly I remember. I’m supposed to be clearing my mind. The synaptic trance, the catharsis of instant gratification, a million little dopamine hits - gone in an instant. Replaced by the reminder of the workload that awaits me, feeling like I’m drowning in quicksand. I can never get out of this, and soon enough I’ll feel like I can’t breathe.

I look at the time and realize I cannot take another second to quiet my mind. I’ve taken too long already. My laptop is opened again, and I swallow hard, but mentally. Somewhere in my mind, everything getting pushed back down. Stored away for a later time.

Immediately overwhelmed again by the chaos, and just as quickly trying to rid myself of this thought. I have to block it out and power through. Focus on one thing at a time. Brick by brick, the work will get done. And word by word, the story will get written.

14th of October, 1901, The English Countryside

It was a cold morning and the rain was gently beginning to fall against Jessalyn’s bedroom window. It was one of those mornings where everything was perfectly peaceful and even the birds were chirping louder and more joyfully than usual. Until it wasn’t. “Jessalyn!” Her mother yelled, banging on her door to the point where she really should have gotten splinters, “Jessalyn! For goodness sake wake up and get dressed.” Her footsteps slowly got quieter as she disappeared down the stairs until they were finally inaudible. Jessalyn hauled herself out of the safety of her bed. At least today was Monday and a few more hours of sleep were not a very heavy price to pay to spend the day at Milford. Yes. Today was going to be a good day. She quickly washed and put on one of her mother’s favourite dresses before running out the door without even saying goodbye. Her parents wouldn’t notice, she was sure. Her father was probably on his way to work at the bank and her mother was most likely too busy fixing her little sister, Sophie’s, hair. Sometimes Sophie was almost as stubborn as her. Sometimes. Eventually, after her long trek, although she really should have taken a horse, she arrived at the grand, tall, marble building that was Milford Academy. You would apply to the prestigious school at the age of eleven and should you be lucky enough to attend, you choose your pathway at fourteen. There are four pathways: The Computative Pathway, for those whose passions are maths and the sciences. The Artistic Pathway, for those who enjoy things such as music, theatre and painting. The Humanities Pathway, for those with a desire to understand subjects like geography, history and politics. and finally the Writer’s Pathway, for those with a love for creative writing, the written word and languages. It was this level of specialisation, amongst many other things, that truly made Milford unique. Jessalyn and her class had all chosen the Writer’s Pathway. No surprise there. It was all she had wanted to do since the day she learnt to read. Usually there were a few more who would have chosen the writer’s pathway but, unfortunately, the class of 1902 was a very number loving cohort with most of them choosing the Computative Pathway. “Good morning!” Jessalyn quickly spun around to see her best friend and greatest competition Eliza Lockhart standing behind her, a huge smile on her face. “What’s got you in such a sunny mood, then?” Jessalyn laughed as she led Eliza to their seats. “Nothing much,” Eliza said with a purposeful air of mystery, “It’s just that-“ Before she could finish, James Winthrop walked in with all the grace he could muster before tripping over a chair and falling onto the hard, polished floor. “Oh no… again… really? Thanks world…” James muttered as he slowly pulled himself off of the floor and into his chair. He didn’t even bother trying to fix his unruly brown hair this time, avoiding eye contact with everyone who had the misfortune of already being in the room. “James?” Jessalyn whispered, gently tapping him on the shoulder, “Are you hurt?” “Yes,” Came his immediate reply, “Only internally, though.” He smiled a weak, forced smile. He always seemed to get himself into these kinds of situations, whether it be tripping over a chair or being in the wrong place at the wrong time when all fifty two loaves of bread go missing from Mrs Laughton’s bakery. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been expelled yet. Although, it was never really his fault, he just kept his head down and tried to do the best he could. Lately, though, his grades have been declining more rapidly than usual and he’s been more unlucky in his misfortunes. He really needed to pull himself together and just pass this last year so that he could get a good, respectable job in the family business and make some money. Is that really too much to ask?

3rd of October, 1901, The English Countryside

“How does one tell a well structured story, when life is absolute chaos?” Elizabeth Lockhart sighed, her brunette curls falling into her eyes. “Stop trying to be philosophical, Eliza. It’s not working,” Jessalyn Samuels snapped as she got up and moved to the blackboard. It was well worn now, with a huge gash down the middle where a certain William Carter had decided to practice his archery. Not his brightest idea by any means, “Just accept the feedback and move on,” she finished. Eliza opened her mouth to speak but, before any sound could come out, their professor had beat her to it. “Girls, please. It’s hard enough to run this establishment on a good day, let alone when you lot are bickering like old housewives.” He said, delicately placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose. The girls were stunned into silence and Jessalyn sat back down. That was Professor Hawthorne, alright. Very direct. He had been a professor of writing at Milford Academy for twenty five years and never had he seen a more difficult to manage class. It’s the new age of thinkers he would say. At that precise moment, a warm, golden ray of light came trickling through the thin windows, almost as if it were summer’s last goodbye. It seemed as though it was this light that coaxed William into speaking. “I agree with Eliza, sir. Life is absolute chaos. So how could you possibly expect us to write a cohesive, sensical piece when such a thing does not exist in reality?” He said, standing up, his shirt creased and his mop of hair more unruly than usual. “Carter, I should know by now not to expect much better from you but for the love of god, sit down and let me teach!” The poor man truly was at his wits end and yet, William remained standing, “Do you need anything else?” Exasperation dripped from the old man’s voice. “No, sir.” He smiled his signature, lopsided smile that always seemed to suggest he was scheming something and, finally, sat down. Professor Hawthorne probably would have kicked him out of his class ages ago had it not been for the very small issue that he’s the best writer Milford’s seen in at least a century. Oh, and his father’s the headmaster. “Right. Before I go on, I expect there to be no more disturbances or interruptions or anything of the sort. Do you understand?” All ten of them silently nod. “Good. This is your final year here at Milford. You should know by now that you need to focus and listen to me. Lord knows that your future employers won’t be half as kind as I have been.” Jessalyn looked down at her hands, suddenly incredibly interested in her fingernails. Employers. It was her only dream in life. To work. Yet, it was the one thing she was destined not to do. Her parents, her mother in particular, were adamant that she was to ‘marry a rich man and produce wonderful, obedient heirs’. That was her only purpose. Milford was the only good thing she had in her life and now, it was all ending soon. In complete honesty, Jessalyn was beautiful. She had the kind of long, blonde hair and bright blue eyes that people would die for and yet, she felt it was a curse rather than a blessing because, perhaps, if she had been less beautiful, she wouldn’t have to be forced into a life she did not want. So, with all the agitation at his disposal, Professor Hawthorne continued his lesson. Yes, there were more interruptions, many more, but if you stick around a little longer you might realise that’s not such a bad thing after all.

Once their was nothing; then there was everything, but, before that, there were the storytellers.

 A shapeless voice echos from the ethereal void, “For the story, I would want there to be order. A structure beyond design, I want everything to be tightly controlled. Everything should be my plan and my image.” Swirls of the misty beyond begin to swirl. Items begin to take shape like flames in a fire.

 A nameless resonance disputes the other entity, “No, I disagree.” The nameless resonance dulls the creation started by the shapeless voice. “For the story, I desire for there to be chaos. A weirdness beyond time, I want there to be no predictions. Everything should have interest, and it should have wild twists and turns,” the resonance begins, giggling on its own idea. It ripples sparks into the void.

 The voice halts the creation. It shares, “This story needs order to be fulfilling. Chaos will only bring frustration to the people who will exist.”

 The resonance wailed, “Order will only bore the people that will exist. Chaos and randomness will bring excitement to the story.”

 The two entities argue for some time before the voice settles and speaks, “We will create no story if we continue to bicker and fight.”

 “But how will we decide who’s image to create the universe in?” pulling on the fabric of reality, the resonance puzzled becoming dissatisfied.

 The voice thinks both forever and instantly, “Maybe the story could represent both our values!” It begins to conjure reality.

 “That sounds spectacular!” The resonance laughed, giggling more and more. It begins to help the voice condense the cosmos. 

 The voice approves, “I will create time and atoms to structure the universe. You shall set them in place, randomizing their outcome.” It begins to ponder more, “There will be intricate rules that bring almost unfathomable outcomes, a true balance of our ideologies.”

The resonance adds, “great!”

The reality begins to form.

 “Lets see how this story unfolds,” the resonance saids with a smile, condescending the mass of every imaginable object.

 “I’m glad we got to create it together,” the voice denotes, sprinkling in cosmic laws.

 A bang, louder than any sound subsequent to it, thunders out in the ethereal void. A brightness pierces the veil of nothing.

The universe is created.

Life never goes as planned. It’s never perfect nor an absolute mess. It goes through every unexpected turn you throw at it. I learned at a very young age, that you can’t stay on track if you close your eyes. I’d sat at my desk writing stories about millions of situations. But, how does one tell a well structured story, when their life is absolute chaos.

How does one tell a well structured story, when life is absolute chaos?

Chaos is normality is it not? Reality is we’re all living in our own chaos. Whether that be the overflow of bills, the 9-5 job and keeping on top of house work and let’s not forget the children don’t forget them!

Chaos is realistically life, if life wasn’t though and we didn’t have those speed bumps or those surprises. Be those are not always good surprises that come along throwing us off track how would you have anything too write about?

Chaos makes the story it’s real, sometimes things do get tough and we all feel that sensation of being a crumbling fumbling mess. It’s important too remember make time for the things you love but also make time too talk about the chaos sometimes talking or writing helps make sense of it all.

Be good to yourself because your the one in the centre of the chaos, we all need to get it out talk about the CHAOS. Venting is the best kind of therapy ❤️

How does one tell a well structured story, when life is absolute chaos? How can one gather their broken fragments and call it a life? That's not what this is. This is no story. This is not a life. It is survival. Stumbling day by day desperate to follow the sun into tomorrow. Following the light as to not be engulfed by darkness. The Darkness. It's in everyone nowadays, nobody is born from the light anymore. No matter how many times one prays to the Demiurges or the Adepts, their core is still from The Darkness. There are those who don't even try hiding it. Those people are the reason my world is chaos.

Many people may wonder “how does one tell a well structured story, when life is absolute chaos?” Some base of good memories and times. Or memories from much drama. Some from drama that could be from in their life. Though some who wish so very hard of what the want to be theirs.