I was a fighter. I am a soldier. I will be a survivor.

The battles I fought, The war I thought was finished, The peace I had so hoped for, Gone.

No, it hadn’t disappeared. Something can’t disappear if it was never there.

Only now I realise.

But oh, How beautiful was the feeling I had when I thought, That all that time I fought had been for a reason, For a good outcome.

But oh, how tragic, The feeling I felt when I realised it wasn’t finished. Gripping at my heart, Taking it apart. Piece By Piece.

I was a fighter. I am a soldier. I will be a survivor.

But I lost the spirit, The adrenaline, The hope I held on to for so, so long. Too long.

I will not lose it again.

I was a fighter. I will fight no more.

The spirit you need to fight has a cost too high.

I am a soldier. I will march on for my people.

Even when it gets tough. But I will match for them. No longer for me. I am not one of them anymore.

I will be a survivor. I will survive.

But surviving is not living. Surviving is staying alive.

And for that hope is not needed. Which is perfect. Because too me, hope has a price to high to pay.

• Experts from the diarys of a broken soldier.

I am not a fighter. I am not a warrior. I do not charge into battle, Blades drawn. And I certainly don’t come out a hero. I am not a legend, Not a heroine of tales and myths. I do not encounter death and despair, Do not raise my sword and torch to face it. I am not powerful, Not brave or strong. I am not a fighter.

I am a survivor. I endure. Where others might gather knives and swords, I draw my shield, Prepare my armor. I do not willingly enter battle - But I will leave it. I will not bleed out on an open field, Will not take a hit and go down. Even when my body is covered in bruises, Even when my limbs ache, Even when my lungs give out And my heart takes shuddering beats, I will escape the battlefield. I would crawl if I had to, I would drag myself to safety. I am a survivor.

All things considered, Kian was unhappy. Being chosen for a once in a lifetime opportunity should make him feel good. He was, but not really. With his whole life crumbling at his feet, he has bigger issues to worry about. I mean, not really. His “bigger issues” have been weighing down on him for years. He just can’t get over the past. Part of him hoped that the job was dangerous. Part of him hoped that he wouldn’t make it out alive, but he had to give it one last chance.

There’s something inside me I can feel it travelling down My oesophagus, my throat. The idea of something From outside my body Choking me from the inside Just. I want to cough it up Cough it out. Into the toilet At 12:00 am. Night. I can feel it settle. Stomach bug. Hopefully hydrochloric acid burns it away The grease, the shame Or have it leave the way it came There's something in my body It's making me sick Yet I'm always being sick And it won't leave And I'll try to claw it out And If it travels through my blood I will let it run On the cold bathroom tiles Or into the same toilet drain There is something in me. I can bleed and I can spit And I can grind my teeth But I'll never be able to scrub my body clean I'll never be able to peel off my skin Throw it in the wash Medium low. 2 hours. Tumble dry. There's something inside me It leaves a stain on my organs Claw marks on my small intestine Seeping into the blood That reaches my heart And is breathed out my lungs Infecting the air around me Can you see it too? Can you feel it crawling under my skin? I see it when I look in the mirror I see it on every plate of food I want to be clean

i fail. i fail again, and again, again, over and over. no matter how hard i try, no matter how many times i try, it doesn’t work.

thats it, i realize, i can’t do this. i give up. _almost. _maybe, if i try one more time, it’ll work.

it doesn’t. not everything is easy, like in stories. not everything is possible.

Crash

I swear I hear that sound. I swear I feel the impact. When I fall, It breaks apart everything. And then I glue the shattered glass together, And then I paint over the scars. And then… I swear I get better! I wake up one morning, Confident, Happy, Alive. And I want to get better. Those days, Those moments… They’re wonderful. And then they slip away, Like every other good thing I’ve ever known. And then… Then… All it takes is one little thing.

Crash

Sometimes in a hospital, silence is a voice, the strangest noise. Reprogrammed with buzzers and beeping machines, noise is etched into our brains as a constant focus. I don’t think that will ever go. I will miss the silence though.

I hadn’t thought I would miss it here, I was so focused on leaving it all behind that I forgot to realise what it was I was walking away from. It was a community, a hum that I was so used to. I gave it one last try, and this time I thought it was going to work for me but I got slighted. Maybe the boss didn’t like what I was asking for. Maybe she didn’t like that I wanted my cake and to eat it too. I wish I had known what the future was, because now I have two weeks to say goodbye to a place I’ve known for so many years.

I’ve been told to “wait” before making the last decision. My time is running out and I need to let the closure begin. Do I give it one last go?

Too much screeching Relations to no cause They just keep crowding They jump with applause

No recognition Though do I deserve it Numbers show determination Though numbers are not fit

I feel empty deep down I could just be starved Maybe not, says I, the clown Crowned as jokester, elderly carved

I feel tired, take me home I suggest to sleep earlier I need to speak, but I’m alone Oh I’m such a worrier

Tired, hungry, ignored Ignored deemed quiet Shyness, I believed, was foretold We believed we were “it”

I will drop out, cut them off Maybe go party But I’m getting a cough I’ll do it, to not be tardy

My name is Pedro O’Hara and it is my job to protect.

Over the years I have adopted many names, some cool, like the Masked Warrior. Many uncool like the Crime-stopping Spandex. Though, no matter what my name was, I always did my duty.

Today is a big day, because today is the day that I retire. Even though I’m only 30 doesn’t mean I can’t retire, right? I mean there is so many more people that need help from those who live in the shadows, but I’m done with that stuff right?

Okay, okay, you convinced me, one more job.

I tune in my radio to the local police to hear what my final bust should be. “Fzzzzzzz … this is Robert on 23rd street, there seems to be a robbery happening … fzzzzzz” a robbery huh, I think that will suffice. I jog to my car in the garage (hey, can’t a guy save his energy). I get in, it’s a classic 1999’ Mercedes. I drive out, as I hit 60 on the highway connected to 23rd street I hear the faint sound of gunfire. Aw man, an armed robbery, I hate guns. I approach the jewelry store that’s being robbed in my costume of course. As one of the armed robbers takes a glance at my recognizable costume, he starts firing his smg at my head. Of course he over 100 feet away so I easily avoid his bullets as I slowly (remember I’m old), but dramatically walk toward him. Instead of thinking ‘I wonder where the other one is’ like I should have, I set all of my attention to the little 20 year old with the gun. As I finally reach him, I put my gloved hand around his neck, lift him up, he releases a light choke from my tight grip, good this kid needs to learn a lesson. “Don’t you ever do junk like this again, or else.” I put my finger from my other hand across my throat in a neck cutting manner. He nods, cries a little, then to my surprise he looks behind me, then at me, and smiles. “What’s so funny?” I ask him. Then I the unexpected feeling like from a drop in a dark roller as a loud bang is released. I let go of the kid, drop to my knees, put one hand on my chest, see my stomach is releasing blood and fast, I pass out.

I should have retired.

Over the past two months, her frustration had built to unbearable levels. It shouldn't be that difficult. All it took was a pinch. A strategic pluck, and the power could be hers.

Cara breathed in and puffed the air back out. Breathed in, sighed it out. The rest of her class sat silently on cushions around the room, eyes closed, hands dancing through the air. They looked so serene, so graceful and confident.

When she looked at her own hands, Cara didn't see serenity or grace, only utility and mundanity. These hands had chopped wood, hauled rocks, and built fences. How were they now expected to precisely pick at the strings of magic flowing through the Arcanum? These were tools of force, not precision.

Yet she had never been one to give up, either. Not to say she didn't seriously consider it, especially when others began to accept their mundanity and walk out those heavy iron doors during the first few weeks of training. The class initially contained 12 members of her tribe, all those who had turned 17 in the last year. Everyone had their chance to determine whether they were among the Chosen, the lucky few who could pull, tie, weave, and follow the threads of magic surrounding the sacred sites. If a student declared themselves Mundane, giving up and walking out before the two-month trial period was over, that was it. They were never again permitted to enter a sacred site like the Arcanum.

The first hopeful Trials had walked out after only a week, before anyone had even successfully plucked the strings. One success early in the second week prompted a wave of five Mundane declarations. Over the next six weeks, three of the remaining four Trials presented as Chosen, leaving only Cara as undetermined.

The wave of uncertainty hit her that second week, building momentum into the third week and crashing violently into her on the fourth. Some in her tribe vocally opposed the two-month time limit, since practically all Trials who presented as Chosen did so in the first four weeks. What was the point of torturing hopefuls any longer than that?

"What is the point of me torturing myself any longer?" she muttered on a loop for the entirety of the fifth week.

The sixth week was just numbness.

Seven days left. Six. Only five now. Four.

With four days left, something changed. Not something in the strings--they remained as elusive as ever. Something in Cara. She passed beyond despair and entered acceptance. She did not accept that she was Mundane or accept that her time was up. She accepted herself. She accepted her rough, work-hardened hands. She accepted her past and the unknown nature of her future.

Cara drifted. Physically, she was sitting on her pillow in the Arcanum. But internally, she swayed and flowed throughout an endless world. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, that world grew to contain strings of light. Cara's hand floated to the nearest one and gently stroked it.

With no warning, the power was there. It came with no explosion of sensory overload and no gradual buildup. It was just... there. And it was Cara's.

In the Arcanum, the proctors watched aghast as the last hopeful, the hardened worker girl, smiled and touched forefinger and thumb in front of her. The air glowed between her fingers with an unlikely brilliance.

Cara was Chosen.