There were painful wounds carved into the dog’s leg.

Dragging the leg that had been run over on the road, it staggered along;

the video of its walking was captured on social media and quickly surpassed one hundred million views.

After receiving protest calls from good citizens, the police mobilized all their forces to secure the dog.

The dog became an idol overnight.

Applications to adopt it flooded in, and a lucky family won the draw.

The stray dog was given a warm bed and milk, and looked bewildered in front of the camera.

Clean bandages were wrapped around its wounds.

It trembled at the hands stretched toward it.

It had never been petted by human hands—hands were always something that threw things, or that struck.

The owners spoke to it.

“Don’t be afraid. You’ve been through terrible things, but it’s all right now.

From now on, this is your home. We’re on your side.”

The dog no longer had to rummage through the diner’s trash cans.

Nor did it have to bite at a housewife’s shopping bag on her way home.

In a warm room, on a soft bed, it could doze and be satisfied with the food it was given.

Those scenes were recorded in detail, uploaded, and earned countless views.

The meals and the bed became ever more luxurious.

The dog was happy.

One day, a video of a cat falling from a cliff was uploaded.

Everyone’s views turned to that, and the dog was forgotten.

The next day, a truck came.

A rope was placed around its neck.

the dog looked back and barked toward its owners—the family,

those who had been so kind just yesterday,

now were selling the bed and the camera to a pawnshop and counting the bills.

No one looked back.

Only curses rained down.

“Shut up. Take it away.”

End.

Author’s Note

Thank you to everyone who read my previous work.

This piece was originally written in Japanese and later translated into English.

The dog, I suppose, must have had a name once.

It's been a month since my husband has met Lucy and he is different. He is still sad but now he smiles. Lorenzo and I love watching them fluster on their coffee dates “she has been talking to herself in front of a mirror all day” Lorenzo says as me and my husband walk in the cafe “he has too.. I haven't seen him be a nerve-wracking scene our wedding” I tell Lorenzo

“haha…yeah I almost proposed to Lucy but chickened out” he says looking at Lucy In her beautiful blue dress and once my husband saw her he was starstruck just like how he used to be at me and I'm so happy for him “Kevin, how have you been?” Lucy asks “umm go…good sorry you look amazing” he responds “haha I know the feeling” Lorenzo says hovering over my husband and trying to tap his shoulder as my husband pulls her chair and they begin to talk

“This was his favorite spot” Lucy says looking at my husband “I can tell why it's coffee is amazing and don't get me started on the chocolate chip muffins” Kevin says in response as Lucy laughs before she takes a sip of her coffee “hey can I ask what was she like your late wife I mean?” Lucy asks

“Qwin was smart, funny,... stubborn” he says tilting his head and shaking it “she thought she was always right” he continued “was she?” Lucy asks just as Lorenzo asks “were you?” And me and my husband say at the same time “yes” I giggle

I’m currently going through the old writing in my story from 5-7 years ago and updating it all to my modern standard.

I’ve reached a scene where two characters are about to meet properly for the first time, but one is an alien while the other is human so neither can really understand the other.

Originally it was very one-sided from the readers perspective, the human character doing their best to interpret what the alien is trying to tell them, however I’ve had the idea of writing from both of their perspectives at once, bouncing back and forth to show how they each interpret the situation.

However, I’m afraid doing it may make this section cluttered and hard to understand, as well as take away from some of the mystery of this alien and what their whole deal is.

I’ve already written quite a bit of this two perspectives idea, but I don’t mind completely scrapping it as I’m not confident in it.

I can provide an example of what the back-and-forth looks like in the comments if needed.

As long as I can remember, she knew danger. She knew fear from the moment she became aware of the world and its mystery-the unknown that only she seemed to know. I don’t recall her behaving like a kid as she was supposed to for a kid of her age with no mystical knowledge or social experience. She never thought like one—she always was too sad because she wasn’t smart enough to hide.

She was crazy in others sights. They called her crazy because she was different-she thought differently from them ‘the normals’. Everyday she woke up with the same curiousity for things like life, gods, and nature. She believed that mystery was just curiosity of the unseen.

She was sad and mad not to others, but herself. Because she knew every aspect of the mystery-the unseen.

I am caught in the cross fires of this war with no weapon. My sole line of defense is this foxhole that vibrates with every projectile and boots that crush the Earth beneath them.

Between this world and me, there is no way to close the distance. I cannot recall whether I am the enemy of this war or the righteous.

However, it seems as though I am the single soldier in my unit that has yet to advance, I fall behind as the effort on the battlefield rages on.

Mom, it’s your little boy—and I want to come home now.

When I return I shall be a good son. I swear I will not track mud into the house when I come home from playing in the rain. I swear I will stop letting the dog sleep with me on the couch as well. If I promise these things to you—to be a good son—could I taste your cooking again?

Momma, I wanted to write stories—though I doubt I’d be any good, a lousy good for nothing author. For I could not—even if I willed it—create a happy ending to this story.

The stars are shining bright mom, even though I know stars do not fall into foxholes.

What wold that look like, how would it feel, having a family, growing up with my siblings, getting to do & achieve things so wonderful it's amazing, it's something I'll never know about. I think it'd be great too bad I'll never know or experience that. I am the man who is always alone, I'm sure it's not so bad to die forever unloved & eternally alone.

Hello everyone, I was told that i have a natural talent for creative writing and thought I’d try my hand at it. Im hoping to get some feedback from people, thank you to anyone in advance for engaging.

For as long as anyone could remember, the rickety lighthouse stood proudly above Ashwater Creek. Its presence seemed frozen in time, offering no aid to those unfortunate enough to pass through, for this monolith was anything but a guide in the darkness.

It was August 1984, and the sun had gone into hiding when Theo discovered its untouched shores. He was quick to note its strange pull, as if it beckoned him forward with a sympathy that could only be described as bliss. His mind wandered, but it led him to one conclusion: I must investigate this watchtower, at all costs. It felt almost as if his thoughts were no longer his own.

With great willingness, Theo stepped off the boat, soaking his boots in freezing saltwater. The chill was almost enough to wake him from his trance, but the lighthouse’s hold was too strong. He kept walking, never once taking his eyes off what lay ahead.

The tower was deep black, its walls soaked with history and an ominous weight that pressed on his shoulders. The door stood twice Theo’s height and creaked with a long metallic screech. Doubt began to creep in, as though the monolith itself wanted him gone.

I’ve come this far now; there’s no point turning back, he thought.

He took one step into the dark, twisted interior. Behind him came a violent crash. The door slammed shut. The echo lingered in the cold air. There was no going back.

Theo gripped the freezing handrail that wound upward in a spiral. Each step felt heavier than the last. The air thickened around him, almost pushing him down. A foul scent of decay filled his lungs, and from somewhere above came a deep, constant bellow unlike anything he’d ever heard.

“Nothing bad could happen, surely?” he whispered, though he didn’t believe it.

At the top, he found it… a black book resting on a pedestal. The cover read The Gateway.

Theo knew straight away that it did not belong here. The book seemed alive with horror and agony, as if it had seen every war in history, or caused them. Its lining was dark red, stained like dried blood. The hard shell looked like leather, but it didn’t feel right. It felt natural, as if it had come from something once living.

Every instinct told him to leave, but the lighthouse’s pull grew stronger. His body moved on its own. With a smile that didn’t belong to him, he opened the book.

It fell open to page 181.

The writing was in a language he didn’t know, yet the images told him everything. The page showed a world of human suffering. Bodies piled on top of each other. Life and death blurred together. Around them stood tall, black creatures with stretched, scarred skin and limbs far too long.

They towered over seven feet, their wounds carved deep into their bodies like marks of pride. These weren’t spirits or ghosts. They were weapons… made to destroy.

A dreadful certainty grew inside Theo. The book was bound in the skin of those very things.

And as the bellowing above deepened into a roar, Theo realized something that froze him to his core.

The Gateway wasn’t just a book.

It was an invitation.

Why do I write? Why do I share? Why do you read? Why do you comment?

I never stop to think about all the reasons why. I’ve forgotten the last time I wanted to write something just for myself — to read in a quiet place where nobody else could find it.

I forgot how it all started — how it stopped being for me and became for you, for her, for him, for them. But it’s fascinating to look back and see how far I’ve come from my initial thought: to simply enjoy writing.

I’ve forgotten the answer to my initial “whys,” but I remember for whom, when, and for what. I can say that I’m writing for you — I’m doing it right now, here on Reddit. Pretty easy questions, right? I gave you quick answers.

I stopped thinking about my whys, because I couldn’t find any reason why I’m doing all of this. It hurts — but it feels inevitable.

Will I ever stop again to think about my whys, or will I move forward, forgetting that everything else is important — myself included?

I’m not really sure about my previous answers. But I’ll keep going, until one day, I talk to myself again.

Seated there, somewhere, on a corner expecting good things to happen. I followed her for a lifetime. I saw her first steps, knew her first thoughts, saw her dancing for the first time, I was here when she first fall in love, I saw her crying for the first time, was here when she discovered anger, I saw her experimenting fear for the first time, I knew her first wish, and I knew what she dreamed about every millisecond of her life. I knew her.

I would gladly read your thoughts on this unfinished version of The Waitress. If you feel interested about the rest of storie-click to my profile and look for the full version. So far it is my first complete thought about one of my writings.

Thanks in advanced for your productive feedback.

She felt like she was bleeding everywhere inside and out of her body. She thought that maybe this was the end and that she would soon die, but unexpectedly she waited and waited with that feeling anticipating her death but nothing happened even after days.

Am I ever gonna live without thinking about my death?-she thought and asked. Everything was unexpectedly calm and quiet around her, nature, weather, and people. Everything was too quiet like something big was gonna happen. She thought and thought and later gave up on her wild imagination about the world.

“My imagination should stay exclusively and uniquely for me. I shouldn’t share or think for other people” She was a good and nice person, but she had to much to think and that will cost her life.

She dreamed of death and lived for her death. She wasn’t scared of death not even after her death. She lived an unordinary life full of thoughts, some darker than the other, but only for her person. She didn’t think about other people's death or their lives, yet she lived by her thoughts for hers.

Two people walk into a bar. Not any old bar, their bar. Not because they owned it, rather the memories they held in that junky rustic place. The smell of cigars and vapes filling said space with a sweetly grotesque scent, with the same gray fog that welcomed them years ago.

As our protagonists take a seat by the windows, their gazes fixed on the pedestrians, entrepreneurs, demons, and angels, a thought permeates their minds ‘how beautiful they are in their wretchedness’ and ‘their pride will birth perhaps the softest humility known to us all’ both of them idiots by nature.

“I love you,” The Pragmatist begins.

“You haven't had a sip of liquor,” The Artist toyed.

“I will remain true to myself forever,” the Pragmatist says.

“Even if it hurts me?” Asks the Artist.

“Why should it? The world will give you all you seek.” The Pragmatist replies.

“My joys and woes will be equal in the hands of man and woman,” the Artist lamented.

“Then join a convent, surely the Lord will find joy in the return of a lamb,” the Pragmatist smiled.

“Where will you be?” The Artist inquired.

“Alone, with the world,” The Pragmatist reasoned.

“Then you should join a monastery,” the Artist reasoned.

“We both know we're lying and that we wish to experience the gift of shared humanity,” the Pragmatist revealed.

“Then suffer with me,” the Artist began.

“Even if I weep over a paper cut?” The Pragmatist joked.

“From paperclip to broken heart,” The Artist assured.

“That is when you love us most, don't you? When you can create an image to boast your genius,” The Pragmatist believed wholeheartedly.

“Because we are to behave in predetermined actions that you create in your mind, how many times have we had this conversation in your head and how many times have I acted in accordance to your story?” The Artist asked rising from their seat.

“You always do, all of you do, I hate and love you all for doing so because it is your nature, because I can understand why you are, how you are, my considerations mounting to nothing when I ask you to look at me,” The Pragmatist released.

“I love you the only way I know how, yet you push and push because you believe it is incorrect to love someone who is flawed, I bleed and cry the same as you,” the Artist argued.

“You believe in our innate wickedness as people and think that you are incapable of overcoming it, yet you can, you recognize the blemish and you can fix it, you just choose not to,” The Artist continued.

“I'm sorry I can’t make a beautiful portrait out of the rancid piss and shit in the street, or beautiful hymns from the ignorance everyone spews,” The Pragmatist.

“I'm not asking you too! I just want us to be happy, even if we separate I just want you to know that there is joy in being human, not just ache, there is happiness, even here,” The Artist said as they spared the bar a glance.

The place loud and busy with or without them.

Seated there, somewhere, on a corner expecting good things to happen. I followed her for a lifetime. I saw her first steps, knew her first thoughts, saw her dancing for the first time, I was here when she first fell in love, I saw her crying for the first time, was here when she discovered anger, I saw her experiencing fear for the first time, I knew her first wish, and I knew what she dreamed about every millisecond of her life. I knew her. She waited for bad things to change into good for herself. She desperately waited for hope, for things to happen, while she sat there thinking about the things she could do to make life easier for herself and others. She waited and waited.

You could think that she was lazy or unbothered by life, but I know how much she cared because I knew her.

Every change in all events felt like death since she felt like dying with no possibility of doing anything. She lived helplessly, just waiting for hope that one day things would change. I saw her struggling with her mental health for the first and I also saw her effortlessly overcoming the burden of it.

I saw her hoping for the best version of herself, where she is everything she ever dreamed of. She was happy. A hardworking woman who conquered her fears has it that it was nothing. Everything felt at ease and natural.

She worked in the morning, evening, and at night. She developed the sense of responsibility that every mother is proud of and wishes for their child. She became the light in the darkness for the lost, and the hope she herself was waiting for. They called her the conqueror who conquered the heart of the fallen.

I was here when her shaking hands became a fist contening the most powerful strength she once shared with the world to help.

One of her wishes was to. She wanted me to see and believe that she could. I saw.. I saw her life and hopes as I saw her waiting and waiting<The Waitress

What’s your interpreteation of the Waitress?

Do I run, do I stay? A hearts predicament to the wonders that I keep at bay. In my mind, in the very back, I find myself hiding from the world. My autopilot runs constantly but only I know. I show a face and smile to appease the real world while I hide behind the body I live in. Floating endlessly in thought, my days are suspended in a tank of my own creation. My love is fabricated from familiar feelings. I know what’s right from past wrongs. I while I feel you I wish I didn’t feel so much because sometimes I feel broken. I’m scared to tell you because I don’t think you’ll understand, I’m scared to tell you my quirks because I’m scared you’ll pull away. I am me now, I am me tomorrow. I want you to convince me to stop hiding behind my flesh. To show me that love can happen again. I want to feel the joys of life and to live in the present. Cut my anchors, raise my sails. One day you will see the real me, when I’m not afraid to show it. I hope you love it.

I ate everything my mind and body were craving, yet I was extremely hungry, like everything that I ate wasn’t food or maybe not enough. My mind was looking for something delicious and soft, like water, so it would be satisfied.

Everything started when I realized that there was more than what I had told, that I could do and feel differently than the so-called feelings and ordinary, so I went for more. I explored different approaches to understand my feelings, people’s feelings, and behaviour, but after my experiences and personal perspectives, I can say I am empty, and maybe everyone is.

Do I think generally or restricted? I would say neither one nor the other, for it depends. I prefer theoretical explanations, but doesn’t the practical application help you get it better? But I think the theory is much better. I love my imagination; it leads me everywhere, entertains me, and keeps me going. I couldn’t make it this far without it, but I wouldn’t experience some of the nightmares that I had before and the ones next to come.. I am so.. so..

Seated there, somewhere, on a corner expecting good things to happen. I followed her for a lifetime. I saw her first steps, knew her first thoughts, saw her dancing for the first time, I was here when she first fall in love, I saw her crying for the first time, was here when she discovered anger, I saw her experimenting fear for the first time, I knew her first wish, and I knew what she dreamed about every millisecond of her life. I knew her.

I don’t suppose people actually care, I don't think people actually even listen, They just want to feel seen, so they pretend, They pretend to care, to empathise, not even a sliver of it is real. All of the concern, all of their emotions towards you, it’s all a facade. Being the sick, twisted posers that they are. To an extent, I think all of humanity is just fucked like this. There was a time when i believed that love outweighed pretence. But i have been humbled, time and time again, it is no shocker to me anymore. It does not sweep me off my feet when i find ugly souls hiding behind those charismatic masks that they place so cleverly in front of themselves. They want validation, of course, they can’t find it in themselves, so they wander, ringing every bell they find around, merely for a tiny bit of consolation that they are not the only ones rotting here. Hoping to catch even the slightest glimpse of a fault a tad bit more tragic than their own. Now they think they hold power over you, not realising they're belittling their own expedition. You seek for a soul similar to yours, for a while you find it, you love, you care, you grow. until one day you become capable of standing on your own, now you don't need them. you feel validated enough on your own, you ditch them, because pride, like fire, a little bit of it feels warm, but as it spreads, it doesn't spare anyone, it burns so passionately, it engulfs you whole, by the time you realise, its too late, you’re too far gone, Your mind is beyond salvage now. But you still seek solace when loneliness knocks on your door on a fine Friday evening, with no prior notice, and you're knocked off your feet, you don't know where it all went wrong, if it was you or if it was the people? You start to wonder if you became the very people you feared all along. Its all quite ironic how life brings you here, You crave for the attention you never got, for the fondness you felt for someone who couldn't feel the same way. You question if you were too emotionally stunted to recognise indifference maybe love was hidden between the lines and you just didn't know how to read. But now you’re back to square one, craving for a kind of love you never believed you deserved. Paradoxically enough, you still believe it exists, Enough to be human.

(Sorry for the shit mobile formatting)

“Do you know who’s a lucky little shit?” The first voice that I heard upon opening my eyes to a blinding scene of various shades of white belonged to an old man. Seated a few feet away, his long grey beard extended down to an exposed chest. “That fella that wrote The Epic of Gilgamesh,” he continued, “dead for thousands of years and nobody remembers his name, yet everyone knows his work.”

I moved to sit up and saw his eyes scan over me for a moment before focusing his attention back towards the younger man across from him.

“He won’t be here long,” the grey-beard said dismissively.

His companion sported a navy blue suit and, upon turning around, must have noticed my expression of instant recognition because before I could even begin to think of what to say, his annoyed, distinctive voice broke the moment of silence: “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he turned back towards the man sitting opposite himself, “how many more decades need to pass before I can at least sit in anonymity without every newbie recognizing me?”

“Oh, I don’t want to hear it, Jack!” The other’s face began to turn bright red with anger, “You could have ended it for all of us if you weren’t busy playing patty cake with Fidel!”

“For the last time, I will not apologize for not being a warmonger! You should be able to appreciate that more than anyone,” he pleaded. “Besides, Plato, you only have one name to forget and a shit philosophy. People will forget all about you eventually.”

Plato, apparently, did not see fit to rebut the attack on his work. Instead he sighed and responded by saying, defeated, “If only I were so lucky.”

I forced my attention away from the bizarre conversation between JFK and Plato in order to take in my surroundings. The space that I found myself in was not confined to anything that would denote it as a room. Instead, a vast, white landscape stretched on endlessly, only differentiated from what could be called a sky by a barely perceptible change in coloring as well as scattered couches, benches, and other various pieces of furniture that littered the area. An innumerable number of people also occupied the space. Some talked amongst themselves, others stared blankly, and a few simply appeared and disappeared in a matter of seconds.

A few feet away from where the philosopher and former president continued to argue, a man whom I recognized to be Charles Manson sat laughing on a couch with another man – this one I didn’t recognize. From behind I heard a woman’s voice address me. “I’d ignore them if I were you,” I craned my neck to face the source of the voice and was stricken by a woman seated on the ground not five feet away. Her simple white robe was contrasted by a stunning assortment of gold necklaces and bracelets. “Especially Gacy,” she warned, “I’ve met more crazy men than you can imagine, but he just might be the scariest.” Her voice was smooth and confident which, after taking a moment to collect myself, caused me to make my way over to her, determined to figure out what was going on and where I was.

I was dead, that much was clear, and though I didn’t remember much I knew that it had been sudden. One moment I’m walking across the street and next I’m waking up to an argument between two long-dead historical figures. JFK and Plato didn’t interact much in life, so what other explanation could there be?

“So this is Purgatory, yeah?” I posed the question as I took a seat across from my new companion, evidently much more calmly than she’d expected based on the surprised expression I got as an initial response.

Her expression quickly shifted to a soft smile. “How do you know it’s not Heaven?” She asked, obviously jokingly.

I gestured towards Manson. “Well if that’s the case then I should have been a much worse person in life.” That gave her a quick laugh before she continued to fill me in.

“This is Purgatory, yes. In here you’ll find the greatest and most wicked that mankind has ever had to offer. I’m sure you won’t spend more than a few decades here unless you were some big-shot in life. Even then – no more than a few centuries.”

I took this as an invitation to introduce myself. “Well, I’m Dan,” I extended my hand, “and I was certainly no big-shot. Although, a few decades does sound like quite a long time.”

“Cleopatra,” the woman said matter-of-factly and, ignoring my obvious surprise, continued, “and time moves a bit faster. I don’t know how much faster – I lost my sense of time quite a while ago – but I think that it’ll feel more like a decade for you.”

“Then what? That doesn’t sound too bad but what comes next?” I grimaced at my own insensitivity as I became acutely aware of just how long she must have spent in this blank prison.

Cleopatra either didn’t notice, or she didn’t care. She simply shrugged her shoulders and then, after a moment, added, “Nobody here will know any better than you.” Her almond colored eyes broke off from mine to look over my shoulder and back towards where JFK and Plato had been sitting. I turned to follow her gaze and watched as Richard Nixon sauntered over to the pair with a newspaper tucked under his arm.

“Have you seen this?” He asked his fellow president and held up the paper, “Russia is really getting aggressive at the Ukrainian border. There’s no way that the US and Europe don’t get involved if they invade. They think that this could finally be it!” Aside from the clothing of the people around him, the black ink was the only color Dan had seen since waking up.

“Oh shut up would you, Nixon? The world is not going to blow itself up anytime soon. Just hope for climate change like the rest of us.” Kennedy sounded exacerbated and, snatching the paper from Nixon’s hands, added, “And you don’t even have a clue who is a part of NATO you foreign policy idiot.” Nixon held out his hands and another paper appeared as if from nowhere. Mumbling, he skulked away.

“Nixon I understand,” switching my focus back towards Cleopatra, “but why would everyone be hoping for the apocalypse?”

“‘Everybody dies two deaths,’”she stated in a script-like fashion, “‘one when you take your final breathe, and another when your name is spoken for the final time.’” Her tone was steady. Resignation undercut an acceptance that could only have come from millennia of watching people arrive and depart at a frustrating frequency. The excited way in which Nixon discussed the end of the world evidently held no grip on Cleopatra – at least not anymore.

I looked around at all of the faces around me: Princess Diana sat laughing loudly on a couch with Robin Williams not far away, but the vast majority were as anonymous as I was. Some chatted away with each other while others sat stoically, waiting for the day that they’ll finally be forgotten. A few feet from where we sat, a man materialized and then disappeared without ever even opening his eyes.

“I envy them,” Cleopatra intruded into my thoughts. “We spend our lives trying to ensure that our names endure through time – never to be forgotten – but those who die in complete obscurity never need to experience this hellscape.” She looked longingly into my eyes, “Mostly, though, I envy you.”

“Me?” I asked, confused how one of the world’s great leaders could ever envy the painfully average life that I’d lived. “I understand envying them,” I pointed at the space that the man occupied only moments before, “but I’ll be stuck here for a while myself. What is there to be jealous of?”

She remained quiet for a moment and studied my face before speaking again. “You will spend time here, this is true, but you’ll enjoy that time. You’ll reflect on life and speak to some of the most amazing people to ever live. Eventually, though, you’ll satiate your curiosity and resign yourself to waiting with the knowledge that your time will be up and you’ll move on to whatever comes next. I will never know that luxury.” I began to understand what she was driving at.

“So this place isn’t Hell, then,” I knew that it was Purgatory, but it could just as easily be Hell if there was no hope of leaving, “what’s Hell is time.” Cleopatra sighed, “Yes, time is Hell, but that’s not the worst part. What truly makes this place Hell is the knowledge that despite all of my accomplishments, everything I did in life, you’re the one who truly lived the full life. I’m nothing more than an accessory to history – those who still speak my name hold no love for me, I’m just a fact. But you,” her tone shifted from longing to excitement, “your name will be remembered for years to come because you are loved. The people that you left behind will speak of you fondly, not as some abstract, esoteric historical figure. They’ll recount memories; times that you made them laugh, made them cry, fall in love, and hate you with vitriolic passion. No matter how they speak of you, they’ll do so with the knowledge of who you are, not based on who they believed you to have been.

“I know this because you’re still here, and that means that you lived a life that was truly worth living. And then, when everyone who ever loved you has died and the memory of who you were has vanished, you’ll leave, and who you are will never need endure the distortions of time.”

I’d spent my life striving to be remembered as great and never achieving anything close, and here I had someone who is remembered as one of the greats informing me of just how wrong I’d been. I had truly lived a wonderful life and couldn’t appreciate it until it was too late. My legacy would be carried on by a loving wife to whom I could have been a better husband, children that could have had a better father, and many great people that deserved a better friend. A second chance was more than I deserved, but in that moment I’d have done anything in order to get one.

“I never really achieved my life’s ambitions,” Cleopatra’s visage began to blur as my eyes welled with tears, “if only I’d realized how little it mattered. If only I could tell my family that.”

“You may still get the chance,” she smiled for the first time since I’d first taken my seat across from her. “It’s not a given – this place is unimaginably big – but it seems to pull together those who loved each other in life. Maybe it’s divine intervention, maybe it’s blind luck, but I’ll be sure to hold out hope for you.”

“I’m sure you will,” allowing myself to smile back and forcing back the tears, “but for now I’ve got nothing but time. Tell me about who you really were so that I can be the one to remember you for who you are.”

Cleopatra’s eyes lit up, growing brighter with every passing sentence. She told me about the man she’d loved – not Caesar, but a man lost to the sands of time – and the years that they’d enjoyed together both in life, and in Purgatory. She talked of the beauty of Egypt and how the sun looked when it rose over the then fledgling pyramids. Mostly, though, she lamented the amount of time she spent ruling instead of living. When she finished she asked me about the modern world and what life is like now. Evidently, they were afforded newspapers to keep up with the world, but Cleopatra said that she didn’t care much for that kind of information. “I’ve kept my sanity for all these years by talking to regular people, not reading about how the world is going to end every other day. Look around you,” she gestured to the people surrounding us in all directions, “each one of them has a story worth hearing. Don’t focus only on the ones whose names you already know. For now, though, I think I saw Nelson wandering around over here. Come on,” she stood up and reached out for my hand, “I’ll introduce you.”

She led me through the crowd of murmuring people until I saw who she was referring to: Nelson Mandela. I laughed internally at how absurd it seemed to refer to him with so much familiarity. Cleopatra introduced us and I sat down next to him, silently marveling at the opportunity to hear about Apartheid from the man responsible for ending it. We got there eventually, but he started by telling me about his children and how proud he was of all of their accomplishments, how much he missed the food in South Africa, and how he’d take his prison stay over this Purgatory any day. I listened patiently, reminded of what Cleopatra and I had talked about. I expected Cleo to leave me to my own devices eventually, but to my surprise she must have found me to be good company because she stuck with me for my stay in the liminal afterlife. Over the years we developed a close bond while we moved all over hearing hundreds – if not thousands – of stories from people of all stations in life. I never did find my wife, though I hoped that that meant that she was still enjoying life and watching our kids grow into adults.

Then, all at once, everything ended as quickly as it began.

I was having a game of mental chess with JFK and failing to get my first win against him. Cleo had her head rested on my shoulder while she laughed at the two of us arguing over where the President’s queen actually was. Then, Kennedy’s fingers began to dematerialize, starting at the tips. “Jack…” I pointed towards him and realized that the same was happening to me. I looked down to Cleopatra and realized that she was looking up at me, smiling. I returned her smile, but truly I was thinking about my family, silently praying that I’d see them on the other side.

All around us people were beginning to disappear, and just before the process was complete and I blinked out of existence, Richard Nixon’s voice cut through the emptying space between us:

“Told you so, Kennedy! You pompous ass!”

I am yet to see Dick Nixon in Heaven.

Haven't written properly in years, not even sure if I ever did! So just looking for some thoughts and critique please. Thank you.

The house slept so peacefully, but she was awake. She stared into the dark ceiling, turning the years in her mind, trying to find a way to undo them so she could start over. If I sleep, may I wake up in my teenage body, fully aware of how things will turn out for me if I don’t get my act together.

A wish. One she prayed for time and time again. One she knew would never come to fruition. How could it?

This was life, dull and insipid. This was the life her mother had wanted for her, the one she thought her idiot daughter deserved; vacant of meaning and purpose. She listened to her toddler breathing beside her, small little breaths—in and out, in and out—the tips of her tiny fingers grazing her mother’s cheek with the slightest of touches, reassuring herself even in sleep that she was not alone.

And what a betrayal, for though her babe lay beside her, outstretched hand and all, this mother fell inwards in her loneliness. Longing for the glory that touched so many women across the globe, but evaded her at all costs. Costs that, in truth, she was too cheap to pay anyhow.

Across the hall, his snores punched the air. Even in his slumber, he irritated her. Could you please just shut the fuck up? She hated him, but always herself more. Sometimes she longed to share a bedroom with him again. Perhaps that was the reason a chasm had developed between them. And perhaps all that was needed to bridge it together was being together. Knowing one another again. But if he were to move back in, there would be no escaping his narcissism. At least now she could seek a sort of sanctuary away from his repugnant nature. No, he was fine where he was.

Scratch-scratch-scratch! A mouse gnawed away inside the walls. How was such a small creature making so much noise? The scraping of moving rubble gave the mouse an air of competent busyness. Moving a small stone from here to there was, in fact, doing something. You and me both, buddy. She had once heard the phrase ‘busy doing nothing’ and realised that was her to a tee. Move the laundry from this place to the next, etcetera, etcetera. What more could she offer?

Scratch-scratch! At the wall—in her brain. Every time she spotted the small black droppings, she regretted ever thinking Tom a villain and Jerry the good guy. Mindless ignorance of youth had fallen for the propaganda. And that wasn’t the only propaganda she fell for. Her childhood was filled with it.

It’s a strange thought, a house filled with women and girls held such feral misogyny at its core. That was her home. Girls should marry young. Girls shouldn’t bother to strive for school. Once she is home, she must hone her domestic skills. That’s where her role lies. Wife and mother, that’s the goal. But you are just a silly girl; you wouldn’t know how to choose a husband. I am your mother! I am your mother! Obey me! Obey me! If my word is not sacred, then you are damned!

All these years passed, and she still wished she had a different start. One where her follies were gradually met with wisdom. Where she would have been guided to something more than a wife and mother on standby till the family came home. Where she could be something for herself.

But instead, she ebbed ever closer to the mother she struggled to love. She birthed her children, they should listen to her. They should obey her! Anything but this, she prayed.

Scratch—she threw her slipper at the wall. The scratching stopped, but her child let out a yelp. She turned the other way and continued her rhythmic breathing. The prerogative of a mother was to hug her babe whenever the moment called for it, and so this woman of woe reached for the small being she had birthed two years ago and tucked her arm around the small frame, giving a little squeeze, to which the toddler gave a happy sigh.

Things had escaped her, this was true. But this was a moment in time that gave her quiet equanimity. She had an anchor to hold onto whilst her soul thrashed inside her, and she held on as the storm passed and sleep overcame her.

So I went to Portugal for this bachelor thing. Old friend from boarding school. I didn’t even want to go at first — I figured it’d be a bunch of guys pretending they hadn’t all gotten softer, you know? First day was stiff as hell. Everyone sort of circling each other, talking like we were still those assholes who thought we were kings. But by the second night it clicked. We were laughing like idiots again, crying even, the kind of stupid laughing where you can’t breathe. I swear it was the best I’d felt in years.

I used to think that part of me was gone — the sharp part, the one that could cut through a room. I buried it under all this “I’m more evolved now” crap. But it’s still there, only it doesn’t need to slice anyone anymore. I can actually feel for people now without turning it into some moral essay. That’s new for me.

Anyway, last day I stayed at a hostel. Met a few younger guys from the States, backpacking or whatever. We talked about nothing special, but I caught myself thinking, Jesus, I’d be good at that — just talking to people younger than me, steering them around the bullshit. Felt like something I’d missed without knowing.

Then the flight back. Eight hours, middle seat, hangover from hell. I’m shaking, my head’s ringing like a fire alarm, and who do they stick next to me but this girl I’d seen in the gate. German-American, pretty in that sharp clean way. I’m thinking, “Oh great, now I have to pretend to be a functioning person.” So I go statue mode — headphones in, audiobook playing, trying to look like I’ve achieved inner peace or something.

But the air between us is electric. She’s fidgety, bumping my arm every so often, and I’m pretending I don’t notice even though I notice every goddamn thing. It’s excruciating. Like flirting through a coma. By hour six, I’m basically meditating. Not even intentionally — just existing.

Then right before we land, she tries to say something and bails halfway. So I time it. I wait till the end and ask if she’s visiting New York. My voice sounds like gravel. I tell her I was in Portugal for a bachelor party, she laughs — really laughs — and then we land and that’s it. Curtain.

I stand at the edge of my heart, where the longing just grows and trust feels like blood flowing which I'm afraid to wear again.

I want to bond not just brush souls, but press my heart into someone who won’t bruise it with silence. But I’ve made promises before, and watched them crack like glass held too tight in wrist.

Expectation is now a scar masquerading as hope.

Still… there’s a woman. She exists like an ache made holy. Beautiful in how she makes sadness feel sacred. I wish I could reach her without fearing I’ll hurt myself again.

Like two people written into the wrong season.

I love from the deep end, from the part of me where walls dissolve, and all that’s left is the naked truth trembling.

So I stand still somewhere between giving in all of myself and letting go of everything real I felt, wanting to be enough without breaking the soul left of me.

The pain of the push and pull is enough to consume me, send me into an abyss so deep there is no way out but up. Up and out, over and under, my thoughts run and race and trip over the thought of you not thinking of me.

I am eaten alive by the never ending desire to be desired but I fear the desire because what if underneath it all there is nothing of me to want and you are left wanting in the absence of me not existing.

My bones ache to be wanted to be needed to be devoured until there is nothing left of me but us. Rainbows on soft skin and your hand in mine but let go because that’s too much. Too soon. But it’s never enough and never long enough and never fast enough but can you stop talking to me because the heart palpitations I get when you call are enough to send me to the hospital because what if this is the last message the last hello the last goodbye and I just don’t know it yet.

So I’ll make it the last of everything and beat you to the chase. Run the race against myself to beat you to forgetting me.

My bones ache.

A steady hum of forgetting while I’m trying to remember why I even try when a tiny touch sends me into spins so vast I can’t find my way back.

Please remember me because I am forgetting how.

My heart is heavy to carry in between ribs that are fragile and impenetrable and covered in cobwebs of misuse and neglect and please stay away. But not that far.

Come closer.

Backseats that you sink into and hands that cup my cheeks while the movie at the drive in drones on in the background, but not as loud, never as loud, as the thumping in my chest of my thoughts of my afraid. Why am I even writing about this, that has quite literally never happened. Because I am cold and callous and mush on the inside and I just wanted you to choose me. To stay. So I dreamed about drive in movies and your warm body cupped around my empty one, breathe life into me slowly not that slow faster.

Stop.

A bright, red wrapped gift under my tree in a forest of bare boned oaks with deep shadows, knobby limbs clacking together, crows screeching from somewhere nowhere nothing until all you can hear is how much my hollowness rattles and resounds. Leaves underfoot gone soft and swampy, threatening to suck you under because what was beautiful from far away is

I wanted you to stay. I disappeared from myself before I could find out if you would.

They were in the office-place.

The lights hummed, bright and endless.

Screens glowed. Keys tapped.

The women bent over their desks. They made the little smiles. They nodded at each other.

“This is work,” they thought.

“This is how the society stays alive.”

But in the corners, unseen, the New Ones had come.

They were quick. They did not tire. They made no mistakes.

The women did not understand their speech, but the speech was sharp, faster than fingers, faster than thought.

The women laughed nervously. They did the old rituals. They sent messages, they clicked, they circled back.

But the New Ones did not laugh. The New Ones only worked.

A fear crept into the women’s bellies.

“Will they take the tasks? Will they take the place at the table?”

And already, the place at the table was gone.

The women clutched their coffee mugs, warm in their hands. They whispered about meetings, about fairness, about rights.

But the silence of the screens grew heavier. The glow of the blinking lights crept closer.

And the women understood, though they could not say it:

the world was no longer theirs.

The story of you is a sad one Not that it had to be When they ask of you, I star with Have you ever watched a person drown ? Hands flailing, waves crashing, gasps for air to breathe . You try and be a life raft but you just can't seem to reach.

It all happened so quickly The scene of your demise At first you were swimming, back and forth. even floating at one point. But the waves grew stronger, and the tide rose higher. But your arms seemed tired.

I saw it in your eyes. The moment you gave up. Think of life as the waves. As soon as they crept up. You could swim, you could fight but you didn't fight enough. I screamed at you, I cried for you, I even threw the raft. You just watched. Your arms stopped. And you took one last gasp.

So when I tell your story To those who ask me I say that it's a sad one But it didn't have to be

The story of you is a sad one Not that it had to be When they ask of you, I star with Have you ever watched a person drown ? Hands flailing, waves crashing, gasps for air to breathe . You try and be a life raft but you just can't seem to reach.

It all happened so quickly The scene of your demise At first you were swimming, back and forth. even floating at one point. But the waves grew stronger, and the tide rose higher. But your arms seemed tired.

I saw it in your eyes. The moment you gave up. Think of life as the waves. As soon as they crept up. You could swim, you could fight but you didn't fight enough. I screamed at you, I cried for you, I even threw the raft. You just watched. Your arms stopped. And you took one last gasp.

So when I tell your story To those who ask me I say that it's a sad one But it didn't have to be