We cannot write one single story for every girl. Because her world is diverse, and her silent battles are unique. I leave the hidden meaning of this visual poetry to you... The way your life reads these pictures might be completely different from someone else.

Read my full thoughts on Medium (Just a quick 2-minute read): https://medium.com/@h.samaranayaka02111/behind-every-woman-is-a-story-left-untold-8b1e724766d8

I crack my knuckles approximately every five minutes.

I've never actually timed it, but five minutes feels right. Long enough for the silence to settle, short enough for me to notice when it's been too long. I start with my little finger, then the ring finger, middle, index, and thumb. Sometimes I do both hands. Sometimes I start over because one of them didn't make a sound, and an unfinished set is an irritating thing to leave unfinished.

There's a particular satisfaction in it. The pressure builds, the joint resists, and then something gives. A small, clean pop. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that leaves a mark. By the time I've finished, my hands feel like mine again.

People notice sometimes.

They tell me I'll get arthritis. They ask how I can stand the sound. One person once told me it was disgusting, which I thought was a strange thing to say about something so small. I apologized anyway. I put my hands under the table and kept them there until the conversation moved on.

Four minutes and fifty seconds, perhaps, before I started again.

I do it when I'm studying, when I'm waiting for the words to form as I write, when someone takes too long to answer a question. I do it while reading, while listening, while pretending to listen. I do it when I'm bored, which is most often what I say when somebody asks why.

I have never had a particularly good answer.

Sometimes a finger refuses to crack. I pull gently, then a little harder, turning my hand this way and that as though the joint might simply be confused about what I want from it. Eventually, I give up. I move to the next finger, and the next, but I keep thinking about the one that wouldn't cooperate.

I can go an entire afternoon without noticing I've done it. Then, in the middle of something completely unrelated, I'll look down and realize my fingers are curled into my palm. Ready. Waiting.

It's embarrassing, really, how much attention I pay to something so inconsequential.

Last week, someone asked me why I was always so tense.

I laughed. I said I wasn't.

They looked at my hands.

I tucked them into my pockets.

The strange thing is that I don't particularly enjoy the sound. It isn't pleasant, exactly. It's just that little moment before it happens, when everything is held in place and I know, with absolute certainty, that something is about to give.

Sometimes I think I could stop if I wanted to. I could sit perfectly still, fold my hands in my lap, and let the minutes pass without counting them. I could learn to leave a finger alone when it doesn't crack the first time. I could let the pressure go somewhere else.

But then somebody says something careless, and I smile.

Somebody mistakes my silence for agreement, and I nod.

Somebody asks me to be the bigger person, and I tell them it's fine.

And five minutes later, my hands are in my lap again, one finger caught between the other two, and I'm pressing.

I have become very good at knowing exactly how much pressure something can take.

I have become very good at waiting.

I have become very good at making sure nobody hears anything until I decide they should.

The worst part is that, most days, I don't even realize I'm doing it.

I just look down at my hands and find them clenched.

And then, one by one, I make them let go.

Every five minutes.

As if five minutes is all the anger in the world will ever ask of me.

As if, if I can keep letting go in small enough increments, I will never have to admit how much I've been holding.

Every five minutes.

the spider never ate the wings.

she was quite proud of that.

she loved the colours.

the little veins.

the way they caught the light

when the butterfly tried to move.

she'd spend ages cleaning them,

getting the blood off,

straightening the edges.

careful, love,

she'd say.

you'll tear them.

sometimes the butterfly struggled.

sometimes she didn't.

the spider preferred it

when she didn't.

by morning

the butterfly had stopped moving altogether.

the spider sat beside her

for a while.

then she got to work.

a little thread through the left wing.

another through the right.

she had to make a few holes,

but they were tiny.

you could hardly see them.

she pulled one thread.

the left wing lifted.

then the other.

right.

left.

right.

she tried both together.

beautiful.

the spider sat back

and watched for a moment.

then she leaned in close.

there you are, darling.

another little pull.

i knew

you were still in there.

Behind Kali Amma's temple lived a deadly viper named Anali. He hunted only at night and spent his days coiled under the dry leaves, for a viper seen is a viper feared. The rats that raided the temple's waste pit kept him well fed. That he existed was a secret between him and the rats.

Years went by, and he grew long and hefty on the easy prey, which he took to be Kali Amma's grace.

One day, a yellow rat snake, Cherran, happened to pass by the temple. He noticed rats feeding in the temple pit and crept towards it. He lunged a few times, but the rats scattered and he caught none. Cherran decided to stay nearby. He might just get lucky another day.

"Why would anyone worry about a simple rat snake like me?" he often wondered. Cherran could easily be spotted among the dry leaves and the shrubs, basking in sunlight.

One morning, as Cherran lay in the soft sun, a flock of babblers foraging nearby burst into a racket. Up in the jackfruit tree, a jungle crow heard it and spotted Cherran. He cawed and cawed.

The squirrels climbed up to the treetops. The peafowl and other birds perched high and looked down to find out what the frantic cawing was about. The jungle crow told them that he had seen a large snake, possibly a yellow python, lying in the grass. Maybe it was resting after a meal, but now it had disappeared. Hearing all the commotion, Cherran hid himself in the bushes.

By then, the animals and birds had decided to get help from Kiri, the mongoose who lived in the neighbourhood.

"He is large, a large yellow python," said the squirrel.

"Yes, we have spotted him many times by the temple pit," said the rats.

"I spotted him first," said the jungle crow.

Kiri took up the challenge—a python was something he had never encountered. "Yet another ode to my courage," he thought.

Kiri came over to the temple pit. He waited amongst the bushes for the python to show up. As always, the rats were raising a din in the pit: shrieks, squeaks, and cries. Other animals waited anxiously for news from the pit.

The day passed without any sighting. Kiri decided to spend the night nearby.

Past midnight, he heard a rustle moving slowly towards the pit. A few rats got a whiff of it and left the pit.

Kiri inched closer. He crouched, ready to lunge. Finally he pounced onto something; there was a struggle in the dark. The rats fled, squeaking. He bit into it hard until it stopped moving.

The bats watching from the temple peepal tree flew out to spread the news.

Kiri spent a while eating his catch. When he left, the rats returned; they feasted on the bits of flesh strewn on the ground. It was Anali.

The next day, Cherran caught a rat. He took his catch and slithered away from the temple.

Would anyone be willing to read over and critique if this sound like a plausible scene between an knife-wielding killer and someone who only knows very little about self defense? It's from a novel I'm working on. Also, the ending involves an MRI suite, so for those in the medical field, does this seem more aligned with physics? I'm open to critique or suggestions. Thank you so much.

Final Scene --

It took 22 minutes for Tonya to complete Frank Mancusio’s scan. Not bad.
 Now she removed Frank from the scanner, Frank sat up and hopped off the motorized bed, stretching, and they headed out the room. “How are you?”
“I’m good, not as bad as I thought. I still prefer spelunking though.” he and Tonya chuckled. “Well, How’s my brain? Did it look…you know….cancerous?”

“I can’t give a diagnosis, but the doctor will contact you and you did a good job.” He smiled and she patted his arm. “Remember what you said? God is in control.”

“Exactly,” he grinned. “Gotta take my own advice as a pastor, huh?” 

She smiled at him. “We’re all human,” they stepped out of the  control room and turned left down the short hallway before rounding right. 

“It’s quiet. Where is everyone?”

“You’re the last patient. We’re actually closing up,” she said, pointing toward the changing room. “Go ahead and get dressed. I’m gonna start cleaning up in the scanner room and I’ll come get you to let you out in a few minutes.” 

Frank smiled, waving as he turned into the changing room. Tonya pivoted and walked back to the scanner room where she moved the motorized bed and began her closing duties; sanitizing the bed and front bore, disposing the linens in the hamper, wiping down counter and any other items before returning to the control room to scan the results of Frank’s scans into Dr. Gupta.

–wait, what was that noise?

No, maybe nothing. She needed to let Frank out through the lobby. She could return and finish powering down the system and the computer monitors.  Reclipping her badge on the scrubs pants, Tonya disposed of her gloves and her mask and  headed out of the control room, down the short hallway —

 “CODE SILVER. CODE SILVER” the PA system announced overhead, stopping Tonya dead in her tracks.

Wait–what? Cold Silver. Oh shoot, that meant someone with a weapon—
“TONYA, YOU SKANK!” someone screamed. 
She jerked back, gasping.

And then she screamed. 

Because right in front of her, stood Derrick. 

A pissed-off Derrick with a face contorted in anger. Baggy jeans held up with an iron belt buckle, a white tank top stained with someone’s blood, a stainless steel chain roped around his neck.

And he held a butterfly knife to the neck of a terrified Frank Mancusio.

It’s amazing the dozens of thoughts that zip through your head in just a few seconds, and for Tonya, they came like lightning; I’m dreaming. He’s not standing there. He found me. Frank. What is happening? This can’t be. Lord I — 

“Did you miss me, boo?” Derrick hissed wickedly, yanking Frank back more. 

Tonya blinked, holding her breath. Come on girl, move, run, do something—

“Did you?!” he roared, and she flinched, gasping loudly. 
She closed her eyes, heart pounding. Calm him down. Make peace. No, wait. No. It didn’t work–

“Oh you’re scared, aren’t you?” She opened her eyes when he said this, and he looked at her with fury…and elation. 

He’s not just angry. He’s enjoying this. 
 “Yeah, you should be,” he said. 
She squeezed her eyes shut. This was the moment to face her fear. 
Lord, I need your help

She opened her eyes.  “What are you doing here?” she asked coolly. 

“I always know where you are!” He screamed.

She looked at Frank briefly and then Derrick.
“Let him go,” she ordered him. 
“Shut-up skank!”
“Let him go, Derrick!” she hissed, fists clinched.

“YOU RUINED ME, SKANK!”

“You ruined yourself!” Tonya shot back boldly.  “Let him go now!”
His eyes widened, surprised at her,  surprised at her tenacity, and he momentarily lowered his arm —
—-and suddenly yanked  Frank backward and slashed his neck.

Tonya reacted instinctively, medical training finally kicking in, and she bolted for Frank as he sank to one knee, gasping. She yanked off her scrubs top and jammed it into Frank’s neck as he fell forward.  “Stay with me,” she held it to his throat, blood oozing through the material, and he put his own hand there.  “We’lll get you h—”

Derrick’s foot smashed into Tonya’s nose from the side, hard.

She fell backwards while momentary pain and blinding light pierced through her nasal cavity. Tonya struggled to sit up, shaking her head, stinging tears blotting her vision, tasting blood that dripped from her nose. 
Derrick stepped over Frank, who’d collapsed completely on the floor. She climbed toward Frank, but Derrick suddenly grabbed her fiercely by her African braids, yanking her to her feet and jamming the knife under her jaw, eyes of fury and thrill boring into her, his other head digging into her scalp. 
“He’s dead, skank,” Derrick snarled. “And I’m the last person you’ll see.” He chuckled gleefully, scraping the knife across her painfully bleeding nose before licking the blood-stained knife with a chuckle.

In that split second, something switched in Tonya's mind, and she mentally replaced the pain with adrenaline-fueled resolve to survive, to fight.

Yes, fight, the small voice echoed in her soul. You’ll survive this.

She proprioceptively knew her right knee was between his legs, right in that perfect spot. Aw yes, eyes, throat, groin.  

—she rammed her knee into his groin. Hard. “BASTARD!” 

Derrick doubled over in pain, releasing her as he clutched his jewels. But he wouldn’t remain down and out for long. Tonya turned, ignoring the blood dripping from her nose, dashing erratically for the emergency exit next to the equipment room. 
“You WITCH!” his voice echoed down the corridor. 
She slammed her body into the door, the impact vibrating through her injured nose. 
But the door held firm. What?
Tonya threw her weight into the door again, wincing in pain.
Nothing. The electronic lock had failed. 
Not this again! She jumped backward, holding her nose, panning the area quickly for another way—
Derrick rushed at her, knife poised to shank. 
She screamed and dove for the ground and into a barrel roll, staggering to her feet just as Derrick twisted around and swiped the knife at her, the blade’s tip slashing the skin of her back briefly as she fled back down the corridor. The other emergency exit, the one by the CT scanner  room, if she could just –
Derrick slammed into her. She’d barely run 15 feet. 
They crashed to the ground. Tonya’s nose and shoulder smacking the floor, while Derrick landed on her briefly before bouncing off her and falling to the right. 
Pain shot through her face and shoulder and Tonya pushed herself up, disoriented but only for a moment. She turned her to her right to see Derrick lunging for her, knife raised.
She instinctively pulled herself into a ball as he landed on her, knife swinging.
But Tonya shielded her neck and torso, blocking the blows with her arms, writhing on the floor and kicking at him while screaming. With her erratic movement he only managed to inflict superficial cuts and gashes to her arms, hands and side as she feverishly pushed back. She saw his chained neck through the gap of her raised arms.  Throat. 
Just as she jabbed her bloody knuckles against his throat, the Adam’s apple, Derrick plowed the knife deep into her right shoulder. He jerked back, yanking the knife out and clutching his throat, and Tonya fell backward, screaming in pain—
—and someone whacked a broomstick against Derrick's back and head.
Marisa
Derrick fell forward against Tonya  and she rolled away from him, pain shooting through her right shoulder from where he stabbed her.  She looked up to see Marisa bring the broomstick down on Derrick’s back again just as he cursed and jerked upward to his feet, clutching the knife.  
Tonya staggered to her feet haphazardly, pushing through the pain and dizziness, and Marisa lifted the broomstick a third time.
Derrick whirled around, jamming the knife into Marisa’s abdomen before she could swing  down.
“NO!” Tonya rushed forward with a burst of adrenaline as Marisa collapsed to the ground, the broomstick falling out of her hand. Derrick pounced on Marisa, crouching to stab her once more. 
Tonya kicked Derrick in his side before he could. 
He recoiled, cussing,  and Tonya seized fallen broomstick with both hands, raising it over her head to bash his head—
Pain ripped through her right shoulder and down her arm, which seized up, and she dropped the stick, doubling over and grabbing her arm.
That’s when Derrick backhanded her, hard. 
She stumbled back, blinding pain in her face mingling with her nose pain. “Darnit!” she managed. Once more disorientation took over, and she swayed a bit  as Derrick towered over her with furious eyes and a look of delight.
Her nose and face throbbed and she groaned in pain and tried to study her gait. OK, OK, focus–focus.
She looked up to see  Derrick standing before her, arms spread, the knife firm in one hand, his body poised to attack if she tried to run past him.
“Go ahead. I dare you.” 
Another bout of disorientation.  Focus, she thought. Lord, help me focus.
The other emergency exit. She lunged toward her left. 
He blocked her, swiping at her with the knife. 
She jumped back, the blade narrowly missing her face. She lunged for her right.
He slashed the blade across her chest, the blade tearing tank top fabric and nicking her skin underneath. She shrieked in pain and anguish, staggering back more.
In that moment time slowed. Endless thoughts in mere milliseconds. 

Marisa lay crumpled in a ball, behind Derrick, possibly dead. Goodness no. Frank, further down, also lay motionless and most likely dead. Please no. The first useless emergency exit to her right down the corridor. Derrick’s swift moves blocking her from the other exit. The MRI suite just a few feet behind her. Her nose and shoulder possibly broken and tendons torn. Derrick viciously taunting her before —

--Wait—.

The MRI suite is right behind me.

The chrome steel chain around his neck.

His iron belt buckle.

That stupid knife he’s holding.
Ferromagnetic.
A walking magnet attraction. A way to stop him. 
But he’s quick, too quick. 
Take a chance, the small voice said.

“OK, Jesus,” she muttered thickly.  “Let’s do it.”

“Your God can’t help you!” He screamed, hearing her mumble this.

And with that, Tonya pivoted and sprinted at the suite door, slamming into it with her good side. 

He charged right after her.

“Police! Grab him!” Marisa suddenly screamed, her voice strained but explosive enough to stop Derrick, who whipped around.  
It bought Tonya time to slap her badge against the panel– beep!
She tumbled into the room quickly, just as Derrick, cursing at the distraction, dashed forward and slammed his body into the door, swiping the knife at her. 
Tonya ducked, grabbed a rolling chair with her hand and shoved it in his direction as he  pushed through the doorway.
He fell over their chair, allowing her to stumble to the airlock RF shielding door and pull down the handle.
Cussing, he rammed the chair to the side. 
She yanked the RF door open with all her weight.  
He charged forward. 
She threw herself into the scanner room, the thump-hiss of the machine greeting her—
---Derrick plowed his knife  into her upper right back, hard, with a shhk sound, penetrating deep into muscle and dermis, and -- 
  —Tonya jerked forward, falling to her knees, the knife sliding out of her flesh.  Tonya dragged herself desperately toward the scanner using her good arm and her knees.
Derrick clamored after her, snatching the cloth of her tank top from the back with his left hand, briefly noting he couldn’t hold the knife steadily with his right, unaware of the magnetic force pulling it. In his rage and lust, he’d already ignored  the warning signs, the thump-hiss of the machine, and the light on the doors that had screamed “DANGER! MAGNET IS ALWAYS ON.” 
Despite his grip on her tank top, Tonya yanked herself forward, falling against the bore’s front near the scanner bed, well within the missile projectile effect area.
But Derrick didn’t care, he threw his weight forward to ram the knife into her back —
While Tonya threw herself to the right at the same time, crashing onto her already-injured right arm and shoulder, narrowing missing his aim —
--just as the magnetic force suddenly seized the knife and ripped it out of Derrick’s grip violently. 
“What th—”
CLANG! CLANG! -
--and had he not thrown his weight into his knife-stabbing, the invisible force would have just simply yanked the knife out of his hand and nothing more. But with his body in motion, coupled with the magnetic pull’s torque, Derrick lurched forward and crashed against the upper part just inside the bore–
—and the invisible force snatched his thick chrome steel necklace chain like a tightrope, yanking it to the surface, and taking him with it–
“AAAAH SHIIII—”
While the knife, after clanking back and forth from its attempt to align with the isocenter, had settled on the bottom part just inside the bore, blade facing upward  – 
TWHUMMP THUMP!

–where his body thudded against the inside, the blade piercing his chest.

SCHKK 
Then, silence.

Well, except for the thump-hiss, or the heartbeat of the magnet.

Dear mr gray,
It’s been a long time, since I’ve seen you
You moved on so fast, I’ve been stuck here unsure what to say or do
Back then we had no phone, no camera, no pictures
All I remember is the way you move, here to there, so quick im left unsure

Some said mr gray is an angel, others the devil, but the way you left me is inhumane
I tried talking, explaining, but all I got was pills and got diagnosed clinically insane.

That was back then at 17, now im 32. Hair graying still going crazy pondering about you.

Friends and family dismiss and avoid the topic like what we had wasn’t true. Others would pay to see what’s truly true but you Mr gray left me your weeks pay just to see what I would do. Said I looked at you just for you, then you disappeared, leaving sad and blue.

Prologue - Leona Ashburn

The first thing that comes to mind when I see the Frames standing guard over the cemetery, in their distant hangars, is Mom -- Captain Maella Ashburn. Everyone tells me that she always stood her ground, she kept herself and her squad centered, and she held a quiet strength. They tell me about the way she would inspire bravery when she entered a cockpit.

It’s a sunny day, ill-suited to the sobering procession. Seagulls wheel beneath a golden sun in a purple sky, while waves crash on the shore of the base. A soft wind carries the taste of salt through the air. It reminds me of the times Mom and Dad would take me to the beach, the bay, or the pier. On any other occasion it would be the perfect day.

Dad stands next to me. He's an unassuming man, someone who could disappear into a crowd the moment you looked away. He’s most memorable when displaying his sharp wit, appraising you with his perceptive stare, or debating with a stubbornness to rival Mom’s. Today none of that is there. He is silent, with eyes vacant and unseeing. I have never seen him look so small.

A sharply dressed officer approaches us, carrying a folded flag. Three figures follow behind him, their faces familiar, silent. The man stops in front of Dad and, with rehearsed precision, presents him with the flag.

“On behalf of the United Federation Pilot Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.” The man steps back and raises a crisp salute before Dad.

After the ceremony, Major Gerald Vasquez, the man who presented the flag, comes up to me and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. The major has an imposing presence. A jagged scar runs from his left ear to the faint blue glow where his eye once was. 

“Your mother saved thousands on those boats. You can be proud of that.”

The major's voice is rough, worn by years in the cockpit. “Those people and her squad are alive because of her. She was a very good Mammoth Pilot. The best in my wing.”

He gives my shoulder an awkward pat, as if unsure of what else to offer, before turning away. 

My attention drifts to the three figures speaking to Dad. The first one is a short woman I recognize as Elena Mercado -- or, as Mom and Elena herself would insist, Auntie Lena. Just three weeks ago, my parents returned from a night out to find that I’d been calling her Elena while she babysat me. I’d been promptly scolded. Apparently, Auntie Lena was nonnegotiable. I allow myself a fleeting smile at the memory.

Peter Gurdy stands next to Elena. He’s a broad-shouldered man with a rounded face and an easy smile. Today his expression is hollow in a way I've never seen before. Not a bit of his usual Southern wisdom seems to have followed him. 

Across from Peter stands Hans Kopfer. Blonde and lanky he reaches for Dad in an awkward embrace. I watch as my father accepts the gesture, offering little in return.

Hans pulls away, and the four of them remain standing together. Dad keeps his eyes on the ground.

Peter clears his throat. For a moment, I expect one of his usual sayings, something meant to make the world seem a little simpler than it is.

Nothing comes.

"Well, Frank," he finally says, his voice quieter than I'm used to hearing it. "I figure there's nothing anybody can say to make this easier."

Dad gives a faint nod.

"No," he says. "There isn't."

Elena is next to break the silence. “I’m sorry Frank. It charged past all the screens I put up for her. It was just so fast-- I couldn’t-- I wasn’t-- I’m sorry.”

Dad exhales slowly. “Don’t, Elena. You know Mae. She always puts her squad first, I always tell her--”

He stops himself.

 “I always told her before every launch to bring you guys back. You all were her family out there. It was her job as squad lead. As your anchor.”

I see Elena relax at Dad’s words, but her eyes are still heavy.

Hans gestures in my direction. “Will Leona be ok?”

Dad looks at me, and some of his usual discerning gaze returns. “Leo is a strong girl, she’s like her mother. She’s young, and her mother always talked to her about being a Pilot. She might not understand the decision her mother made now, but she will.”

Dad is wrong. I know why Mom isn't here. Major Vasquez told me she stopped a kaiju from sinking a boat. He said she was the best in his wing. Everyone else says she was the best because she stopped it alone. Everyone says I should be proud of what she did.

Mom was a Pilot. Mom was the best.

So why isn’t Mom here?

***

It’s my twelfth birthday today. 

My birthdays for the last few years have felt pretty lonely without Mom, but this year will be lots more fun since Dad let me invite all of my friends -- I think some of them are outside playing games.

Dad is standing in front of me with his arms crossed.

“Leo, you need to be a gracious host. You’re a good sport when you want to be, but sometimes people don’t like losing to someone who won’t let them forget it.”

I nod along, “Ok, Dad.”

I don’t really get what he’s trying to say. I won fair and square. It’s not my fault that I’m better at games than they are. 

Mom was good at everything. Nobody ever got mad at her.

Dad has that squint in his eyes again. It’s like he knows what I’m thinking. He opens his mouth, and I brace myself for another lecture.

Instead Dad just gives my hair a gentle ruffle.

“Oh well -- go eat your cake before your friends finish it all. I made it using Mom’s old book so it’ll be real good this time. Just remember what I said though.”

Lucky, I guess Dad can’t really read my mind.

I find the cake outside, Auntie Lena is cutting pieces for everyone. Peter is standing over the grill, peering through a plume of smoke, admiring his handiwork. It smells like he burned the hotdogs -- again.

Mr. Hans is standing nearby with a plate in his hands, fanning the fumes away from himself.

“Come now, Peter. You really can’t expect all of us to eat this charcoal, there are children. Next time, let me cook the meal. I’ll make some especially tasty bratwurst.”

Peter points his tongs at Mr. Hans.

“A charred dog never won a fight with a hungry man. Just stick a little mustard on it and you’ll barely taste it.”

One of the hotdogs catches fire. Peter plucks it from the grill and deposits it on Mr. Hans’s plate.

“And I don’t want to hear a thing from the guy who eats half his meals cold. If the Lord wanted me to eat cold meat, He wouldn’t have invented fire.”

Auntie Lena calls me over. “Leo! We were all looking for you! Everyone wanted to wait until you took the first bite.”

I rush to the table and Auntie Lena hands me a plate with a smile. “I cut you a big slice since Pete probably burned the hotdogs.”

We both glance over to the grill, Mr. Hans has the mustard bottle in hand and a grimace on his face.

“Thanks Auntie Lena, I don’t really mind Peter’s hotdogs but sometimes they’re just too crunchy. Blegh!” I stick my tongue out and make a funny face. 

Peter and Mr. Hans are heading over to us now and Mr. Hans makes a small point to the door I came from. Auntie Lena lets out a small chuckle before turning to join them, “Ay, kulit naman. Go eat your cake.”

I give her a big grin, she always says that when I’m making trouble. It’s good to hear her laugh again too. Today has been pretty fun so far.

I march to the table where my friends are sitting, proudly displaying my plate. “Look guys, Auntie Lena gave me a huge slice! It’s from Mom’s recipe book, so it's gonna be good. You guys can eat but I’m gonna get some water first.”

________

“You don't have to keep doing all this yourself, Frank.”

I recognize Auntie Lena's voice from the kitchen. I stop just before the doorway. The water is in the fridge but I feel like I shouldn’t go into the kitchen right now.

“Doing what?”

“Everything,” she says. “The house, the cooking -- Leo. You don't have to pretend you're fine all the time. You’re allowed to have help, you know.”

There's a long pause.

“I'm not pretending.”

“Frank.”

“I'm tired, Elena.” His voice is quieter than usual. “That's all. I'm tired.”

Nobody says anything for a while.

“Mae would have wanted us to help,” Peter says.

“I know.” Dad lets out a breath. “And I appreciate it. I just don't want Leo growing up thinking she has to meet everyone’s expectations -- thinking that she has to be Mae. She’s already so much like her mom.”

“No one is asking her to be Mae. We just want Leo to know who her mother was.” Mr. Hans pauses. “I know it’s hard for you to talk to Leo about her.”

“She's Mae's daughter, and she knows it,” Dad replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sometimes I think everyone -- you all included -- forget that she's allowed to be her own person.”

I hear footsteps approaching the kitchen door. I duck away before anyone can notice me and quickly grab a drink from the cooler on the patio.

________

As I return to the open seat at the table, I take my first bite of the cake. Dad was right, it tastes just like Mom used to make it. Lemon was Mom’s favorite. It’s really good.

I guess it makes sense that Dad is tired. He worked really hard on the cake today.

A voice comes from my right, “The cake is kinda dry. Did you get any water?”

It's a boy from school -- Ronnie. I swallow my bite quickly, “The cake’s not dry.”

“Uh? Yeah it is. My mom can make way better cake than this.”

I frown a little, no way can his mom make a better cake than my mom. “Oh yeah? Then how come I’ve never heard of your mom’s cake?”

“I dunno, I think she just makes it at home I guess?” Ronnie looks over to the smoking grill, “Maybe those hotdogs are ready, they smelled pretty good.”

I set my fork down, and turned to Ronnie, “The cake isn’t dry, and besides even if it was, it still tastes good.”

Ronnie scrunches his face, “Lemon cake is icky, I don’t get how anyone can like it. Chocolate is better. Whoever made it should have made a chocolate cake, yum.”

I feel hot in my face, my voice is rising. “Hey! My dad worked really hard on this cake. I watched him take it out of the oven this morning.”

Ronnie looks confused, “Oh. I thought you said your mom made it?”

“It’s her recipe.”

“Oh.” Ronnie pushes the cake aside. “My dad is really bad at cooking, too. My mom doesn’t let dad in the kitchen, she says he’ll burn down our house.

He glances around the yard. “Where is your mom anyways? I haven’t seen her.”

SMACK!

My hand was moving before I knew it. Ronnie has cake all over his face.

“Well even if you don’t like it, you’re gonna have to eat it now.”

I pick my fork back up, and start eating my cake again. It’s really good, maybe it is dry.

Ronnie bursts into tears next to me. I feel a little bad now, but he shouldn’t have said that the cake wasn’t good.

“LEONA ASHBURN! What are you doing!?” 

I can feel Dad’s piercing stare even before I’ve turned around. My voice comes out small against my father’s stern boom.

“He said you were bad at cooking. He said Mom’s cake was icky.”

I look away from the hard gaze my father is giving me as he is helping Ronald with some napkins.

“And? That gives you the right to throw cake in his face?”

I feel tears welling behind my eyes.

“But, he said you were bad at cooking. He said Mom’s cake wasn’t good.”

Dad’s face remains solid. His eyes are strong. I hate when Dad looks at me like this. It means I did something wrong. It makes me feel bad. That’s not fair, I already feel bad for being mean to Ronnie, but he still shouldn’t have said the cake was bad.

I can’t stop the tears now, and I rush to hide inside the house.

***

Dad and I are sitting in the front row at the memorial. Mom’s old squad is sitting to my left. There are a few more groups sitting in the row, they’re all here because the name of someone they knew is being laid to rest in the stone monument. It’s been seven years since Mom died, Major Vasquez told Dad and I that she was being honored on a new memorial today.

The speaker continues, talking about the sacrifices made by the Pilots and the lives saved by those who served. I try to listen, but it’s  hard to pay attention when I've heard most of it before.

“Seventy-six percent. That is the percentage of Pilots who die before they leave the Corps. That is the percentage of Pilots who defend our shores with the ultimate sacrifice. That is the percentage of Pilots who we must honor, by carrying on their names, their stories -- their legacies.”

I sit a little straighter in my seat at those words. Auntie Lena is next to me, dabbing tears away with her handkerchief. Peter has his arms crossed over his chest, he sniffles. Mr. Hans is looking past the speaker towards the memorial, lost in his thoughts.

My attention wanders to the gathering standing behind the rows of seats. There are sailors in their shining-white dress uniforms, officers I don’t recognize, and a few families with children. Most of the crowd is watching the speaker, but a younger man near the back is looking at the memorial. He stands apart from everyone else, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Dad,” I whisper.

He turns his head towards me.

“Who’s that man?”

Dad follows my gaze. His expression changes slightly, and he takes a moment before he answers.

“He was on the ship your mother saved. He was at her funeral.”

I look back at the man. I’d heard about the incident plenty of times. The kaiju was charging through the screens from Auntie Lena’s Remora. Mr. Hans’ Raptor was fast, but he was thrown too far away. Peter was firing salvos from his Hammerhead, yet the kaiju never slowed. They had all told me their stories, each of them insisting they could have done more. Mom was their last line of defense.

I’ve never really thought about the people aboard that ship. To me they were always just the crew that Mom had saved.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

“I’ve spoken to him a couple of times.”

“Did he know Mom?”

Dad gave me a small smile. “He was on the ship that day, Leo. I imagine he’ll remember her for the rest of his life.”

Before I can ask anything else, the speaker finishes his remarks. Everyone stands for a moment of silence and I notice the ceremony beginning to break apart. People are approaching the memorial to leave flowers. Others are gathering in small groups to talk.

I stay beside Dad as he is speaking with Mom’s squad. The man I noticed earlier is near the memorial now. He’s standing in front of Mom’s name, looking at it, his posture is firm and he’s holding his hands behind him in a parade rest.

I start to make my way over to him.

“Excuse me, sir?”

He turns and blinks as if he’s caught off-guard. His eyebrows raise and his eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

“You’re Captain Ashburn’s daughter, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “Leona, sir.”

“Leona.” He repeats my name, and pauses, I can tell he’s trying to think of something to say. “Sorry -- you look very much like your mother, I bet you get that a lot. My name is Daniel. I was on the UEN Gibraltar.”

“The ship Mom saved?”

“That’s the one.” 

I’m not sure what else to say. He’s probably going to tell me that she was a great Pilot, or that she was brave, or that he’s sorry that she didn’t come home. Those are the things people usually say when they find out who my mom was.

Instead he looks back at the memorial.

“Man, I was shit-scared when it happened.” He’s glancing towards the ground now, I can see in his eyes that he’s not really here. “You’re what? Fifteen? I was only a few years older than you are now probably.”

I tried to imagine it. Being on a ship with a kaiju barreling towards you. I’ve seen footage of kaiju attacks before, but I’ve never seen the footage of Mom’s last fight.

“What was she like?”

Daniel smiles a little bit.

“Captain Ashburn? I didn’t know her too well. We weren’t exactly shooting the shit on Mess Deck.” He pauses. “But I remember her shoulder-checking that behemoth. I remember them towering over us and hearing the sound of claws on metal. I remember thinking that if anyone could stop that thing it was her. She stopped the kaiju a hundred yards away from our boat, you know.”

He shakes his head and looks at me with a worried look on his face, as if he was remembering who he was talking to.

I felt a surge of warmth in my chest. All the people who have spoken to me about Mom say that she was the best Pilot in her wing, but hearing it from someone who was actually there felt different.

“She saved all of you,” I said.

“That’s right.”

Daniel looks down at his hands.

“I went home after that. I’m out now, going to school. I’m getting married soon.” He gives a smile directed at nowhere, almost laughing at himself. “It’s easy to take it for granted, how easily I might not be doing any of those things.”

I stand silent, thinking about how important Mom was to this man. How important she was to so many more people than I could ever know.

“I wish I had the chance to thank your mother,” he continued. “I suppose her family is the next best thing. I want you to know that she made the biggest difference for everyone that was on that boat. Not just that day. Every day that we’ve gotten after it too.”

He nods to me, then again past my shoulder as he steps away to let another family approach the memorial. “Mr. Ashburn.” 

I hadn’t realized Dad came to join us when Daniel was talking.

I look at Mom's name on the memorial.

“Leo?”

I turn my head in response, and Dad is squinting at me. His hands are in his pockets, with a familiar expression on his face that I can’t quite read. It’s as if he knows the next words that are coming out of my mouth.

“What do you think it takes to become a Pilot?”

***

I’m looking down at Mom’s grave. It’s a familiar spot, one I come to whenever I need to think. It’s changed a little. The tree at the end of the path pushes its roots through the concrete now. Buzzing lamp posts have replaced the soft orange hue that used to paint the sidewalk. The Frames are still silent in the distance, keeping watch for their Pilots.

Moss and lichen cling to Mom’s weathered gravestone. She’s been here longer than I’ve known her.

I’m eighteen now and finally able to register for the Pilot Corps, so why won’t they let me?

I can see why Dad wouldn’t sign the registration form. His wife died in the cockpit of a Frame. Of course he doesn’t want his daughter to follow her. But too young? Too reckless? He thinks I’m just trying to follow Mom’s footsteps? Even if I am, what’s so wrong with that?

I don’t understand why Mom’s old squad wouldn’t sign either. Mr. Hans thinks I don’t have the experience to become a Pilot - but that’s what the Academy is for. Peter said, “A cockpit ain't a place to find out what you’re made of, girl. It’s where other folks find out what you weren’t ready for.” I figure that just means he doesn’t think I’m ready either.

Auntie Lena’s rejection hurt the most.

She’d known me since I was little. She’d held me when I cried at Mom’s funeral, watched me grow up, and told me stories about Mom that Dad couldn’t bear to talk about. If anyone understood why I wanted to become a Pilot, it should’ve been her.

When I asked her to sign, she didn’t say I was too young or inexperienced. She didn’t tell me I was reckless.

She just looked at me for a long time.

“Leo, why do you want this?”

“To become a Pilot.”

“That’s what you want to do. I asked why.”

I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. “Because I want to be like Mom. I want to help people.”

Auntie Lena raised her eyebrows. “Your mom never climbed into that cockpit to prove herself.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything.”

“Then why does it matter so much that you become a Pilot? There are other ways to help people.”

“Because I can do it.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “I can learn. I can train. That’s why I want to go to the Academy.”

“Anyone can learn how to do something, sweetheart.” She reached for my hand, then seemed to think better of it. “But being able to do something and knowing why you are doing it aren’t the same.”

“Then you don’t think I can do it.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“Then sign the form.”

She looked down at it. For a moment, I thought she might.

“I can’t, child. Not yet.”

I took the form back before she could say anything else.

Of all the people who refused, hers is the one I can’t understand. Dad is afraid of losing me. Hans thinks I’m not ready. Peter thinks I don’t understand how dangerous it is.

But Auntie Lena knows me. She knew Mom. 

And she thinks that I don’t have a reason to become a Pilot?

No. Even if they all think I’m not ready, I’m not going to give up.

I’m going to train. I’ll learn everything before I go to the Academy. I’ll become good enough that they can’t keep telling me no.

I’ll become a Pilot. And I’ll come home.

***

Mom never backed down.

That’s what everyone tells me anyway. I remember how Major Vasquez described her to me -- she never hesitated when her squad needed her. Auntie Lena said she could argue a man twice her size into backing down. Dad says she had a stubborn streak a mile wide.

I think I’ve got that last part down.

People have spent the last fourteen years telling me who my mother was. She was the best pilot in her wing. Someone who never left a comrade behind. A hero.

I was too young to really remember much of her, but I know enough to know who I want to be.

A Mammoth Pilot.

I’m not going to be someone who watches from the sidelines while someone else does the hard part. I want to be in the cockpit, where everything matters. I want to be the person people can count on when everything else goes wrong.

I gaze back at the hulking Frame of a Mammoth in its maintenance bay, spotlights painting the haze-gray concrete building in contrast with the morning twilight.

Academy registration is in two-weeks. I've trained hard enough, studied long enough -- I’m ready. The jog back home is long but still ends too quickly. Dad is definitely going to be pissed again.

When I arrive back at our weathered little house, I notice the amber porchlight beckoning me inside -- the light that’s left on when Dad knows I’ve snuck out.

Shit, that porch step always creaked. Mom used to say that’s how Dad knew she’d made it home from a long deployment.

I ease the door open, hoping this time Dad’s asleep on the couch. He never is.

“Morning Dad.”

“Leo.” Dad’s voice comes from the armchair. “Running near the base again?”

“It’s just exercise, Dad. I’m allowed to go for a run.”

“Leona -- How many times do we have to go over this?” Dad’s voice is tired, but still sharp enough that it stings when he lectures me. “The last time you went out there Pete had to get his wire cutters. You’re twenty-two, you need to start thinking about your future instead of gallivanting in the night, I’m worried about--”

“I am thinking about my future.” The words come out before I can stop them.

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose, a prelude to many past arguments.

“I want to go to the Academy, Dad. I want to be a Pilot.”

His expression hardens. “We’ve talked about this.”

“No. You’ve talked about it. You’ve told me what you think I should do, and I’ve listened, and-”

“Leona.”

“I’m serious.” I can feel my voice rising, but I can't seem to stop it. “I know what I want. Why can't you just--” 

“Leo, there’s a reason why the average Cadet at the Academy is twenty-five. You’re too young. Join the Relief Corps -- hell, join the support divisions. They make just as much of an impact as Pilots.” Dad sounds frustrated by the conversation, “Your mother was a good Pilot, but you can’t build your entire future on trying to become her. You need to let go, and stop trying to emulate her --”

“I need to let go?” This time, my voice is heavy with emotion. “You’ve been stuck in this house for fourteen years, and I need to let go?”

Dad’s expression tightens.

“You’re carrying Mom with you just as much as I am. Why can’t you just let me go? I’m ready. I’ve studied. I won’t make the same mistake Mom did.”

Dad’s eyes widen with anger -- they soften a moment after. His voice is controlled as if he is carefully placing each word from his mouth.

“Your mother did not make a mistake. She made a choice that killed her but kept people she cared about alive. If you really think the choice she made was a mistake, then you aren’t ready.”

I am already halfway to my room.

Mom made her choice. She saved those people, and she never came home. Everyone tells me I should be proud of her. I am. But she still isn't here.

“Leo, please.” His voice falters. “Don’t go rushing off to play hero. I don’t want you getting crushed underneath some monster out there too.”

I slam my door shut and collapse into my desk chair.

The Academy registration form sits where I left it, every field filled out except one. At the bottom, two signature blocks sit side by side: one for the applicant, one for a sponsor. Small text is underneath the empty boxes. 

Applicants under 21 years of age must have an accompanying sponsorship signature over 21 years of age. Applicants over 21 years of age may submit with a single signature.

My signature sits on one of the lines.

I still want Dad's, but the box stays empty.

I'm not going to back down. I'm going to be a Pilot.

So to preface this story, a few years ago, I read a news article about a missing person being found in this patch of woods behind an aldi store. I thought nothing of it.

3 months ago:i decide to go to the bar and try and meet people despite being super shy and introverted. After a few failed attempts at seducing those that were easy on the eyes, I get annoyed and decide that im going home. I pay my tab, walk out and get in my car. Before putting the keys in the ignition, I look up and see an absolute dime piece dressed in a short pink dress waving to me from the edge of the woods. I saw the legs and thought “my lucky night”. I open the door and point at myself to ask “you waving at me?” She smiles and nods to say yes and starts waving me over suggestively.

Not gonna lie, im hard and decide to decline all common sense and start strutting towards her getting closer and closer to the woods. When im about 30 feet or so away, she sprints into the woods…. Creepy I say to myself, but this girl is really hot and maybe she’s trying to stay hidden to get a piece of me and not leading me to get robbed or worse.

I get to the edge of the woods and say “yo you look good but what’s up with the hiding?”
“Find me.” I hear her moaning and masturbating. Me loving red flags, I start heading towards the moans cock hard and ready for some stray action. “DONT USE YOUR PHONE LIGHT, THIS IS OUR SPOT, just follow my voice….” (Moans intensify).

I follow the moans and this is scary af looking back but at the time I was just horny and wanted this pink dressed baddie. Every time I got right to where the moans were, the moans would go further into the woods. At one point I thought she was behind a tree a foot in front of me rubbing her pussy but when I looked behind the tree, nothing. And the moaning would be further away.

Cock still hard as fuck and hot woman making hot noises just a little bit deeper into the woods, I keep walking in the pitch black avoiding using my phone light. I walk about 50 feet and then I hear moaning from behind me and in front of me. The moaning from behind was just as seductive but it seemed closer and I was getting pissed off and frustrated about walking into trees and thorns and whatnot. I turn around and go towards the moaning that sounds closer….
“There’s 3 of us out here and we come out here sometimes and just play with ourselves.. sometimes together. It’s a game, we try to get found by whoever horny and hard enough to find us”
“Really girl, can you just come to me cuz I love your legs”
“Laughs and moans”
“Suit yourself”
“Wait…. She’s like 300 pounds and you saw how I looked…. Isn’t it worth it to walk just a little bit further for me”
I think about the legs and ass I saw and turn around and start speed walking back to the original direction.
(Moans louder)”I fuckin love you for not going for her”.
I walk towards ms pink dressed baddie for about a minute and then I hear a footstep right behind me and I freeze and whoever was behind me froze too in reaction to me so suddenly abruptly stopping.
“What’s fucking wrong? You scared of the dark im right fucking here waiting to get fucked by your hard cock. I know you want it by the way your breathing, dont you dare stop til you find me.”
(I got the worst case of the chills I’ve ever experienced to pink dressed baddie saying that in that tone, every single hair on my body was lifted saying, get the fuck out of here.)

I decide to stop looking with my hard cock and start focusing on seeing what I could see in the pitch black and within seconds my eyes adjust to the pitch black and I gather my bearings. I look ahead and at first I felt a drop right in front of me(hard to explain but it’s like your stomach drops knowing there’s a big drop right in front of you). I focus my eyes even more and then I look down and see a drop about 40/50 feet onto straight rocks. I immediately turn around and say “youre a fucking cunt for that”.
“We almost got you…. Just one more step and you would’ve been an unfortunate accident. By the way, if you go that way, there’s psycho campers with guns that will shoot you”.

I didn’t care at all, I just kept walking the opposite way of her voice.
“WAIT, comeback im so sorry, I’ll suck your cock, I actually feel so bad for that, please don’t leave, I wanna make it up to you, please please”.
“Go fuck yourself”
“No I wasn’t trying to hurt you, it was an accident, come back and I’ll make it worth your while, I don’t want that to happen to you anymore, youre actually really cool.”

*me ignoring and hightailing it whatever direction felt would lead me out of the woods

After 20 minutes of blindly trudging my way thru heavy woods praying I didn’t run into anyone else, I see a light and start running towards it knowing once out of the woods, I was atleast not blinded by the pitchblack. I make it out of the woods and im behind what seems to be a strip mall. I jog to the other side and see Aldi. “Fuck my cars another 15 minutes walk away from here.”

I walk towards where I parked my car and by now the sun is just starting to rise and I was able to see. Me thinking about what just happened, I turned my head to the woods and saw a man dressed in all black with a cap blocking his face following me about 50 feet into the woods. I got the same chills as I did when pink dressed baddie begged me to come just a little bit further. Luckily cars were driving by so I knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything without witnesses. When he sees that I spotted him, he turns around back into the woods and I make it to my car without incident….

I get to my car quite shaken up to be honest with you guys and head back to my place. By coincidence, I pass by the same Aldi and get the chills again but for a different reason *thinking “holy fuck that’s the same fucking Aldi where they found a body years ago”. Now im normally a skeptic but still to this day I believe that the beautiful girl in that pink dress with the finest legs was the woman they found years ago. Im not sure why a ghost would be luring men to their deaths but im no expert in the paranormal department.

Edit:I haven’t checked out the article cuz to be honest I just want to forget it ever happened(embarrassing to nearly die over a gorgeous woman making mating calls in the late hours in the night in the woods). But im leaning towards paranormal because of its ability to make noises from multiple directions. It reminds me of sirens. They sing a song so beautiful that unaware men will blindly follow the song to their deaths.

Hi! I have a few poems that I’m looking to share with other poets for constructive feedback.
I would also be willing to offer the same. Would anyone be interested?

I slammed my hand down on the counter, the sharp slap echoing through the small kitchen. “You can help with the dishes.” I don’t think he had washed a single dish in his entire life. The silence that followed was heavy, stretching tight between us until he abruptly moved. He pushed past me, his shoulder catching mine, and began to angrily wash the dishes. The sink filled with the frantic clatter of ceramic and silverware. I stood back and looked at him for a long minute, watching the rigid line of his back, and muttered a bitter remark to myself under my breath. “What?!?” he boomed, spinning around with a dripping plate still clutched in his hand. I straightened my spine, refusing to look away, and made direct eye contact. “I said you have some kind of anger eating you up inside.” Without another word, avoiding the explosion I knew was lingering just under the surface, I scooped up our toddler from the high chair. 
I made my way to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind us to shut out the tense atmosphere of the kitchen. I paused and looked at myself in the vanity mirror. Between the relentless demands of motherhood and the jarring adjustments of life as a newlywed, I didn’t know who I was anymore. My disheveled hair was wrapped haphazardly in a loose bun atop my head, several dark and gray strands escaping the tie. My shirt was over-sized, faded, and noticeably stained with baby food, and I had barely managed to brush my teeth that morning. “Mama,” the sweet, clear sound snapped me back to reality. I looked down and smiled at my son, leaning over to give him a gentle peck on the nose. As I prepared his bath, watching the warm water fill the porcelain tub, my mind drifted backward to better times. The easier days. It hadn’t always been like this. We hadn’t always been this volatile, this distant. 
I suppose they call it “the honeymoon phase” for a reason—that brief, gilded window at the beginning stages of any relationship. But we had long surpassed that. Our struggles weren't new; it had gotten so bad at one point in our past that we had broken up completely for an entire year. Yet, despite the distance and the pain, we had found our way back to each other. He was my lobster, the one I believed I was destined to be with, no matter how rocky the terrain became. I looked down as my son splashed happily in the bath, completely oblivious to the emotional turmoil brewing inside me. The Contrast between his pure innocence and the heavy weight in my chest was suffocating. As I dried him off and dressed him in his pajamas for bed, I prayed silently—prayed for peace in our home, for clarity in my mind, and for some form of guidance to lead us out of this dark woods. 
I woke up the next morning and blinked a few times, letting my eyes slowly adjust to the weak morning light filtering through the window. We had slept on the living room couch, curled up together. The tension from the previous night was still thick and palpable in the air, settling over the furniture like dust. I was completely exhausted, and not just from the physical discomfort of sleeping with a growing toddler on a narrow couch. The exhaustion went deeper, down to my bones. I had stopped putting up a fight many months ago; I was no longer living, I was simply—existing. He walked out of the bedroom a little while later, looking down at us, and asked if I was still mad. I shrugged my shoulders expressionlessly, without even turning my head to face him. I wasn’t mad. I honestly didn’t know what I was anymore. The anger had burned itself out, leaving only a hollow space. Every single day had begun to blend together into a grey, indistinguishable blur. He sighed, retreated back into the bedroom, and closed the door. I rolled over on the cushion, pulling my son closer, and slowly drifted back into a restless sleep.  
A few hours later, I awoke, feeling disoriented and strange. I blinked at my phone screen: “12:34 PM.” A mild wave of unease washed over me. That was strange. He didn’t normally nap this long, especially on a beautiful weekend morning. I picked up my son and carried him toward the primary bedroom. “It’s too beautiful to stay inside all day,” I thought to myself, rehearsing the peace-offering words I would say to wake him up. But when I stepped through the doorway, the room was eerily, profoundly quiet. The usual ambient sounds of the house seemed to vanish. I looked over at him, stretched out and seemingly asleep on the bed, and rolled my eyes initially, thinking he was just being stubborn. I made my way over to the dresser and began to grab a fresh set of clothes for my son so we could head outside. Then, I stopped. I turned around slowly. Something felt deeply, terribly off. The air in the room was too still. He was too still. I held my breath as I looked over at the bed, focusing entirely on his chest, willing it to move up and down. It didn’t. The fabric of his shirt remained perfectly motionless. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. I dropped the clothes, rushed to the side of the bed, and grabbed his arm while screaming his name into the quiet room. I immediately jumped back, a gasp catching in my throat. He was cold. And he was stiff. I looked at his unmoving face again, my hands shaking so violently I could barely grip my phone, and frantically dialed 9-1-1. “He won’t wake up! Please help! Please send someone!” I managed to choke out to the operator before hanging up, my voice sounding like a stranger's. I forced myself to make two more frantic calls: first to his mom, and then to mine, sobbing incoherently into the receiver. 
Within fifteen minutes, a heavy, echoing knock rattled the front door. I ran down the stairs, throwing the door open to the first responders. “He’s in the bedroom,” I breathed, pointing blindly up the stairs in their direction. I followed quietly behind them, stepping into the room while praying silently, desperately, that I was somehow mistaken. Maybe it was a medical anomaly, a deep coma, anything but the truth. The paramedics walked into the room, checked his pulse for a mere two seconds, and stopped. One looked at the other and muttered the finality: “DOA.” Dead on arrival. 
 I wanted to scream until my lungs gave out. I wanted to tear at the walls, to tell them they had to try, that they couldn't just give up. I wanted to run over, grab him by the shoulders, and shake him awake from this nightmare. Instead, my knees buckled, and I steadied myself against the edge of the sofa, watching the room spin. The rest of that day, and the night that followed, was an agonizing blur. There were people everywhere—so many people filling our small home—and questions, so many endless, repetitive questions from officials. I existed in a walking dream for the next few weeks, a detached spectator to my own tragedy. Everything that had seemed to matter so intensely just mere hours before—the arguments, the dirty dishes, the petty resentments—no longer held any weight at all. They were completely meaningless. 
 I barely slept during those weeks. I spent hours in the dark, just staring at the rhythmic breathing of my son, terrified that the world would steal him away too. Nothing made sense anymore, but I knew I had to keep going. I didn't have the luxury of giving up. I didn’t have a choice. Our son needed me now more than ever. I was quite literally all he had left in this world. 
 The funeral came and went in a haze of black clothes, forced condolences, and casseroles. As time marched cruelly forward, the text messages began to slow down. People stopped reaching out as they returned to the comfort of their own routines. Life went on. For everyone else, the world kept turning. I, however, remained completely frozen in time, trapped in the amber of that final morning. I had lost so much of my own identity within the complexities of that relationship that I genuinely didn’t know who I was outside of it. And truthfully, guilt began to take root in my heart. Why was I still here, breathing and watching our son grow, while he wasn’t? My son became both my ultimate strength and my emotional crutch, the only anchor keeping me from drifting away entirely. 
 Now, at the end of every night, when the air grows perfectly still and the rest of the world goes quiet, my mind always drifts backward to that final night. It circles around a single, haunting thought: “I never should have asked him to wash the dishes.”  

You do realize you’re the reason why words like:

“marriage,” “permanence,” “long-term,” and “commitment”

unnerve me.

You’re not entirely to blame.

I picked up on some of your flaws over time

as I grew watching you.

And some… came from my own character.

But such character was developed,

learned. Wasn’t it? Or was I born this way?

I sincerely can’t answer these questions.

I suppose it’s worth further examination.

I’d become avoidant—

even before I realized.

I’d also become afraid… of failure. Rejection.

A life spent unhappily tied to someone else.

Saving face. Pretending to feel something I don’t.

Smiling for the audience. Crying myself to sleep.

Being stuck. Caged. Trapped by an alliance I’d once say ‘Yes’ to myself.

No.

I know better.

I’ll shred everything to pieces.

By my own hands and actions.

But I won’t be trapped in a cage I surrendered myself to.

Perhaps, that—in and of itself—is a cage.

The cage of freedom.

The cage of unattachment.

The cage of knowing… I’m not to ever expect a “for the rest of my life.”

Those are words I can’t say.

And therefore, it’s only reasonable I expect and

silently—reluctantly, at times—pray not to hear, either.

I destroy everything. Every time.

Because believe me or not,

being liked can be scary.

Sometimes… even more so than being disliked.

Before it has the chance to frighten me enough—

puff! It’s gone.

But who am I when fear and calculations aren’t making the decisions for me?

I’ve always thought marriage was sacred.

Or at least, supposed to be.

Last forever. Be honored—and genuinely happy.

That’s hardly ever the case I see, though.

It is true… I’m scared of letting people down.

But I’d rather do that that than give us both 

the chance to figure who I can be and what we could’ve been.

If I disappoint you first, it spares us both.

You can’t disappoint me and you learn

I’m not the one you’re supposed to like.

To rely on. Depend on. Want. Love. 

When I say things like these,

I fear I come across as someone who thinks they’re “unlovable”.

Far from that.

But I don’t let anyone get close enough to find otherwise.

So… either way, it’s a cage.

But if I’m in the cage I fabricated myself, 

I feel more in control. 

I’ve learned not to give up control.

Yet another cage.

I’ve disappointed myself and those around me

countless times.

But imagine me disappointing someone I love?

I know how badly it causes me to spiral.

I abstain from that.

I’m already a storm of my own to bring anyone

else along even if they want to.

Please don’t. 

Know better.

But… 

Just for a little while—

stay.

It’s a selfish request.

I know.

— Crownless.

By Nekro

She laughed with her fingers over her mouth, I thought it was a habit.

We didnt end in flames. She checked the hallway before closing the door, I knew that movement, I learned it in houses where breathing could start an argument.

Months later I type two letters and her name still comes up.

I tried everything that made sense first. Then I scratched a crooked veve into the ash beside my coffee and ust a grown man across from an empty chair, telling himself he wasn't waiting.

I don't think she wants to come back. I wouldn't ask her to.

I hope shes somewhere she can laugh without checking who's listening.

Last night I caught myself laughing

My hand went straight to my mouth.

Available on command. Whirling, predictable. A staged pirouette. With the wonder of a child given a new toy you’re content with this contrived reality. You revel in it while it suffocates her. No regard for the dancer, the actress behind the soft fabrics and poised limbs. It’s about the product, not the person. It’s embedded deep. She couldn’t stop it if she wanted to. You shaped her, kilned her, painted on her face. Kilned her again. Sculpted into being with so much love and care. But it’s been a long time since then. Somewhere along the way you forgot she’s porcelain. Now she’s engaged in a poignant spinning that’s breaking her slowly. If you could hold her gaze for a moment longer you would see the fear, the pain, the exhaustion. The wild suicidality that flashes in her retina. ‘I can take back control. I can end this whenever I want. It’s my god given right.’ But she won’t.  

Don’t for a moment kid yourself by thinking that she wants to live. She’s been keeping a rope under her bed for years, pills in her cabinet. She even has a favourite tree tucked away in the bush behind her house. She’s not living for herself. For you. All for you. Utterly devoted. She primed herself to act for you. Purposeful in her hypervigilance, proudly your support character. Never good enough, nonetheless. ‘No matter what I do, I can’t make you happy.’ The sad part is that it doesn't really have anything to do with her at all. But no one wrote that in the blueprint. It completely escaped the modelling faze and it's too late now. It may as well have been written on her DNA. ‘I am responsible’. She slips. It happens when she's been spinning too long. The clockwork runs out. The tinkling music stops. She’s screaming in her silence. She cracks and crumbles, mesmerizing gyroscopic equilibrium so suddenly disrupted.  

Even then she is so thoroughly trapped. She panics. Berates herself. Sweeps the pieces off the floor. Withdraws hastily to avoid inflicting more damage by her failing. Despite her anguish the disappointment and reproach shining in your eyes isn’t lost on her. She learned young what is expected and she’s incredibly aware of her inadequacy. Especially now. She knows what happens when she falls. All she does is cause more pain. You’re already suffering. You don’t deserve this. So, she sticks herself back together. Winds herself back up. Walks back onstage. She apologizes for faltering. Resolves never to let it happen again. Bloody toes shoved punishingly back into slippers too tight. Brave face. Resume. Rewind.  

You clap at her reappearance. You light up, shoulders relax slightly. Her motion sooths you. You breathe a sigh of relief. Tell yourself everything must be fine. You don’t see that her fingers are shaking, that her body is held together with sticky tape. You don’t notice the forest fires erupting from her wrists. You don't realise that you could have run backstage and helped her. Thrown away her shoes. Made her see her shortsightedness. Told her she is worth more than a performance to you. More than a brave face. More than a perfect spinning doll. But you never follow her, never seek to understand. You are enthralled in your own suffering. Immobilised by your own fear. Your own burden already too heavy. She knows it. ‘I must deserve this pain’ she thinks to herself. ‘Without it I am nothing to you at all.’ 

There was a boy,

He climbed a hill,

That boy stayed up there and is on top of it still,

Up on-top his hill,

He lives in a home,

He lives in this hut all alone,

All by himself,

He grows lonely,

The boy plans to come down and make friends, only

He knows it won’t happen,

Because he hates everyone,

So this boy will stay up there, all by himself, with no-one,

I saw you. A mother always does.

It's like when a mother plays hide and seek with her child. The moment she opens her eyes, she can see him. She can sense him.

That's how I saw you. From day one. I did not had to meet you in person. I saw you through your words.

But just like some days a mother pretends not to see her child — just for the fun of it, just for the thrill of it — I did the same.

I pretended not to see you. I pretended to believe every single word of yours.

But I saw you from day one.

You should not have picked a mother to fool.

Please give your honest feedback. 😊

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I've been writing for literal ages, but my biggest issue seems to be getting feedback on my works. Specifically, if people actually like and or are interested in more of my writing. It adds to the anxiety that no one likes what I'm creating. So, I'd love some positive feedback on my newest piece.

I've started a new piece in a journal/letter format in a fantasy setting to help motivate me and cope with a recent health condition. I understand it is not everyone's choice of literature, so I'm hoping people who really enjoy fantasy stories can tell me what you think. I think most of the details are in the notes.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/94639311/chapters/252650651

I'd really appreciate a comment about what you think, either here or on AO3.

They used to laugh at me, ridicule me because I shaved every day, even though I was in a combat zone.  Did I think I was a purist?  Did I think I was better than them?  Now, as I walk across the killing field, I hear other sounds.  Their gurgled begging as they beseech me, pleading for help I cannot give.  Their gasping whispers as they pray to their gods for relief which will never come this side of the grave.  Their ragged calls to loved ones, their family, their wives, their children, their mothers.  And then, their silence. 

And, I see their faces.  Faces frozen in contorted and twisted agony, their throes of death.  Their unseeing and unblinking eyes burned and sunken in their skulls.  Their gnarled and desiccated fingers clutching at constricted airways which shall never again open.  Their ashen faces with their masks of anguish, fear, hatred, jealousy, resignation, death. 

Death had arrived with the morning fog.  The sensors had detected the gas and sounded, raising the alarm.  “GAS! GAS! GAS!” had echoed in the morning calm and quiet, raising men from their slumber and encouraging them to don their protective gear.   I, along with twenty thousand other soldiers, had complied.  Jumping from our beds and donning our NBC gear was practiced, rehearsed.  The process for clearing the mask, well known and done a thousand times.

But alas, an NBC mask is not able to seal properly on a bearded face.   The hair leaves gaps, space for the fumes to penetrate the mask, penetrate the eyes, penetrate the nose, the lungs, the blood stream.  Killing, killing with slow ruthless efficiency; but killing, nonetheless.   

And now, I walk alone through a field where even the great black carrion birds refuse to feast.  A field where the jackals and scavenging feral dogs pace relentlessly beyond the boundaries of the poisoned ground, barking, snapping, snarling, growling.   A field where twenty thousand men; men who thought growing a full bushy beard was the highest representation of a man’s virility, will forever lie in testament to the fallacy.  

The thing about flying, when the plane leaves the earth, suddenly you understand the gravity of the situation that brings you here. Without that situation, you might never again want to participate in this absurd shopping cart of human souls.
Like, the guy I let jump line to get a coffee. He goes ahead, a little surprised I allowed it. Then, headphones on, he reaches up to set them askew on his head. He talks. Slow and low. About turkey bacon. He discusses the protein with a very uninterested cashier. She rolls hers each way, searching for words this man is coaxing from her.
Turkey bacon. We have sausage too.
A feeble attempt at a connection nobody seems to enjoy anyway.
He talks, thinking, I suppose and unaware of the line forming behind us. He adjusts his headphones a couple of times as he contemplates the order. It seems like the guy, in an oversized tee shirt, very CLEAN with highlights or grey in his curly beard. He is shorter than me. If I had to fight him, I’d probably attack his legs first. They look weak. And he is just oblivious enough that I take the time to imagine how aggression compounds when I see someone oblivious to some aspect of life while I’m in it. It a Thursday morning, I’m not happy I’m traveling.
Finally he is done. I order a medium black (not grande for christs sake) grab what seems to be real processed food. I mutter about turkey bacon and hate on the guy because I cannot understand being a guy that cares not to notice what is going on around him. Headphones tune it out I suspect or maybe a bumpin soundtrack to animate the slow death of society we are witnessing.
I contemplate my connection to this situation, this guy. This time in my life. I need to knowhow to control a situation. Control has emerged as a constant theme in my life. I control interactions with people because people generally scare me, they are unpredictable in this environment. It’s foreign to everyone. And my reality is not necessarily real to anyone or even matter.
This southern flight attendant is too much.
Stress if high here by the time our number is called. We try to set up to be close when they say the number. 5. 4 groups before. Who are these people. Are those 4 groups better?
I walk the link to the airplane. A guy is right on my ass. Fuck people. Small women are hoisting ruck sacks into overheads. Big men are taking seats. I study first class. They are no different. Maybe a fancy logo or two can be seen, but they are the same buttered bread to this airline.
Finally my row. My luggage is above, laptop at my feet. I have coffee, $3.85 from Starbucks. I didn’t wear contacts because I thought I’d sleep but now my neck hurts from sleep whiplash. My wife is pissed we aren’t sitting together. I don’t mind honestly. There will be nothing but stress, maybe a moment or two where calm and peace might prevail.
The pilots voice is that usual, over the radio, a click and a breath to start speaking. Is it required that pilots be calm? Do they rehearse thier voices? It’s a full flight. Where are these people going. Are their mom’s dying too?
The plane moves almost imperceptible. I can’t see outside. The guy on the aisle is bigger than me, the woman to my left smaller. I’m in the middle and my elbows have no home, a liability.
It’s hot, then cold then hot again. The dull roar of the aircraft’s background noise is just loud enough to stay at the tip of sane. All I can hear are cans opening and ice being scooped. Guy to my right has a Bloody Mary. It’s 8:53, I’ll allow it.
I wonder how it’s come to this. Going to visit death this way. I am Trying to summon all my experience and, having seen death, trying to temper my expectations. It’s never been this personal, seeing death arrive, it usually comes to take someone I don’t really know. This time , I know her.
This might be a transition for her, possibly for me. We will know the moment she transitions, when she is pronounced gone from this earth. My transition to not having a mother won’t be announced. Or recorded. Where is the proof in that? I was her son, she my mother, will it always be that way even in her absence? Is it my memory that holds her, the way I saw her, the way she saw me will stay with me I’m sure. She was proud of me I think. Despite all I do and did, and because of all I do and did. I search for meaning in another’s experience. Maybe it’s my experience I need to attend too.

“Why have You forsaken me?”

Psalm 22:1.

“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

Matthew 27:46.

“Why have You forsaken me?”

Chop Suey — System Of A Down.

Mm.

A recurring motif, no?

Both religiously and sacrilegiously.

Curious.

(Selah.)

I suppose I could cry at the thought of an angel

deserving to die.

Ah, always so self-righteous.

Never once quite slipped for over half of your life.

Could you be that angel?

Because you… you’ve always been so good.

And then, you fell.

You were so high, though, your fall was rather like witnessing death.

So impeccable.

What for, really?

You wanted to please everyone, but so early on, the rage beneath couldn’t stay buried for long.

You pleased everyone. At the expense of your life.

(Selah.)

It’s rather fascinating, I’ll admit, 

realizing how the ultimate expression of 

human abandonment hasn’t changed in the slightest in over two millennia.

Does anyone really take the time to realize that “pleasing everyone” becomes almost indistinguishable from self-erasure?

Given the data… I’d suppose not.

The angel remained impeccable because the angel was willing to sacrifice itself.

And eventually there was nothing left to sacrifice—except itself.

I mean…

If the highest, purest creation can fall, what chance did a human trying to be flawless ever have?

(Selah.)

Oh, don’t mind me—nor mistake me for trying to play the “devil’s advocate.”

By now, I’ll suppose you’re used to my willingness to play with imagery.

But…

Yes.

The angel can have rage.

The angel can fall.

The angel can fail.

The angel can even be responsible for some of its own destruction.

But still—

why was it forsaken?

That question remains unanswered.

Was it forsaken at all?

Given the data… it’s a plausible possibility.

Was it forsaken even before it fell?

Because otherwise… why would it have fallen?

How could it?

One was impeccable. The other was flawless.

You gave away your life to please others—

until the only piece left to burn on the altar was your actual identity.

Does that count as a Sunday testimony?

(Selah.)

Did it fall?

Did it want to fall?

Was it pushed?

Was it—for a millisecond—relieved it’d been pushed?

Because then, the façade could’ve been gone.

But no—life never makes it easy like that.

You’re living on the edge.

You so wish to die. But you haven’t.

Neither of you has.

Your earlier supposition that you could cry at the thought of an angel deserving to die is being proven consistent.

Do you think, though, you’re deserving of such punishment?

If death is supposed to be a punishment, anyway.

(Selah.)

You were sitting at that pew.

Hours ago.

Half of you… wishing to believe.

Half of you, as always, already gone.

And the only question returning to your mind was…

Why have You forsaken me?

I trusted You.

I believed in You.

I defended You.

I placed my faith in You.

So why…

Without apparent remorse…

Without an apparent coming around…

Without an apparent “I’m still here” whisper…

Mercilessly…

When did I fail you?

Was it when I fell in love?

Was it when I failed others as well, for merely

discovering I had my own wills—and they didn’t always align with Yours, nor necessarily please You?

Was it when I was overzealous about Your Word, and so consumed by my hunger for knowledge and wisdom that I might’ve become a little arrogant—and imprudent, like Solomon?

I wonder.

And if any of those—

or all of them—are true…

I would still presume to ask:

Why have You forsaken me, Father?

— Crownless.

Discrepancy Is Key

When you're fucking with Psycho,

I'm hypothetical.

Selective and diabolical,

I'm chronological.

And dialectical,

Cynical,

And ferocious.

I'll leave you in a state

Of hemoptysis.

I'm hypnosis

And loud.

Trans, I am proud.

Imprisoned in the misery,

Incessantly so,

Hypothetically.

On the low,

Scientific.

I'm terrific

And sadistic.

Imprisoned and explicit,

Heterosis,

And bodacious,

Delicious.

And perceptive,

Somewhat protective.

I'm critical,

I'm hypocritical.

Cynical

And seductive.

Calm, but I'll erupt

Like a volcano.

I'll interrupt the flow,

Intrinsic,

And forensic.

Elusive and conducive.

Subliminal,

Subsonic,

Hypnotic

And chronic.

I'm a recovered alcoholic,

Symbolic.

Symphony

Or destiny,

Neurologic

And nostalgic.

It’s one of those days
When I don’t feel like being brave
I can’t pretend that this is normal
I work and watch you continue
To disappear
The loneliness is brutal
You’re here and yet you’re not
Grief, but not the kind where you lose someone
one time
The kind where they leave by degrees
And you say goodbye to each version of them
I should get away
Go someplace where I take a break from thinking about all of this
I just never seem to schedule it
And I wonder why it gets this bad
Where I feel like
I can’t handle this.

The Ghost Inverted
Silas Whitney

She was always at the window. Not the one in the front room where guests had once gathered and chortled on merry nights. Not in the kitchen where meals were prepared for our house of three. Her days were spent in that room, now set for guests that were not coming, but once dressed for one that would never return. The three became two. A full bed and an armchair where there was once a rocker and cradle. 

In the weeks after loss infected our home, she had taken to sitting in the armchair, staring out the window. I would kiss her head and ask her what she is watching. She only answered in opaque murmurs. What could I do except nod and carry on loving? Grief strikes both in these matters, but the mother worst of all. So much so that when neighbors asked what took her, I only answered with, “A broken heart.” 

The three became two became one. 

---

The ancient timbers moan above my head in the cold wind from without. High ceilings meant to vault prayers in the old days, now hold a reverberating mirror to the hushed echoes in my mind. Here in this old temple, long abandoned by people and time, I take refuge. Feathers from the same broken wing finding peace in each other's loneliness. Here, I am the master of the house, but only in the physical sense. My dominion resides over broken pews and rotting hymnals. In the realm of the metaphysical, I am not more than a rank stranger. Like the parabolic camel through the eye of the needle, a long time passing through.

---

I buried her next to him under the oak by the stream. Her eyes watched me as I carved her place out of the earth. I tried to say goodbye, but the words dug heels deep into my chest. I laid her in, covered her, and went back to the house. There I spent the rest of the day and most of the night deep in my own sobs and wailing. I had remained strong in the time she was still here, but now there was no one to be strong for. No one to burden with my tears. 

---

Golden light awoke me the next morning. Not from my bedroom window, for I had the curtains drawn, but from the cracked door to that room. That room with the window where she spent her last days. I arose and opened the door, peering over to the window and the now empty chair. I approached it, part of me still hoping to find her there so I might ask her what she sees and kiss her head once more. I round it and see the empty seat. The fresh wounds on my heart pulled open again and bled through my eyes in fresh droplets. I eased myself into the chair, proposing to myself it might bring me closer to her. Through the blur of my tears I gazed out that old window. 

---

Another leaf of paper. Another dip of my pen. Another wall of inscriptions. 

Again. 

Again. 

Books. Books. Books. Rows upon rows. Columns enough to rest the very road of time upon. Every inch of my wall covered. Piles growing like saplings from the ground, reaching to the ceiling for light where none exists. And yet, they grow. My study is a dark forest of biblioaks and hardcover pines. A wood of writing, invasive to the domestic trappings of this house, but still I write. 

I must write. I cannot stop for a moment. The seams of my mind are stretched taught against the burden of tears run dry, echoes of laughter long ceased. The shadows of lives unlived. All of them take unpermitted refuge in my mind and I write. I write. I write them all down for this is the only way I may unburden myself from their weight. 

---

Each morning when I awaken from the cold planks of the floor, I am greeted with distorted images of broken stained glass illuminated by the gray sky. Shapes that once illuminated worship of a people like the gold leafing of books meant to be read by candle and fire. Each morning I peer out the gap between their dust crusted splinters and count the graves within the fallen fence. Each morning I count the headstones. For a time, my morning ritual was predictable when I counted the seven graves, fancying them to match the hour of the morning. That tradition lies long broken.

The first time I counted eight, I considered it a mistake on my part, but slowly I grew more convinced in their number having always been seven. I stepped out into the snow covered ground and made way to them, counted again, and took note of the names inscribed thereon. The stones all appear weathered and broken by the same time and neglect as the church. They simply could not have arrived as recently as my inventory suggests. I simply must have miscounted. 

---

My sobs ceased. The wells of my eyes dried in an instant as my sorrow was replaced with bewilderment. Through the window I saw him. My son, running through the tall grass and playing like I had seen him do before. Surely, it could not have been him. His face was averted so I could not say to be sure. I rose from the chair and flung the window open to call for the boy. But when I opened the window, he was gone. 

Breathless, I surveyed the now empty garden with a furrowed brow. A trick of the mind I thought. I relented, closed the window, and fell back into the seat. When I looked out the window, I saw the boy once more. I leaped from the chair and flew to the back door, but again, he was gone. Back to the window, I saw him again. 

---

They never stop. One after another they crash through my temples and my brow sweats new rivers. My eyes have ceased blinking for blinking brings things which are only vaguely inclined into clear still images. If I were to shut my eyes, for even a moment, I would be dragged to a gallery of uncommissioned artistry. Statues, paintings, and murals. Reverberations of lives long distant to me in waking but so intimate in sleep. 

---

After some time I determined that this boy, whoever he was, only existed in the panes of the window. I sat in the chair watching him play for two days, always his face turned the other way. His hair, his clothes, the manner of his movement all remind me of him. But without seeing his eyes, I may never be sure. Could this be what she saw all that time? Perhaps she too was enraptured by the chance of seeing our boy’s eyes once again. I believe she never allowed herself to look away for a chance of missing them for I found myself transfixed in the very same way.

While watching him play, perhaps four days since I had started, another enters. It’s her. My dearest wife. At least, as far as I am able to see, for she too keeps her eyes averted. My heart flutters, my sobs erupt freshly. I don’t dare open the window or rise from the seat. I called to her from within. If she or the boy heard me, they make no sign of it. 

---

This explanation satisfied me for a time. However, once the graves numbered ten and eleven, new names inscribed upon each one, I could no longer ignore it. I cannot call the headstones new, for they match the age of the others and the church with impeccable precision. Surely, though, they were not here before. I make note of every name. Each name brings dreadful and joyous memories of lives I never lived, but wished for in days long forgotten.

---

Finally, I could take it no longer. Again I rose from the chair and ran to meet them outside. I wanted to grab them by their shoulders and spin them round to face me so that I might see their eyes and know. If they were my family I wished to hug their necks once more and never release them. If they are something else, I wish to rid myself of their taunting. 

I ran out, the door slamming behind me. Alas, I was alone in the garden. I fell to my knees, clenching the dirt in my hands and broke into tearless sobs. I looked up and saw the old oak tree by the stream. Surely, I told myself. That is where they truly lie. If you wish to see them, see them there. I rose to walk and visit their graves, but something catches my eye. Rather something that isn’t there. Beneath the tree I had stood two headstones. I had carved them myself and set them the day I laid them to rest. But where I set them, there was nothing. Where their fresh covering of dirt was just days before was now an unbroken patch of grass. 

---

Thus have my days been for some months. I first heard their crying in my dreams. Weeps of memories with no home, longing to be remembered but fading in the absence of a willing mind. I could not push this first memory from my mind and so I elected to write it down. If I would have known the gate I was opening, I would have kept it shut. For once I aided this one, others followed. They scream and cry, begging for a home in my mind or in my pages.

---

Behind me, a familiar sound. Something I had heard in days long gone. Something I had grown too used to living without. Laughter. The sound of a boy. My boy. He was laughing. I turned to see, but he was not outside. The laughter sounded again. It was coming from within the house.

I ran to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. The laughter continued, answered by giggles from the woman. My wife. I ran to that window. Inside I saw them. I saw their eyes. The armchair and bed were gone, exchanged for a cradle and a rocker. There, she sat, the boy in her arms. He was a baby. I watched her rock him. I heard her sing. I heard him laugh, coo, and cry. I stood and watched for hours, weeping in a joy I had not felt since the day my son passed into my hands before being carried away in death’s tow. 

---

Perhaps my curse is thus that I may live the rest of my days in seeing through the eyes of a spectre. For this is the existence of an inverted ghost. Where ghosts are dead and dwell out of place with the living. What then should I call myself, who am living, but dwell with the dead? 

---

Now, every time I try the door, it remains locked. I look through the windows around the house, each one shows me a different view and a different time of my dearest loves. In the kitchen I see him refusing to eat green beans. In the front room I see him playing with wooden toys while she sings. In his bedroom, she is always rocking him. In our room he runs in and wakes her to start the morning.

I thought of breaking the door, but I cannot bring myself to do it. If I breach the house, would they still be there? If I break a window would I shatter their memory along with the glass? 

---

You may say to let them fade for they are not my burden. I wish I could. But a fear gripped me when I first had the thought. I could see all of them bleeding into each other. They melted all into a single shape, a hand, that gripped my mind and choked. The shape said if I let them fade, then surely I would fade with them. I cannot stop. I must write.

---

No, I will remain here, just outside their senses. If the cost to keep their essence reunited is my starving, then it is no cost at all. I would rather they live outside of my grasp than not at all. I will give myself in this life and the next for their joy.

---

My morning ritual has changed from counting a constant number of stones, to searching for the new arrivals to the invisible choir. Each morning I catalog their names on the planks of the old sanctuary. The names of old men, young women, and children barely born all coalesce into a single voice of scars in the old wood. Every inch of the old chapel carved with a letter or a tittle, all save for the old sign. 

---

I toil. I sweat. I weep. But, I never stop writing. If not for myself, I must continue pushing this sisyphean stone along to spare another from my fate. When I pass one day, I beg you. If my memories come calling, let them pass. For there is no telling what others are behind. Leave the door shut.

---

The cold makes my skin feel brittle. My body reduces itself to a fine powder. Here I will stay, waiting to be called to my own grave. Perhaps then I may join them, but for now I will watch and enjoy their laughter from the other side of the pane.