One day, I will wake up without you next to me. One day, I won't get to feel your warmth. I won't be able to hear your breath. I won't have anyone to hold me when I am afraid. I won't have anyone to tell me that I'll be okay. I want to be happy, and to focus on what's happening right now. But no matter how much I try, I can't manage to let go of these fears. The fear that one day, you won't come home. One day, you won't be able to kiss me. One day, I'll be all alone.

I don't think I'd really be alive if I ever lost you.

You know that feeling when you wake up after a nightmare? Your body remembers. Your eyes stare wide at the walls, scanning the room for danger. Every little sound is frightening. Every shadow is a threat. Your body knows that you are not safe, and it will not let go of that thought until it knows for sure that it was just a dream. Restless hours pass as you lay shivering, trying to tame your racing heart. That feeling is one I've become far too familiar with. The nightmares have started taking over my day. Physically, I am safe. Physically, I am fine. But I am always afraid that something will happen. I'm always afraid that this life I love will slip away right before my eyes, and I will be a powerless victim. How do I remind myself that I am still awake, and that I am safe? How do I stop seeing nightmares in the middle of my daydreams?

Before me stands a big oak door. I stare in silence, tracing each groove, too afraid to knock. I know already what lies on the other side. A lush garden, with vibrant flowers and a warm sun. I've been there before. I remember the cozy embrace of the garden. The delicate fragrance, the beautiful light, and the sounds of laughter from spirits running free. But one day I awoke and found that I was on the wrong side of the door.

The dark vines tug at my feet. The earth is dry, the air is arid. I can feel the thorns dig into my arms. A flame ignites the brush, and I freeze, terrified, as it blazes. I cannot escape this. I cannot go through the door, I have to keep my garden safe. My tears leave my face sticky, but I accept my fate. I know the flames will die down if I can endure them long enough. As the fire whips across my legs, I dream of leaving this hellish world.

One day, the garden door opened. At first, I was overjoyed. The wind danced, and petals flurried. But I soon became afraid of what the brush could do to it. In a panic, I gathered the flowers. I brought them to a new house, far away. I set them in water, and let them grow roots. I know I have to return to my home, but I find comfort knowing that the garden can grow freely.

With the door now open, I return to the room where the garden once was. The beloved flowers are gone, but I know that I am safe from the fire on this side of the door. Here I will stay, with no fragrance and no sun, no brush and no flames. Every so often, I brave the danger again for the chance to visit the garden. The flowers keep growing, far away from me.

One day, I decide to break free. The vines against my door will not hold me back. The fire will not control me. I find myself running back to the garden. I think of the flowers, the breeze, the sun, the spirits. I think of the time I had cherished in the garden. But when I arrive I realize that the house is locked. And once again, I am on the wrong side of the door.

I wander for a while, among the snow and ice. Among the frigid, roaring wind, I even find myself missing the fire. I feel cold and alone. Months go by, and I am nearly frozen. As I accept my stagnant condition, I feel flickers of a familiar warmth. Cautious but hopeful, I open my eyes and take in the gentle sunlight. And in front of me, I see a hand. Another person, someone just like me. I reach forward and take the hand they offered. I let them lead me to a beautiful new house. I open the door, and find that each room is empty. The hand once again reaches out, this time offering me a single flower. Tears flood my eyes as I gently brush the petals. Together, we will build a garden. One that I can truly call mine.

-------------------------

My Garden- A Fiction Short Story by Lana Gladbach, Age 21

541 Words

Ages 15+

I mostly write in stream-of-conciousness, but I also enjoy writing short stories and children's stories.

One day, my world changed.

People still hate me, but I stopped feeling like it was my fault.

I still get called stupid, but I know they don't understand.

I'm not ashamed of my mistakes anymore. I'm not embarrassed of my own behavior.

I love my mind. I love my passion and ambition. They call it obsession, but it's something far better.

I feel strongly. I laugh loud, and I cry desperately. But now I know that I'm not just "too sensitive."

I am still a living, breathing being.

In truth, nothing changed. But everything makes sense. And I want to embrace my new world

Here I sit, watching a thin line flicker. The blank page has already forgotten the words I was too afraid to share. My body feels tense, and my mind heavy. Yet despite my efforts, I cannot say what I really feel. If I am too afraid to put ink to paper, why am I here? There is no benefit to watching a bar blink. Its rhythm has no melody. Its silence offers no solace. I know that nothing can be gained from hesitating, but I almost find it superior to the vulnerability that waits on the other side. Is it really worth it to pour my burden out in front of an audience?

The world will not miss a story it never heard.

I do not consider myself to be a reclusive person, but I have a hard time feeling connected with others. I am an ambivert, so I feel energetic whether I am among friends and family or tucked away by myself. Despite this, I still find myself feeling lonely. Among my loved ones, there is a flicker of fear that my own feelings are not reciprocate, or that their feelings are pretentious. When I am alone near groups of others, I envy the connections they have. Their families are closer than mine. Their partners show more passion. Their friends seem closer than I am with mine. I attempt to replicate these behaviors in my own life, but it only serves to make me more isolated. If it doesn't work, I feel like I failed to please them. If it does, I feel like they only care about this false version of me. When I force myself to stop and think, I realize that I only feel alone because I am too afraid to belong to someone, whether romantically or not. I do not trust that I am worth loving. I self-sabotage without realizing, and wake up knowing that everyone I had has left. That's the way it's always been. Lately, I've felt close to more people than ever before. I'm starting to believe that I am really loved, and the isolated feeling I've always had is slowly fading away. But the fear of loneliness lays just behind my waking thoughts, and I worry it may come to claim me again one day.

Although the hours are dark and late, I find myself still laying awake. I think about the life I've lived, the people I love, and my moments with them. I collect these memories in little bottles. The feelings dance and the spirit sings in each treasured vial. Today my favorite is my sister's sunrise. The lavender water has such a gentle glow. Flecks of silver weave through the waves, and a feeling of peace settles against the seal. With a sweet waft of nostalgia, I put the bottle to my lips.

I close my eyes, and I am taken back to the back porch of our father's house. The gentle nip of the early spring air, the cold metal of the lawn chair against my legs, and the feeling of knowing that somebody else is there with me. Not a word passes between us as we sit there, but we have never been more connected.

The nights are worse for her. Uneasy feelings creep into her mind. They look around and settle, and they make themselves comfortable. Her thoughts eat away at her, and she cannot be alone. Her eyes refuse to let her rest. Our world changed drastically in such a short time, and so, for tonight, I offered to sit with her in the dark.

We sat on that porch, exchanging memories and emotions. Her hands calm their trembling, and her breathing slows. Her mind seems to grow quiet. Hours pass, and the morning sun breaks through the horizon. The grass gleams, and the critters greet the new day with their songs. The warmth of the sun starts to graze our skin, and we laugh at the time we just shared.

Although little had happened that day, I find peace knowing I could offer her such solace. When her nights start to feel long once again, I will be there. She knows now that, despite this changing world, she is not alone.

Growing up, my family didn't celebrate birthdays. There weren't any cakes or gifts. I never got any parties, or even family visits. I missed every age based milestone that I was taught to expect from television. When I turned 16, I didn't get to drive. When I turned 18, I was kicked out of my home. When I turned 21, I didn't drink. I've always lived my life in the same way. I didn't look forward to the years to come, and I don't miss the years that have passed. My age means very little to me, it really is just a number. I understand the holiday is important to people, and it can bring in a much needed morale boost. But to me, it's just another day. I don't want to count the years and think about what I've lost or what I've yet to gain. Instead, I keep living day-to-day, doing what I can to form a life I love.

P.S. You can't have a bad birthday if you don't have a birthday.

Spiders didn't always build webs. They used to live under leaves or piles of twigs. But one spider in particular was not content with her home. She wanted a safe path to see the world. Every time she tried to step outside, her feet would be blown out from under her. "I need something sticky to secure me," she thought. She stuck sap to her legs and began her journey across a narrow piece of bark. However, not far from her home, the wood gave way under her and she tumbled to the ground. Unharmed and undeterred, she turned back the way she came and starting planning once more."I need something more sturdy," she said. As she crawled back into her home, she remembered the silk that mother spiders use to protect their young. "It's sticky enough to stay put, and sturdy enough to hold the eggs." She began to gently weave her own silk, and lay it out in front of her. After many days of work, she had developed several delicate paths that she could venture with ease. The spider could travel wherever she wanted, and she could always rely on the strings to keep her safe and lead her back home.