Once upon a time, we were all just children watching raindrops race. We'd cheer them on as they collected droplet after droplet, comforted by the steady pattering against the window. It bore no significance, and yet we'd still feel happiness when that drop slipped off the end of the glass. What happened to them? To the children who could find joy in any storm?

The afterlife that I imagine is a field of twinkling lights. Each warm, flickering sphere is the soul of someone who passed. Surrounding them is a vibrant web born from the bonds they made on earth. The souls cannot think. They cannot stress, or become anxious, or feel pain. But they feel the pull of the lines that connect them. The warm red of a romantic love, the playful gold of the love for their children, a calming green joining them and their parents, and a deep purple between them and their friends. The souls feel love. They cannot see their memories, but they remember the feelings they had in the moment. There is no animosity or embarrassment between souls who shared a lover, and no mourning left for those the souls lost too soon. The only thing remaining is the warmth of life spreading through each chain.

You did not break down my walls. You didn't make me blindly trusting and impervious. You caught my interest, and I watched you from inside with a child-like curiosity. Every movement was bewildering, every word was fascinating. Eventually, my curiosity consumed me, and I let you in so I could learn. You helped me rebuild when my fortress was under attack. You made windows so I could still experience life. You brought me paint, and helped me cover every wall with a beautiful mural. I am still guarded. I still have my walls. But it no longer hurts to see their dreary bricks. I feel safe, and I feel happy. You didn't leave me without shelter. You made it into a home, and made me feel comfortable enough to venture out on my own.

I've always been drawn to the night sky, though until today I've never realized why. The stars tell stories and the darkness echoes, but that is not where I find my solace. It is the moon, big and bright.

The moon is a lonely thing. It may seem well loved, with the twinkle of the dancing stars surrounding it. But they do not shine for the moon, they shine for themselves, a million miles away. There are no moons that share orbit with ours. She is alone.

The moon is a frightened thing. She has no spin or dance of her own. Even to the bodies closest to her, she only ever shows one side. She may look different, but no matter what, the pieces you see do not tell the whole story. She is not free to show her full self.

The moon is a vibrant thing. She is radiant and glowing. Despite her struggles, she persists, graciously sharing the light she has collected. She helps those who are lost, beaming through clouds like a lighthouse in a storm. And yet people choose to spend their time in the harsher light of the day. They take her for granted.

The moon is like me, and I take comfort in this. The waves of the tide she leads are calming. The heavenly glow that envelops her brings me peace. I thrive in the night and welcome its gentle touch. I am La Lune, daughter of the moon.

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.

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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.