Tantalized by the mirage of utopia, we scavenge relentlessly, chipping away at our sanity as we nibble on gold and clutch liquidity to our chests. It’s a tragic reality, really—this compulsive drive to outshine the competition until we find ourselves in a stratosphere of own own making, within a sphere of influence that is both finite and volatile. They say money is the root of all evil, and forsooth, it leads us down paths we’ve been warned against time and time again. In the end, you’ll surely become a hollow husk, a mere cadaver strewn along the shores of your own wealth, disillusioned by the stark realization that everything you’ve strived for amounts to nothing. You can’t take material with you when you cross the bridge between life and death — none of that will matter.

Society seeks to govern your every thought and action. Through the omnipresent reach of mass media, they feed you the illusion that material success is the pinnacle of achievement, the ultimate endgame. But this is a falsehood—a carefully crafted narrative designed to keep you ensnared in a cycle of consumption and competition.

Simply put: do not let them dictate your desires or your destiny. For, beneath the dimensional surface, beyond the noise, vibrations exist—energy, exists. Subtle yet powerful currents embedded in our nature that shape the very fabric of reality around us, whether for the greater or lesser. Your vibrational consistency, the resonance of your true self, is more important than anything they can offer. For destiny is a cylinder, & fate a sphere.

I had opened my mouth to speak — that was when she

struck with a cobra’s sly impetus.

"I MISSED YOU",

"I missed you..."

Her fingers were a conflicting alternation from her voice - gentle at first, caressing the waning sillhoutte of my visage — then I felt. They coiled around teeth with a corrosive touch that turned them bare and brittle; she then began tugging away at each of them — starting from the very front two. I remember drooling like a madman halfway into the torture, a mouth pooling with blood.

Inebriation inhibited my reception of pain —but the warmth the couplet rivulets of blood streaming down my mouth radiated could almost be called comforting. As if I willingly volunteered to get them pulled, to be in this appalling state of psychosis.

Once she pried out the final tooth, I awoke in a panic.

Lord, the pain… I had to press my finger against my teeth while writing this just to feel a smidgen of the agony. It was as if a stray football had jetted straight into my teeth , toothy detritus shards flying out as I take a sharp jolt back. I ran a finger along them: but even that hurt! I nearly hurled out swears to the sun! Those aches continued for almost an hour!

And yet, this was a pearl in the harbor, an unpleasant experience garnishing some food for thought - mostly in the sought of meaning behind the dream; if there had been any subliminal significance behind it.

Our conscience is an intrinsically artistic pallette of intricate interpretations of our lives, illustrated by the subconscious in REM. In a way, it can be your brain's way of descrying into the future by analyzing your current situation and portraying them in a sort of picturesque nuance - when dreams turn to nightmares, they often entail more than what meets the eye.

Analogous to their antithesis, it's like life’s way of sitting you down at that business table, aggressively pointing at the lower-most data point indicative of the most recent sales, and telling you, “If you keep this up, we’ll be packing our bags and closin' down business!” — change is needed urgently, lest the consequences be immediate, and, at times, devastating.

I was in a 6 year relationship - on and off. She was my heart. The core of my soul. But somewhere along the line, juggling trying to pass senior year with flying colors, helping people with peer-specific recommendation letters and personal essays, and becoming more proactive in my community, simply became a burdensome, at times insurmountable task that required my full attention. In other words, having to take a few steps back from her. Despite all the memories, all the promises in hopes of a future together - behind closed doors, she initiated things with another man. This dream had occurred but a week prior to this discovery, encased behind a white screen and blurred lies...

That was when it occurred to me.

This was no nightmare. It was a blessing in disguise.

It was an interpretation of my current vulnerability to the precepts of deception. It was my conscience telling me to introspect, to dive deep in the pool of my problems, and not run as it undulates.

I needed to stop worrying about the pain of loss and start thinking about the joy of gain. Not every pebble you throw will skip, so don’t drown in the thought : don’t overthink, just do. She needed to be displaced out of my life entirely. Had I remained, I would have lived an absentmindedly cyclical life of complacency, a thought that rattles my inner core with anxiety, and, at the time, a sort of cynicism. I am already prone to sloth and procrastination: a work in progress. Remaining in that relationship would have only manipulated me into wanting to re-tie an untied bond, and kept me entangled in a need for constant closure.

And yet, the entire situation also made me realize something else: had I not been bogged down by the fears of loss and doubts of depreciation, I wouldn’t have honed my grievances into passion, and passion to art.

Out in the multiverse, there's a version of me who never put pen to paper, and never found his dream.

That could've been me.

I should’ve known seeing you that afternoon wasa sign of the times to come. Like a bird’s wispy sermons at the peak of dawn.

You made my day.

Your hugs, always lukewarm; your hands caressing my back with a tenderness that spoke of unspoken love and overbearing loss. In your arms, infinity felt infinitesimal, thoughts blank. In your arms, I felt like I could breathe again.

You made my day.

I still remember.

Weathered asphalt, permeating with the smell of fresh rain; somehow, the light would glint off the road, and rainbows always coalesce along one of the walkways in its direct intersection. Devoutly, I saw it as a reminder that nature sprouts its roots to even the most gravelly, rugged places, like a rose rising betwixt the crevasses of man's cementation.

Head east, and every step past that led to steep, brick stairs in triplet, before leading to the apartment complex's main door. I used to tell my father all the time - I didn't know how to speak what was on my mind at the time - "the floor looks kinda old", to which he'd explain you'd been living here for over 20 years... It was only when I grew up did I observe & absorb enough to know almost every complex is built out of brick & concrete. Insipid. Yet, the patterns from the brick layering were always able to swaddle my eyes from the other things going on around the block. Nonetheless.

Ringing your bell and hearing your voice leap with a gaiety I could never get used to... I loved it. I loved every moment.

You used to tell me there was something different about me from the rest of the family, that I was special, level-headed, and cerebral. That you believed there was more to me than I let others see. You were the first to tell me to strive for a legacy, to leave something behind when my fleeting trial in this world had run its course. I hold that lesson close to my heart to this day. You were as selfless as you were strong and independent. And it sicks me that it was only after I saw you on that hospital bed, with the gurney disheveled and your eyes so red they seemed to cry blood, did I realize all those years I spent falling to my knees in defeat should have been spent uplifting you in your time of peril.

Your last hug was a glacial reminder of my own inadequacy. I was too weak. I've always been afraid that I'd never become the man evoked in phantasmagoria. That "Golden Child"; the one to uplift millions doing what I love best, all while nesting a future family. And, honestly, I'm far from it. A caricature, if anything. Yet, Grandma, without you, I wouldn't have learned the value of taking every day one step at a time, and speaking to souls one breath at a time.

Losing you tears at my soul every single day.

But I know your love for me was as certain as it was unconditional. A son should never have to bury his mother. A son's son should never have to watch his father replace the moon at the hilltop as he picks up a shovel at the brink of night. It should never be that way. But a face can tell the tragic novella of one's life better than words can... as can an autopsy.

So I always think back to that afternoon, where, after almost three years of purgatory, I got to see you again. Your last words, once bringing a smile to my face, now only sending a rush down my spine and a churning my stomach.

You made my day.

You made my day.

You made my day.

Hm...

I'm stuck for a loop.

I write, fervently seizing the moment like a gladiator descrying victory unveil in the most opportune moment to strike.

But somewhere along the way, I stop. The flickers of the pen cease, a ballpoint voyager crusading through the flux of ink with seeking strokes of desperation coming to a crossroads. I falter to its wispy sermons, the pen; a cattleman to the thoughts. The instrument used to muse spirit into the reprisal of word is the same instrument used to consume the all-looming despair in insouciance, until life is one daily dose of a placebo - growing indifferent to what I write not due to its contents, but because there's better out there.

This is when I dissipate into the husk of obscurity, as a neural response to the nigh infinite mental affliction of my own sub-doing. Soon after, I lose traction, cease to gain momentum, and, ultimately, fall short of expectation.

But perhaps, therein lies the paradox: the pen, that relentless cattleman of thought, must also be the architect of its own liberation. For it is not in the perfection of the stroke, nor in the unbroken momentum of the hand, that true creation is found, but in the very act of wrestling with the void, of teetering on the precipice between brilliance and despair.

To falter is to be human; to rise, divine. The cessation of the ink's flow is not a failure, but a necessary breath—a pause in the symphony where the next note awaits its birth. The indifference you feel is but a shadow, a specter born of comparison, that fades when faced with the light of self-acceptance.

I say this to say: write not to conquer, but to explore. Let the pen wander through the unknown, tracing the contours of your soul, where the greatest work lies not in what is perfected but in what is revealed. Embrace it, for it is the flow of thought that matters more. All that rise must fall. It is only when you rise back up again that you realize you’ve never truly fallen to begin with.

I don’t know how I got to 22.

Or rather: I don’t know how I’ve gotten so close to 23.

It’s like I blinked once and suddenly transmogrified from a helpless boy, vicariously searching for his nonpariel in the trove of his idyllic life, to a man with real issues and even realer responsibilities. There’s no longer the time to explore the horizon when the ship should’ve sailed years ago. Up until this point ,  I’ve indulged in a life of impetuous consternation, shunned to a brooding discomfort by the same devices I muddled through.

Conversing with others no longer feels productive. Instead, it’s turned into a game of “are they being disingenuous?”, and I’ve always gotta be the host… I used to believe the ideal weekend for me was smoking a few blunts and hopping on the game with the boys. Now, it all feels like we’re scraping time away from the clocks of our mortality, utilizing the already sparse free time we have to “have fun” when the fun’s become restricted in intervals and moments.

Abstinence is to subsistence as eating is to drink water, and a pleasure that is no longer ephemeral becomes an addiction. It’s an easy lesson to learn whilst difficult to evoke without some sort of internal backlash.

It’s as though I’ve been running in place, trying to reconcile the boy who once believed in endless horizons with the man who now feels the weight of every passing second.

Will they ever thread the distance?

Is it love if the arid ravines careering along my heart no longer quaver the same tune, yet yield the same bittersweet harvest I’ve grown accustomed to?

When every breath is a caustic sigh woven into the fabrics of their mercurial essence — heavy & repugnant, like chainsmoke, yet refreshing, as the ethereal beauty of spring?

If every moment is a weeping breath in a billow of their broodful temperament?

You hurt me to no return.

Even then, I admittedly still craved you by my side -tugging at my pillows, caressing my stomach - enamored by a deep yearning of your presence...

It's as if every night my heart still finds a way to heal the gash you left behind; as if you're still in possession of a key you didn't deserve.

I miss it.

It takes a strong soul to forgive. But it takes an even stronger soul to justify and rationalize; to sift past the manifold of possibilities, and unearth the layers of disillusionment, arriving at a reasoned conclusion.

I still find myself tracing over my lips at the thought of you.

One fault, one mishap, one screw up, could never outweigh or outclass the you I’ve come to cherish...

I just need to get over myself.

But I fear I'm running out of time.

火 — Fire.

地球 — Earth.

空気 — Air.

水 — Water.

Written in the veritable dunes of history long ago, man and spirit arose in coalescence. What was meant to be a veil between worlds acted intuitively as a point of conveyance from one life to the next.

It was The Avatar, master of all four elements, progenitor of peace and overseer of the world, who eventually saw the apertures in life's cloth left behind by the uncouth spirits plaguing the realm — it was in these flaws a stern belief embedded itself into the manifolds of his philosophy, where he predicted the only means for man & spirit to truly live in harmony was seclusion.

Raava admonished the malefic influence of her counterpart, Vaatu. The Avatar of their time, Avatar Wan, insisted on conjointing forces with Raava to defeat her antithesis, albeit impromptu, in a glorious attempt to savor the fleeting breaths of the spirit, and restore anew. He fought valiantly, merging with the mother of all elements, & prevailed in the end, locking Vaatu away within the Tree of Time: but as time progressed, the primeval battle of light and dark cyclically took effect, an infinite perpetuation of life before & after affliction sought evermore.

In the aftermath of the fated battle between good and evil, Avatar Wan, having defeated the root of malevolence, sealed the spirit portals shut, hopeful in never needlessly opening them again...

20,000 years have passed since then. Ancient times mentioned in requiem with the rare emergence of spirits, disappearing;

100 years have passed since the monumental mishaps of Korra. Like orbital phases, the world wanes & waxes in and around darkness. The Spirit Vines, if intercepted, threaten the dissemination of spirits across Northern and Southern poles. Among these spirits... Vaatu.

The Temple of Healing once perched atop one of the city's towering spires, radiating as a beacon of hope and integral haven for residents and travelers alike. Hallowed walls came to life in an opulent array of animation, gleaming in the ubiquity of sunlight. Intricate tapestries and ornate decorations adorned its monolithic visage. Doctors, nurses, and physicians studiously practice their craft, adroit in their fields of interest. The hospital was illustrious for its expertise in medicinal herbs & herbal remedies, acupuncture, and holistic healing methods, dabbling in the old while inviting the new with open arms.

Its new premise loomed on the edge of town, ascertaining to sit on the outskirts of the city; its facade was weathered and worn, casting long shadows that seemed to swallow & disperse any light seized by its threatening aura. As the diaspora of Earth Kingdom residents desperately beseeching sanctity, the hospital no longer stood as a beacon, but a harrowing reminder of the malignancies that ran amok along the streets. Stepping through its rusted gates, a chill crept down the spines of even the most seasoned combatants, an unshakeable sense of forebode adamant in settling in the pit of their stomachs. Lush gardens turned sully, plants wilting in the amassment of atmospheric heat; tranquil courtyards held a dreaded silence—the scene notably lackluster.

Inside, the air was thick with despair & oppression. The reception area was a bleak tableau of misery, with patients slumped in chairs, their hollow eyes staring blankly into the void. Some were missing whole ligaments, the unfortunate victims of crossfire from the explosions prior. Others, charred to a crisp, their skin bearing burns of the third degree. Behind the desk, weary staff members moved with a ghostly pallor, their smiles forced and devoid of warmth. Blood-stained gurneys lined the corridors, blemishing the walls with accidental smears and strokes. The wails of the injured echoed off their cold, sterile surface. Medical teams moved with grim determination, their faces etched with the impending sense of doom lingering. Patient wards and rooms were no better, each one a chamber of horrors where suffering and despair reigned supreme. In the dimly lit halls, tortured souls writhed in anguish, their cries for mercy drowned out by the relentless march of time.

Mei Lin greeted visitors with a warm smile, revitalizing weary faces around her until they gleamed with joy, if only for a moment. Her laughter echoed softly, a rare sound that brought a fleeting sense of hope to her grim surroundings.

Even as her eyes meandered off into space, a hand rested gently on her cheek, her aura exuded a sense of liberation concomitant to an airbender, albeit, loftier, unwavering. Even as patients were rushed in missing whole jaws and legs, or incurring serious spinal injuries, she made sure to apply such efficacy in care they managed to keep calm even in their positions. Her presence alone acted almost as an intermediary between realms, a source of reassurance and equilibrium.

'Packed again, Sojun. We've almost reached the max capacity — again.'

She sighed emphatically. If anyone had to take up the burden of watching families in peril, it was her. Day in & day out, she watched the light dim from each & every visitor's eyes when she has to announce the hospital is full. Crime was already prevalent in the Earth Kingdom—and the resurrection of the Dai Lee only made hard living even harder in the long run. While the streets suffered, & the impoverished watched helplessly as their pockets thinned, they were also subjugated to watch the rich get richer. Loathing the government for their utter incompetence was the norm, a status quo that harbored some truth in hindsight.

'Maybe I'll have to open up my own little clinic one of these days. What should I name it?' Her lips ceased to move as she spoke. As though brandishing a title, hands enthralled in the idea portrayed a gesture of grandiosity, as though snapping a picture of the scene playing in her mind. 'Mei Lin's Soul Blossom Sanctuary.'

Behind her stood a girl. She bore the aesthetic of someone young, an innocent soul in the midst of chaos. Her luscious brown hair draped down to her shoulders, straight follicles gleaning in the dregs of light present. Despite the harsh heat still wafting the air, she donned a winter coat, visibly unphased by the abnormality in temperature. Her voice took on a spectral tone, with a dissonant pitch that sounded like she was far away even when she was only at a few feet's distance.

"I dunno if it rings off the tongue too well. Maybe Serene Spirit Healing Oasis?”

What if we shortened it to 'Serene Spirits' and made our slogan 'Serene Spirits: A Healing Clinic'?

"OOOOOOO! SOUNDS FANCY!"

Mei Lin's laughter blares caution signs above every patients' head in the area. Eyes swing over to her, curious as to who she was communicating with. She only attuned to their stares the moment she was confronted by the latest visitor.

"Welcome to the Temple of Healing! How may I assi—"

The bass & urgency in his voice cut deep through the joy, terse cries for help serrating the ears of all staff members present.

"MY DAUGHTER!”

“SHE'S BEEN HIT!”

“SHE'S BEEN HIT!”

“WE NEED A DOCTOR!”

“PLEASE!”

The girl clung to her seat, trying to hold herself upright. But her strength waned, and she slowly slumped forward, her eyes struggling to stay open. She was noticeably red, with large quantities of a black mucus escaping her nostrils in strings. Her hands were coated in a crude, jet black, redolent of oil. This nasal drip persisted even as Mei Lin tried to assess the situation as best she could; Sojun's eyes widened upon first glances. As the girl coughed twice, nearly hacking out a lung from the sheer force burdening each cough, the girl inadvertently let out a thick, opaque miasma, its tint leaving Mei with thoughts that she was infected with some sort of rare, infectious disease. The receptionist stepped back, mortified at the sight. She lightly wagged her head, acknowledging that this was something serious, and quite new. Mei Lin's heart raced as she watched the girl's condition worsen. Every second transpiring sapped her of more and more energy, until the flushing in her skin wilted away into a paling, emaciated figure.

‘... she's too young to be cursed.’ she murmured in the pacing scape of her mind. Every second mattered more than the last in saving a patient — especially one whose life energy has begun wilting away before her fingertips.

Mei was in a race for time.

She fervently paced to the computer terminal equipped with a microphone. Tapping the mic once, she cleared her throat, parched with desperation, before calling out to any doctors on standby: "Attention! All available medical staff! We have an emergency situation at the reception area, immediate assistance is needed! I repeat: emergency in the reception area, we need all hands on deck!”

Unbeknownst to Mei Lin, Sojun was already on the case; she was one of the descriers who the scene was most heartaching for. She empathized with the girl—it wasn't like she asked for the roots of destruction to coil around her in such a form. She, like many, many others, was a casualty in the onslaught, a denizen caught in the fray. She didn't deserve it. In a sense, it spoke volumes to the long lasting effects spiritual incursions—an invasion of negative chi on the soul; an influx—had on one's physical wellness. Had it not been for Sojun, maybe this would've been her end. A youthful spirit gone too soon amidst a conflict that hadn't even concerned her.

But this was what the cesspool the world had amounted to.

Nobody in this world deserves to experience their life flashing before their eyes, as they can only pray as the time goes by that everything will be alright...

Nobody.

"Sweet, sweet child. He did this to you, didn't he? You no longer have to be scared anymore. I know. I understand how scary it can be, feeling like the world is against you, like your only option is to die, or else be held hostage as a captive in your mind, writhing in pain for the rest of your life.”

"The person you'll come to learn about in those books. This great "savior of the world". He isn't your friend. He's an enemy that needs to be stopped... and from what I sense, you're just a girl who flew to close to the sun. You got caught in something bigger than yourself: but you shouldn't have to suffer for wanting to sprout your wings and be free." This was in reference to Sozin, The Avatar. The supposed "progenitor of peace"—a statement Sojun long believed to have went extinct with the death of Avatar Aang, & thus, just another fable in the annals of history.

Kneeling before her, Sojun's hand slowly gravitated towards hers. She could feel the girl's discomfort on a spiritual level; in an effort to calm her down for the healing process, she speaks to her delicately, careful of her volume and precise with the thematic value surrounding her words. Broken spirits needed fixed spirits to tell them how to fix themselves. This especially reigned true here.

"I know because I've been there. I've felt lost and scared, just like you. But they couldn't cure me fast enough, and I don't want that for you. You're brave and resilient, Yumi. I'll make sure it stays that way, okay?"

"Now, this will hurt a bit but don't move too much, okay?"

Sojun grimaced with pity upon contact: her touch was rigid and rough, her hands glacial & stiff, their tips purple. It was only when Sojun interlocked fingers with hers that she felt the vivifying warmth of blood circulation once more. A palliative force soothed her muscle spasms, curing her state of paralysis. The viscosity dripping onto her skirt cut like closing a faucet shut. Sunken eyes returned to their normal, ivory shade…

Meanwhile, the girl's father sobbed to his heart's content, giving into the rush of survivor's guilt. His life flashed before his eyes, as the light in them, too, had long dissipated away before he arrived. He was a husk of the man he once was—a father through & through, but one utterly disappointed in himself & what he adamantly believed was his own incompetence.

"I just wish I could've been there to protect her…”

“Is that why you punish me, Raava?” “Because I couldn't be there to protect her? I should have seen this coming... the world's a cold, cold place, and I've just never been the one to put on a jacket and handle my damn business... I could've just gone to the archery another day... "

“Oh, how the hell am I gonna tell your mom about this one, Yumi..."

He didn't need to turn around. Only listen to the sweet melody that pursued his attention: and captivated him nonetheless. It awoke him from his somber comatose.

"P-papa...?"

"Papa...!"

She ran into his arms. The warm embrace he gave her was one of endearment, awe-struck at the sight. "O..oh my god..." His jaw unhinged to unconsciously display the rollercoaster of emotions toppling over: for him, a blessing was the only way to describe it. "My angel! Yu-Yu! My angel!"

The girl squeals out in joy, "She saved me, Papa! The lady—she saved me!"

"...what lady, yu-yu?"

"There!" She points at Sojun—but all her father can see is the void of space.

He shook his head.

"Who? __There's nobody there__, yumi…”

In the confines of Mei Lin's car, the vision unfolded—a mere glimpse of what lay ahead. As a seeress, her insight often came at a dismal cost—her mind a portent battleground for the whispers of fate. Ignis fatuus, an eyesore kin to the insidious flame of foresight, swayed at the edges of her consciousness, a constant reminder of the precarious nature of her existence.

"Ugh," Mei Lin muttered to herself, fumbling with the pill bottle in her hand. "I forgot to take my medicine again." She shook her head in frustration. It was the third time this week she'd forgotten. But who would have blamed her...

All her attention was deprived by the thinning veil between the world.

‘What type of hellhole do we live in for an Avatar to disregard his duties entirely and kill the innocent..?’

‘I don't think I'll ever see any method to this madness.’

Mei Lin glanced at the dashboard clock, the hands ticking closer to the start of her shift. The flashback to the vision lingered in her mind, the echo of Sojun's words reverberating through her thoughts.

As she pondered the significance of the scene, Mei Lin reached for her medication, intending to take her usual dose. But something nagged at her... tugging at her spirit. A sense of emergency, with a tinge of importance she simply could not ignore.

With a trembling hand, Mei Lin poured out a handful of pills, swallowing them in one swift motion. The bitter taste lingered on her tongue, a bitter reminder of the sacrifices she made to maintain her sanity in a world that didn't understand her one bit.

As the car idled in the parking lot, Mei Lin closed her eyes, the weight of her secrets pressing down upon her as they do daily. She wondered what the prognostication could mean in regards to her—& whether it ended there, or if chaos found its way to the hospital in the end. But for now, all she could do was wait—and pray that she had made the right choice.

"Let's hope everything goes smoothly I guess.”

What history doesn't teach you...

Raava & Vaatu were not one primordial spirits—there are more. 7, to be exact.

Long ago, nestled in the spirit realm, there existed a group of seven young spirits known as the 7 Virtues of Bushido. The inauguration of their birth would only come during the creation of the Spirit Vines, a time when the fabrics of the spirit realm strengthened, and nature thrived. They grew stronger alongside it, harnessing its energy for the greater good. While Raava & Vaatu dealt with savoring and destroying the balance, they instead honed their talents to employ justice and enforce peace across the spirit realm.

The plethora of contributions attributed to their efforts were in vain due to Avatar Sozin's legion of dark spirits. As they terrorized the natural world in drastic numbers, The Sentinels have climbed into a resurgence.

"Oof..! I've gotta ease my mind a bit: how about some music to cheer the mood—”

"—in honor of you, Sojun. As always.” She let out a lighthearted chuckle.

Mei reached out to the dashboard, her fingertips grazing the worn surface of the radio. The radio crackled to life with a determined twist of the knob, the sound of radio static filling the room with tension that only magnified the metric tons of pressure already present. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she navigated through the channels, each one offering a cacophony of voices, music, & advertisements. On her fifth attempt, an unfamiliar jingle captured her attention:

"IT'S THE PRO BOWL TOURNAMENT, WHERE LEGENDS ARE BORN,"

"FIRE, EARTH, WATER, WIND, IT'LL BLOW UP THE STORM!”

"STEP UP IN THE RING,"

"YOU'LL FEEL THE FIRE,"

"FEEL THE HEAT,"

"CRUSIN' ALL UP ON THESE FLOWS JUST LIKE ITS CRACK UP IN THEM STREETS."

"FROM THE STREETS TO THE STAGE,"

"100K FOR A PAGE,"

"CHAMPIONS RISE, WE IDOLIZE,"

"AND WHEN THAT CHECK COME WE STRAIGHT."

"SO GRAB YOUR TICKETS, COME ALIVE,"

"REMEMBER: DON'T HESITATE,"

"WITNESS THE GREATNESS IN STORE,"

"BECAUSE ITS NEVER TOO LATE."

"BE THERE CUZ ITS A CELEBRATION"

"PRO BENDING TOURNAMENT, ITS A REVELATION."

Title: Avatar: Sozin's Comet.

Genre: Fantasy.

Age Range: 16+.

Word Count: 2,920 Words.

I believe my project is a good fit because I'm currently working on refinement, clarity, and pacing, and with an opportunity like this I believe I can mesh my writing style with the Avatar universe to give an immersive take on the universe for all Avatar fans across the world to enjoy!

His eyes are ¹ ², caliginous orbitals, celestial bodies born in a nebula, insipid of light.

His face is plump, ¹⁰ to a rotund, pit-bellied fool, black freckles speckled along his ⁵, dotting his nose.

His ³ slits follow your every move. Seeping through your skin. The smell of marijuana is fragrant. A nauseating stench tinges your nostrils.

Stygic, even — forcing a visceral reaction, snapping your neck to the side, sullying the moment in befowlment.

⁶ coerces you to writhe at the sight of the ghastly specter.

The hairs on the back of your neck ⁷.

Your heart ⁸ a beat.

Syllabic dregs escape its lips, words you could only ⁹ make out even if you acquired its rosetta stone.

And yet, you feel an insistent compulsion to place your hand on the glass frame...

So you do.

Your hands gingerly ⁷ off the circumference of the sink. Slowly, as if spacetime and gravity declared it impromptu in the ¹¹ spectrum of events spindled by destiny's hands, you pivot a hand onto the frame. Friction gives way—everything else ceases to matter. And as you collide with the tempered glass, you find yourself tumbling headfirst into the aventurine confines.

What you see… is a list:

¹ Gaping

² Apertures

³ Jagged

⁴ Coffee

⁵ Cold Visage

⁶ Dread

⁷ Rise

⁸ Skips

⁹ Partially

¹⁰ Concomitant

¹¹ Grand

The instructions on the bottom:

Read it back.

How can a man write out his woes without the tears welding in his eyes falling with every stroke? As yet another door shutters before slamming in his face. Will he ever come to forget the pain that trails within those tears? Will he ever come to terms with who he is as a person, and uphold a certain contentment with being subpar? But how could a captive forget wrought steel, as cold and spiritually incarcerating as bare feet on concrete? Or the dust, compiled as tarry crust, outlining the walls and creeping along corners? Or the spindles of webs from spiders long vanished, grains of sand in time’s dunes? Or the mice, terrorizing him for morsels of food, drinking his water, stealing what little sustenance he has left. Devouring what remains of his sanity.

Is there more to life than the crude sentiments sparsely disseminated between forgotten memories?

He asks, and asks, and asks, knowing the answer dwells in the void. But by the end of the day, he’ll tell himself:

The answer is in tomorrow.

Some see a glass full of gold,

Some see a glass full of ether.

Euthanized out the litre,

They eat en mass with the reaper.

Platonic with viscosa,

That nova-pass be the preacher,

Aspirin' the youth to toke up,

amass all the reefer—

Cole said it.

If you can't sift through Holy Apostles

Then don't go acting prophetic.

If you can't drift through Roman Epistles

Then don't go actin' moet-ic.

Ironic, can't apprehend it.

Ironic, can't comprehend it.

Ironic, can't juxtapose it.

But I suppose only rolling over beat clothes and dead sofas

Contuse the slews of condonin' loans to hearts that can't afford ta' (to),

Obtuse abstruse,

When you widen angles it shifts their composure.

Just because angles correspond don't mean they share the same closure.

Adjacency's complacency,

Your higher purpose supposed to,

Swirl vortically in vertices,

Feathers of wisdom not covert.

And to many it sounds pathetic when the message ain't overt.

But too many eulogies came up to inspire a sole verse,

Like palpable euphony, our voice inspires the soul search—

That's composure.