Theres this girl.

Shes gorgeous but doesnt see it.

Dark brown almost black hair.

Favorite color blue.

Her eyes are brown.

She thinks their boring, but their so captivating.

Whenever I dare look into them, I can barely look away.

It pains me so so much to see them wet or filled with pain...

Not only her outside, but her inside is gorgeous.

Kind but not a doormat.

Caring, maybe a little too much.

Shes like a fireball, blazing and shining.

Everyone notices her, can’t help it.

Everyone knows her because she makes herself known.

Her touch is amazing.

You could be panicing and she hugs you,

everything melts away.

Its an amazing feeling...

She loves kids, wants her own someday.

She doesnt like crowds too much, but neither do I.

She knows what its like to be alone so she ties her best to make sure nobody else feels that way.

Even though she has had a hard life,

shes one of the strongest people I know.

Im so so lucky to have her in my life...

And I plan on never losing her.

A man reclined in his aged, checkered armchair, gazing into the flickering fire that burned before him in his well kept brick fireplace. The piercing eyes of his father’s portrait gazed disapprovingly at him from it’s shimmering golden frame above the fireplace. The man held his pipe aloft in his hand, bringing it to his mouth every once in awhile to smoke as he listened to the rhythmic patter of the rain on his window and the spontaneous crackling of his fire.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A look of confusion crept on the man’s face as he heard the knocking coming from his door. He was not expecting any visitors at this hour.

He heaved himself out of his chair and hastily attempted to make himself appear more presentable - brushing his pants down and smoothing out his cropped brown hair. As he peered through the peephole of his door, his mouth twisted into a grin.

“Oliver!” he laughed as he opened the door. “It’s been a long time old friend!”

A tall, dark figure entered the house, shaking the man’s hand as he towered over him.

“Yes,” the man’s voice rumbled like thunder. “It has been a long time, my dear friend.”

“I wish you had warned me that you were coming! I would’ve tried to clean up a bit around here!” the man laughed. “Now give me your coat before you drown my carpet!” he said, reached for his long black trench coat. Oliver flinched and pulled away.

“If it is alright with you, I would like to keep it on for now. I am still quite cold,” he said. “Besides, I was only outside for a moment, I am barely wet.”

“In that case, if you are cold, let us sit in front of the fire,” said the man, beckoning Oliver to follow his lead to the two armchairs resting in front of the fireplace.

As Oliver followed the man who had his back turned to him, he pushed back the side of his trench coat, letting a long, sharpened knife glimmer in the light of the fire. His hand flexed over the handle, clenching and unclenching. His calculating, piercing eyes fixed on the back of the man. As the man approached his chair and began to turn around to sit, Oliver quickly covered the knife under his coat to avoid the man noticing it.

However, the man paused before he sat down.

“I think I’ll put the kettle on,” he said.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” said Oliver.

The man strode off around the corner into the kitchen. Oliver stretched his hands out towards the fire to try to warm them, but they were shaking violently. As the man re-entered the room, Oliver quickly withdrew from the fire to avoid the man from seeing the state of his hands.

“Some weather we’re having, huh?” the man said as he sat down.

“Yeah, it’s been raining cats and dogs for days now,” Oliver responded.

A flash of lightning filled the room, followed shortly by a quick burst of roaring thunder, then silence.

“So,” the man continued, trying to strike up a real conversation, “what brings you here today?”

“I was just walking by and I thought it might be nice to see an old friend,” he responded.

“Yes, it has been quite some time, hasn’t it?” said the man, gazing into the fire trance-like. Images of the flames danced in his wide rim glasses.

“Are you alright?” Oliver asked after a few moments of silence.

“Oh, excuse me!” the man responded, shaken from whatever deep thought he had been in while gazing into the fire. “I haven’t quite been myself lately,” he said, chuckling to himself.

The rain seemed to pick up, pounding on the windows of the man’s home. The man stared at Oliver, eyeing his coat.

“Are you sure you would not be more comfortable taking it off?” he asked.

“No, I’m alright with it on,” Oliver responded. Again, silence.

“Have you heard about Jamie?” the man asked finally. Oliver’s face looked nervous for a moment, but he quickly returned to neutral.

“Yes, quite terrible to see someone die so young. You were pretty close to him, right?” Oliver asked.

“Yes,” he said. “We all were.”

The room was filled with the sound of the storm outside.

“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “the police are beginning to suspect that it was a murder.” His eyes darted from the fire to look into Oliver’s. “Strange, huh?”

“Yes,” Oliver responded, unfaltering. “Very strange.”

“But, we should be used to it by now, shouldn’t we? Afterall, it’s not like this is the first time something like this has happened to us.” The man got up now, but rather than approaching Oliver, he loomed over the fire to stare at it again, his arms resting behind him.

“What do you mean?” Oliver asked. A bead of sweat dripped down his face and onto his coat.

“Well, remember last month? When Rebecca went missing?” he asked.

“Ah, yes. They found her a few days ago, didn’t they? Dead in the river?”

“Also strange, isn’t it? Another one of our close friends, dead?”

“Yes, strange.”

“And get this - the police are also beginning to suspect she was murdered, almost like there is a pattern,” he said. He looked back over at Oliver with a piercing look. Oliver looked away into the fire. “Not only that, but Peter and Tabitha are missing now, which makes everyone in our group of friends dead or missing,” he said. He paused. “Besides us of course.”

“Yes, I agree, it is very unusual. Do you think we have a serial killer on our hands?” Oliver asked, now dripping sweat.

“Possibly, but you know what’s unusual about that?”

“What?”

“The police have found evidence suggesting each person was killed in their houses, with no signs of forced entry. Almost as if they let the killer in - like they were an old friend.”

“What can I say, the situation is very strange, I’ve never heard of anything like it, especially around here.”

Thunder rumbled, and Oliver’s sweaty and slippery hands began to hover over where the knife was hidden as the man looked back into the fire.

“You know,” he began, now starting to smile a bit, “it’s not like these are the only missing and murdered people in the city though. Just last week, someone down the street went missing. The police still haven’t found him, or his body.”

There was another long silence.

“Wait, Peter?” Oliver suddenly asked, confused.

“What about him?” he asked.

“You said earlier that he went missing.”

“Yes, quite sad.”

“Well, I haven’t seen anything in the papers about it,” Oliver said. The man was silent. “In fact, I saw him only this morning, on my way to work.”

Suddenly, the kettle began to whistle out of control. The noise it blasted echoed across the room, and the two jumped slightly from where they were, startled. The man looked away from Oliver, his back now facing him.

Oliver leapt from his seat, now brandishing the knife in his hand and lunged at the man. However, he was slow, and loud. The man spun around and grabbed the fireplace poker that was laying next to him. He thrust it forward, sending it right through Oliver, stopping him in his tracks.

“Quite strange, isn’t?” the man asked him. “That all of our old friends go missing or are dead? Almost like one of us were involved.” He slid the fireplace poker out of Oliver, and he collapsed to the ground, making a loud thud. “I have made quite the collection now, haven’t I?” he now said, mostly to himself as Oliver bled out on the ground.

Oliver seemed to try to say something, but all that came out were shakey gasps. The man strode over to the kitchen and removed the kettle from the fire. It was then he noticed that the storm outside had stopped. There was complete silence for the first time that night.

He sighed before walking back to the living room where Oliver was now laying dead. A smile briefly displayed on his face as he realized the irony in that. He looked back at Oliver. His face was twisted in fear and sadness.

“Now, don’t look so sad!” the man said, now approaching the body. “I have lots of friends in here for you!” He heaved the man up by his arms and dragged him across the room, leaving a trail of blood.

He yanked open the coat closet door as he said, “I sure am lucky you didn’t want to put your coat away.” He laughed at this for a few moments in a chilling, cackling laugh that echoed throughout the house.

My eyes hurt as the brightness of the room filled the closet. My eyes had adjusted to the minimal light that leaked through the shafts. The man tossed Oliver into the closet beside me, then stared at me. I tried to say something but he had duct taped my mouth shut.

“How are you today?” he asked me with a malicious grin plastered on his face. He closed the door again, leaving me in a world of darkness, death, and stench once again. As I tilted my head upwards to where the sky would be if I could see it, I wished he would just kill me already.

Please don’t cry.

When many things seem to look bleak.

And your knees start getting weak.

We’ve all been there.

Please don’t cry.

For you are never all alone.

You don’t have to face this on your own.

Because we will be there.

I know the situation must be bad.

And you‘ve wandered through the dark for a while.

let us help you stand,please give us your hand.

We’ll teach you to smile again friend!

Please don’t cry.

We believe in you! :)

My Nation is in a big turmoil.

What once democracy stood for us is no more;

Secularism has lost its values

and well who knows we will be cut off from the whole world soon.

They attacked off limit, injured so many and few have been laid on their death beds.

We were beaten, detained and painted with blood sheds.

Listen to our call, we have been calling for so long!

The leaders of my Nation have turned against us,

They are trying their best to eradicate each one of us.

This is our country too and we will fight till our last breath.

#Raisevoiceagainstinjustice

Sprinkling starlight on

the seafoam frosting

at the edge of the

unknown ocean

And watching it

sink with a sparkle

beneath the glaze

of the gleaming waves

Letting my feet sink

into the spongey sand as

my toes touch the

water baked in moonlight

Never forgetting the

taste of that syrup

sweet sunset across

those delicious waters

Their words

I hate their words

Their harsh, demeaning, slithering words

Like a snake that wraps around your heart

Squeezing until it bursts

I hate their words

So I no longer listen

The air was thin. Too thin. It left me gaping like a carp above its pond.

The mountain was high. Yet, too short. I could have travelled further.

At the top, I peered at a circle of tall, rectangular boulders with edges smoothed from time. In the center of it was a stain of dry animal blood. Different tribal groups used to perform sacrifices to their gods up here all the time. Usually animals like lambs or goats. Sometimes humans.

Their history was lost for over half a millenium. But, as a historian, it was my job to rediscover it.

Slowly, I climbed over a mount of rocks to the center of the circle. “Ow.” I whispered to myself.

Gazing down at my left hand, I noticed a small gash. Must have cut myself on the rocks. I clasped my hand tight and held it to my chest.

I stared at the stones’ carvings, memorized. Such intricate work. Must have taken several years without the proper tools. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine it. Sweat dripping off my forehead as I furrowed my eyes and tried to aim the chisel and hammer…

My hand filled with blood.

“Crap.” I murmured. This was going to cut my trip short. Didn’t want to risk infection.

A drop of blood fell from my hand and splattered on the sacrifice circle. As I applied pressure to the wound, I scrambled for the exit. Just as I was about to cross out of the circle, a strong gust of wind pushed me back. Back into the center.

I groaned and walked back to the edge when a voice called out to me. “It’s been a while.”

My eyes widened. I thought was alone up here. Slowly, I pivoted around to see a small child in a dress made of silk and feathers. “Who… who are you?”

“Who am I?” She echoed. “My real name is gone. Lost in a sea of lies. Who I am might as well be who you say I am. So tell me, girl, who am I?”

“I—I don’t know.”

At first, I thought she might be some kind of god, but I’ve studied ancient religions for the past six years, but I couldn’t piece together who this girl was.

“You’re not a god.” I cautiously answered. “But you’re not a human.”

“But who am I?”

I bit down on my nail. Come on, Meredith, think! You’re standing in the middle of an ancient sacrificial altar, who would be here? If not the god they pray to, then…

“You’re Death.”

“Perhaps.” She began to approach me. “But what constraint does death have if one never… ” She grazed my cheek gently with the tip of her finger. “Truly lives? So tell me, girl, is there truth in death? Or do the lies only become stronger?”

Hours later, I awoke in my bed in a cold sweat. My head swirled, and I began to doubt the reality of the whole ordeal. “Must have been a dream.” I muttered. “Or a nightmare.”

But the fresh scar on my left hand begged to differ.

I stared down at it. “What the fUC—”

I watch from afar,

and try not to cry,

She's perfect for you;

why aren't I?

You ask how I am,

and I tell you I'm fine.

I won't tell you the truth;

I can't cross that line.

My jealousy flares,

but I try not to show.

You mean too much to me,

but you'll never know.

Not sure I can fake it,

but I'll continue to try.

So what if it hurts?

It's better to lie.