And as I was walking in the workplace, I felt it again...

I felt the pull this place has, I felt its grip in my mind and in my heart. I was getting pulled into the darkness here and I had to make a decision. I couldn't just "wait this one out"—I already spent 2 years here...

This job saved me 2 years ago, gave me hope, gave me the required power to work on myself, to treasure every hour I have. I had to learn it through hardship and through the struggle of a never-ending cycle of work/home/university and repeat.

I kept calling myself "an artist." I thought that as time passed, I’d make more art and make a living out of it. I was wrong.

Truth is, I never treasured my free time before—I thought it would never end. I kept delaying making art and crafting something for the "right time," but it never came, and that poisoned my soul and my heart. I didn’t have the courage to set that dream as a priority anymore. I was 20 and I had to work.

So I'm here now, two years later, on the brink of making the biggest decision of my life:

Do I quit the job? The safe place, with a decent salary—for that dream?

Do I take a leap of faith toward the vision that only me, myself, and I can see?

Do I try to not have regret for the future?

I thought when this day comes, the answer would be very quick and simple, but no...

It’s been two weeks and I haven’t decided yet, but the thought of that dream has clouded my comfort in this place. I can’t bear it anymore. I count seconds, hours, days, and hope for the fire in me to reignite once again...

But doubt is suffocating me...

There are voices in my head that tell me, “You have 2 hours of free time every day, why don’t you use that? Because you’re lying. To yourself, to your family, to your dreams. You don’t want more time to work on your craft—you want to escape.”

And they’re right. Maybe if I really wanted it, I would've used every second of free time I had every day. But crafting is hard. Making art is hard. Writing, designing, and... it takes all of your soul. And when the soul bottle is empty, there is nothing to regain from.

Six customers came in while I was in the middle of writing this. As a shopkeeper, I owe it to them and to myself to give my 100% every time someone walks into that door—to give them my full attention, to help them as much as I can, and make them leave with a smile on their face. And I’m blessed to hear their commendations to my boss and myself. And I know I’ll be missed when I’m gone from here. And I know I gave it my all when I was working.

But when they leave, my smile fades. That ache in my heart grows bigger and darker, and I have no choice but to fight it or try to run away...

I’ve always loved Spider-Man. I wanted to be him. But I never thought I’d be Peter Parker.

K, so this post got me thinking. I'm not planning to attempt this challenge. I'll just throw out ideas in a stream of consciousness, so here goes random ideas for hiding codes and illusions in writing.

First, ambigrams (the words that say something different when looked at upside down) would be a good example of this. Sadly, that would be hard to do on prose but they should be incorperated into books more. They could be used on the covers, spines or for chapter titles.

Secondly, you could make papers that when laid on top of each other, and held up to the light, fill in each other's blanks and create entirely new sentences. That or a code embedded in a story through the chapter headings explaining the end. Or, if writing with an unreliable narrator, the first letter of each chapter, put next to each other in order, could spell out "this book is a lie," or something along those lines. Also, I have always loved that thing some books do where the first letter of each chapter looks like something from in the book. We should bring that back. Or, you could punch holes in a book mark and use it like a black out poem. The bottom of the bookmark could have the book title, edition and page number written on it. When you put the book mark over the right page it would spell out a message. Only thing with that is that it would have to be the size of the page or have a way to indicate how it should be lined up.

The other way I see to interpret this prompt is to think about it as a challenge to describe kinetic art, to give the reader the feeling they they are staring at something both still and moving at the same time.

Yet, I think you could also move the subject of your writing to a unconventional extent and full fill the prompt just as well. For example, contradicting yourself, making your reader second guess every turn in plot. having an unreliable narrator, making the reader feel as if they have to go back to the page where the room was first described so that they can double check that it started out as fantasy and not sci-fi. Be so subtle in your writing, as to have your reader believe that the explanation of the murder is accurate when there is something in the first chapter that makes your conclusion fall apart. The detective is the murderer, but he could never admit it, so the reader has to solve it for him. The less auspiscious readers might just feel a bit confused and discontented, but those who truly invest in the story will have a tale they remember for years to come.

This last idea is my favorite. Anyhow, tag me if any of y'all try any of these out. I'd love to see what happens.

Looking back, I understand my childhood fear regarding something lurking beneath my bed was unfounded, born of a hyperactive thought process fueled by watching old Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney movies. I now know there was never any inherent danger. My bedroom was a safe sanctuary, not a horror hostel. At the time though, I was certain these fears were grounded in reality compounded by bad luck.

Why did I had the misfortune of a monster seeking shelter under my bed? Did it come with the home? If so, was that highlighted in the disclosure documents available from the listing agent? And wouldn’t this qualify as a deal-breaker for my parents when they heard about it while attending the open house?

Or is this punishment for some transgression I may allegedly have had? Thousands of kids in the world misbehaved more than I ever did, four of which were close acquaintances, yet I’m the one who has to fend off being mauled on a regular basis by a demon bidding its time among the accumulating dust bunnies? My displeasure with Brussel sprouts was well documented. But just because I got caught wrapping them in my napkin to covertly toss them in the trash so as not to have to eat them for dinner last year doesn’t mean I deserve being thrown to the proverbial werewolves now.

Granted, my folks comply with every bedtime plea to check below my boxspring, ensuring it is vacant. But the standard parental response of “There’s nothing there. It’s only your imagination running wild,” is not factual reassurance. I wouldn’t ask you to look if I hadn’t heard something nefarious giggling from beneath where I slumber. At best their findings were on par with “Because I said so” as a way to end a discussion without presenting any irrefutable evidence; a dismissive response with no logical foundation just to get me to go to sleep. At worst it was because my mother and father wanted me dead.

Because duh, of course you can’t see a monster once it deploys and subsequently hides behind a cloak of invisibility. I mean, come on people, that’s basic Monster Defense Strategies 101. If they took my concerns seriously, either parent would’ve grabbed the Mossberg and started spraying double-aught buckshot underneath my Serta so I could get a perfect sleep. But who am I to question those in charge. I’m only six. I’ll go it on my own and make do with the tools at my disposal.

In hindsight, the lack of rational thinking at that age reveals my immature naivete. How did I believe that remaining motionless while wrapped in my 250-thread count, Rocky and Bullwinkle sheet was the key to survival? How did I think a bed sheet pulled over my head was adequate camouflage for postponing a creature’s ambush? Such a futile tactic. If my opponent was shrewd enough to avoid detection from adult prying eyes, upon emerging it knows the first place to inspect would be that trembling mass on the bed. With one swipe, my defenses would have been breached.

And then there’s the closet creatures, who were on standby for when the bed monsters went on holiday. Being denizens of the darkness, through evolution they would have understood the fundamentals of turning off an overhead light. A pull chain has one movement with an immediate result when yanked. Even with razor-sharp claws, the CCs had the fine motor skills to turn off the illuminating ceiling light my dad left on for me moments prior so they could carry out their attack concealed by the shadows.

In the end, my parents were correct. There was nothing under my bed. Or in my closet. Or outside my window. Or in the attic, basement and garage. They humored my over-stimulated imagination concocting overblown anxiety. They let this be part of the learning process involving critical thinking and problem solving.

The mind never stops being a persuasive influence. It creates dire situations and then later reminds you, “There was never anything there. It was only me running wild.” No matter what stage of life you’re in, your brain can convince you to believe or not to believe. To conquer or concur. To live and learn.

Still, I can’t help but wonder though, will what I’m afraid of today seem baseless tomorrow? I’ll have to ask the thing that goes bump in the night. It knows all the answers.

She checked the time.

Checked her phone.

Checked the door.

Checked her reflection.

He’s not late.

He’s not late.

He’s not—

coming?

Stop.

That’s not fair.

Be fair.

You said you'd try.

He wanted sushi.

You picked Italian.

Like the rehearsal night—

the last thing he ate.

It’s not a test.

It’s not betrayal.

It’s just dinner.

Just—

She touched the napkin.

Her ring finger twitched.

Don’t think of rings.

Don’t think of ash.

He said we could wait.

He said stay home.

He said not today.

She said

Hawaii.

No weather warnings.

No second thoughts.

No life vests.

No—

wedding.

The wine list blurred.

Waves on white paper.

She didn’t drink anymore.

She did.

After.

What if he’s kind?

What if he’s dull?

What if he dies too—

and it’s her fault

again?

She practiced hello.

Practiced her laugh.

Practiced surviving.

Didn’t

practice this.

She almost left.

She almost stayed.

She almost

believed.

He’s late.

He’s not late.

He’s not—

Hi.

Sorry—traffic.

She blinked.

Breathed.

Smiled.

It’s okay.

I just got here.

Feelings come and go in waves, but sometimes I catch a feeling that feels like it belongs to someone else. Strange and consuming. Alarming and looming. It creeps in like sepia in a frame and I become an audience of reality. I am removed and paralyzed. Like a dream clasped in demons claws, the world becomes overwhelming in waking stillness. There is no true threat, only a pulling at the back of my mind. An intuition of what's to come. Or what has been. If only I could remember to breathe. I sit with my hands in my lap and watch as it passes me by. I have survived a moment of all consuming doom. A treachery of the consciousness that passes as quickly as it comes on. Not a soul reacts to my own personality earthquake and I am left shaken. All I can do is stand and move forward. Stay resilient until the memory is triggered by a sister event, much easier to conquer. The only real way out is through.

“You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.” ― William Faulkner

The tension mounts in escalating moments

Of friction and unease.

My heartbeat and breathing, in unison,

Resound in a tempo rubato.

I’m terrified, unsure of my step

As I venture toward the unknown.

Will the road drag me to hell

Or lift me toward heaven?

Methinks my end will likely be hell

For my body rebels,

Wreaking torrential sweat and dripping profusely

To the rhythmic thunder of my heartbeat;

Like white noise, it reverberates,

Drowning all else,

Precluding the possibility of sanity.

An ocean, encompassing a multitude of sorrows,

Threatens to flood, overwhelming

As it rises in intensity and strength.

All that’s safe and warm succumbs to the sea

While I remain sinking on shore as the tide

Weaves in and out in repeated synchrony.

Darkness, looming in the fading distance,

Threatens the shell of my existence.

My mouth opens, harboring a howl,

But no sound escapes save the emptiness

Of a lone, residual breath.

Stumbling, teetering on the edge of an abyss,

Tears fall unabashedly.

I am Tantalus, incognito,

Banished to hell, forbidden water or nourishment,

With no relief in sight as a hell of my own making

Replenishes itself like a reoccurring nightmare.

A breeze lingers amidst the encroaching darkness.

In the dimness, I stretch out my hand,

Longing to capture its essence,

Starkly resisting capitulation to enemy forces.

The breeze is soft, barely discernable, but there nonetheless.

Hope rebounds, surging inside my breast,

Flooding the scourge of despair and futility.

In the span of a breath and heartbeat,

I am reminded I am loved and I am worthy.

With this enlightenment, a strength surfaces,

A gift freely given, able to conquer a mountain

Of fear and insecurity.

The gift is embellished with wonder and recognition.

I pull my feet from depths of sand and foaming water,

Shaking them free of all entanglement and doubt.

Turning my back on the obtrusive darkness,

I begin the long trek to lights lining faraway lands.

My breath grows steady and my heartbeat evens

Into a rhapsody of refined, renewable energy,

Encapsulated by life’s promises and possibilities.

I have won the battle…..

An ongoing, incessant war of which

I must always be aware and strive to conquer.

Yes, I have won the battle…..yet again…..

Cynthia Calder, 03.13.25

Round and round

As the diamond slows down

From a complete spin in the air

Hovering above a minted box

For all of the world to stare

Slowly lowered downward

To a silk cushioned spot

Glistening like a fireplace

Cold obsession not hot

Holding on to a necklace that sparkles on it's own

Lying behind a crystal glass

Is the only way to be shown

Fear isn't the enemy of respect.

It's got an uncanniness to it, but it's place where old and young have met.

Where a child might touch a stove,

Hot to fingers and palms, but a venture that might prove bold.

Ignorance is the enemy,

The enemy of life.

It is the thoughtless action which breeds uncentered takes,

Where a youth might be careless,

Might- pick up a gun.

To rob someone for what isn't theirs.

What never should.

And should they find out, what those actions might do,

a gun in the hand might come to undo.

Fear isn't the enemy,

but rather the company of respect.

It's the thing that makes playing with knives,

a dangerous game of suspect.

Suspicion of what could be,

would be or never should be known to be seen.

It's a place where there's no takebacks, no matter what you might mean.

Because what fear brings, is a consciousness of limits.

Without fear to faithfully guide, respect of life might not be in mind.

When I write “stop,”

all four letters are uniform,

a nondescript word on a page.

Nothing to tell the reader

to halt, much less pause

while perusing the sentence

that holds my verb.

But when she writes “stop,”

her letters jump off the page.

They pulsate and stretch

and scream at the reader

to put on the brakes

and ponder the context

of the surrounding words.

Her “stop” is laden with trauma:

perhaps from her own life,

or an empathy beyond words.

I only wish that my “stop”

had an ounce or two

of her vibrant writing

that makes words alive.

the water grabs my hands

and pulls me underneath it's large body

my lungs fill with salt and copper

it anchors around me

yanks me further in

is it falling if i am surrounded?

is it dying if i am held?

i must be simply floating down

until the waves spat me onto

the sand

i am no longer swaying in the sea. it no longer yearns for me