I played Special Olympics Basketball this year. The team I played on got to play in the state tournament. Because you have to win a sectional tournament to qualify for the state tournament, I knew the teams we would play in the state tournament would be tough and they were.

The thing about any sporting competition is that because it is competitive, there are going to be differences of opinion about what should and should not be called as a foul. As an athlete, you just have to live with the calls and keep your head in the game.

Special Olympics takes three or four teams and puts them in a bracket based on skill. At least it is supposed to be based on skill, it's not an exact science. There is always a chance you will end up having to play a team that is a lot better than you are and you pretty much have zero chance of winning. I am happy to say that didn't happen to us.

We won our first game without much trouble and that sent us to the Gold Medal game. I knew the team in the Gold Medal game would be really tough and I was not disappointed.

After a hard fought 2 quarters, we managed to gain a meager 2-point lead. Anyone who has even casually watched basketball, knows that is not a good lead. Furthermore, the referees were not calling fouls, even when one of our players got poked in the eye!

We dug in for the third quarter and by the end of the third quarter we had extended our lead to 4 points! With just 2 minutes remaining and with possession of the ball, we were holding on to measly 3-point lead. Remember when I mentioned that the referees had not called any fouls on our opponents. With two minutes remaining, that turned into a HUGE advantage for us. We decided to play keep away for two minutes and run out the clock, thus securing our victory. To even have a chance of getting the ball back, our opponents would have to commit 5 fouls and send one of our players to the line for some free throws.

After about 30 seconds, the opposing coach finally realized what we were doing and yelled at their players to foul, which they did. Since that was their first foul, we just got to keep the ball. They committed three more intentional fouls. The penalty for those fouls is that we got to keep the ball. If the referee's had called any fouls before the last two minutes on our opponent, our opponent would not have had to commit 5 fouls, and we would not have been able to take as much time off the clock.

When our opponent committed the fourth foul, there was only 9 seconds left on the clock. We got the ball in and easily ran the last 9 seconds off the clock before they could foul us for that fifth time. After pulling within three, they never got to touch the ball again! We won the game and a Gold Medal!

The fans of the other team were not happy about us running the clock out. They called us cowards and accused us of cheating. I understand their frustration, but they shouldn't be mad at us for winning the game, they should be mad at the referee's for not calling any fouls on their team before that, which ALLOWED us to run out the clock and win the game.

Because the referees did not do their job, at the end of the game they pretty much handed us our victory. So, I could complain about the job the referees did, but I'm not because it all worked out to our benefit in the end, when it mattered.

Friday night, and the cobbled paths are alive with movement. Plumes of smoke spiral into the distance, mixing with the echoes of raucous laughter and the occasional scream. The walkways buzz with youthful energy, a playfulness that recalls children at daycare. A crimson orb rests before the entrance, casting its glow against black lacquered paint and worn metallic handles. Its light, like a siren, beckons any wayward drunkards or patrons seeking refuge from the darkening night.

Inside, you're met with a wall of alcohol—each bottle a remedy, a potential cure for whatever ailment you carry. A jilted lover? Try a whiskey. Had a long day at work? Let this pint of lager wrap you in its warm embrace, offering solace for the evening.

A strange figure slumps at the front bar. Clad in black, his bowler hat tilts low over his face, obscuring his eyes. His silvering hair is neatly combed back behind the rim of his elongated ears, a subtle marker of his age. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reaches into the pocket of his long overcoat—a crushed velvet cloak, dark as a crow’s wing, its very fibers giving off a faintly unsettling energy.

His hand rests on the blotched, wooden counter. The skin is worn and leathery, fingers thickened with years of labor, stained with yellowish residue at the tip of his index finger. His hand tells a story, each line and scar speaking of long hours and hard work. His fingers are strong, muscled, yet their wear betrays the passage of time.

From the depths of his coat emerges a clenched fist, tightly holding a five-pound note—its edges bent, its corners crumpled and ragged.

He lifts his pint glass, swirling the last dregs of ale inside.

"Another?" I ask, eager to serve.

With a solemn nod, he confirms.

I retrieve a fresh glass and, with a practiced hand, angle it at roughly 45 degrees to begin pumping the bitter from the tap. The wooden handle is stubborn, requiring finesse—a slight twist to the left, a gentle pull to the right. Ale pumps, like the gears of a machine, must be mastered for smooth, swift service.

As the glass fills, I stop just shy of the top, giving the frothy bubbles time to settle. One by one, they quiet, aligning into a perfect, velvet scum. With a final pull, I finish the pour and set the glass before him.

P.S - Would you consider carrying on reading this? Thank you for any feedback.

They were lovers. It had sounded so romantic, alone overnight on his sailboat. Anchored for the night, all was cozy in the cabin, replete with a wide bunk of silk sheets.

He was a generous lover, but he wasn't working alone: the subtle rocking and list made for rhythmic sways and lurches that were magical.

That was before the sudden storm.

Sometimes even seasoned sailors are taken by surprise. Sometimes anchor chains snap. Sometimes two people are left hanging on a buoy in choppy waters.

At night.

Now, the rocking and list made for rhythmic sways and lurches that were not magical, but lethal.

It was a small buoy, and each of them held on desperately. Hand-over-hand—his hands over hers, hers over his—panic meant there was neither patience nor room for two of one’s hands to secure attachment.

If there had been just one of them—just her, she realized—she could drape over the top of it and rest.

Rest.

She needed rest. This was too hard, too exhausting. And much too crowded. It was two people trying to save themselves with a one-girl buoy. She felt guilt for an instant in thinking like this. After all, he had been her lover. The one? Who knew?

Any life-saving effective grasp proved elusive, their hands in a hand-stacking game where there could only be one winner. Was he a winner?

Was he the one? she wondered again. Again, who knew?

She would never know, because he lost his grasp after a particularly hostile wave flipped them—buoy and all—landing it back upright, bobbing, but without him.

She couldn't see anything in the dark, but she suspected where his pleading, receding hand might be. She could splash at it, perhaps aimlessly, for purchase, but that would mean holding onto the buoy with just one hand—a tentative struggle at best. And a waste of a whole lifetime's opportunity.

Her conscience made her consider it, but her instinct for survival had her consider it for too long a time to be opportune.

Existential struggles between conscience and instinct take time. Instinct makes snap judgments based on stress and fear of a consortium of conspiring dangers; conscience makes determinations more slowly. Instinct requires adrenaline; conscience requires guilt to buoy the sense of right and wrong.

That was a decade, a husband, and two children ago: after the tragedy, new shores meant new horizons and a new life. She saved herself—for another and for others. Yet, to this day, she often has a private, secret, and darkly sinking feeling, well below the surface where a storm still rages in her.

"Don't let them know you guys can read," my mother tells me, voice low and serious and urgent. There are six of us here, sitting in the dirt. Four kids, the other kids of the house, me, and my mother. We are sitting beside the road, sitting outside the rickety door of our hut. A half-rotted door filled with holes that does very little to keep the cold and the wind and the rain out. We are practicing our reading and writing skills by etching letters into the dust of the road using a broken pen we found lying by the side of the road.

"Why not, Mama?" I ask, looking at her fearful and tender face. "What will happen if they know?" We all know who they are. Whenever anyone in my community says they, and doesn't specify who exactly they is, whenever it's not obvious who they is, then the people mean the overclass. They mean the people who lord over us, who have so much while we have so little, and who we all are forced to work for in order to survive.

"They don't want people like us reading," Mama tells me. "That would mean that we have power. That would mean that we have the power to read their books and we have the power to debate them and refute their ideas."

"But we don't have to read their books in order to refute their ideas," Malita states. "We know that their ideas are bad because we have to live in the world their ideas made."

"I know, sweet child. I know. Our lives are lesson enough that everything is wrong. But the overclass, they think that all knowledge comes from books, they think that all knowledge can only come from books, and that if we don't have books we won't have knowledge. They don't know that true knowledge is lived and experienced and found through gnosis in our hearts."

"Wow, that's really stupid of them." Raylenn's voice is dark and clouded over by a broken sort of humour.

"It really is. But it works in our favour. It makes it easier for us to hide from them what we know. And you have to be careful, my child. You have to hide what you know from the overclass. All the knowledge you have, both from gnosis and from teaching."

"We will." Farley promises solemnly. "We all know how serious this is. We have to keep it a secret."

"So, what does this word say?" Mama asks us, pointing to the word she has spelled out in the dust.

We all take a moment to sound it out, carefully matching the curves and lines of each letter to the knowledge we've been taught over the years.

"Inspiration," Calliden speaks out, slight joy in his voice.

"Good job, my child," Mama tells him. "And good job all of you. You're getting it. Now I'm going to write it into a sentence. Tell me what that sentence is." She uses the pen to write into the dust of the ground. Above us the sweet sun is still in the sky as it is a summer day, but it is getting lower and soon it will be too dark to make out the words in the dust. So we make the most of the time that we have here.

"We have been impressed with much inspiration from the novel," Raylenn speaks out, carefully sounding out the sentence.

"What's a novel?" Farley asks, her voice tinged with curiosity.

"It's a big, long book that tells a story," Mama answers.

"Oh, that's cool," Calliden states. "It sounds like something the overclass would have."

"It does," I agree. "I bet they have so many stories."

"Our stories are better," Malita assets.

"Are you all ready for the next word?" Mama asks.

"Yes!" we cry out in a messy unison.

We concentrate as best as we can, but our concentration isn't that good, considering that we're all kids. Still, we all try our best. We all try our best and we make a lot of good progress. I review many of the words that I already know, and I learn three new words. Well, I learn how to spell them. I've known how to say them for a while now. I'll have to knock about the new words in my head. I'll have to think about them and make sure that I remember them.

Eventually it is time for us to go inside. So we filter back into our little hut, which is just big enough for us all to sleep in. The other kids' Papa and Dada - my uncles Chandon and Dromon - are already in the house. My Daddy is not there, neither is my baby sister. My dad has her, and is off somewhere visiting neighbours. They should be back soon, I'm sure.

"So how was the lesson?" Uncle Dromon asks us.

"Oh, it was really good, Dada," Malita replies.

"I learned three words today," I proclaim to the adults in the house.

"Oh that's lovely," Uncle Chandon responds. "What words were they?"

"Impression, revel, and dissemination."

"That's really cool," he replies. "What words did the rest of you guys learn?"

We excitedly tell them of all the things that we learned. We're children. We might be poor, but we are children. And that means that we enjoy learning. It means that we enjoy time spent with our family. The universe knows that we don't get that much time to spend with them. And though there is so much they can't protect us from, our adults give us chances to take at least a little bit of childhood from the hard, cruel world that we live in.

"Hi, everyone," Daddy calls out as he enters through the door. Little Salki is in his arms, blowing raspberries.

"Give me the baby!" Calliden declares. "I want to hug her!"

"Sorry, buddy, the baby needs to drink milk," Daddy apologizes as he hands the baby to my mother. "You'll get a chance to hold her in a bit."

———

I'm with my Daddy and my one year old sister Salki. We are in Frey's hut, along with a bunch of other people. It's night time, and the candles on the window sill illuminate everyone's faces in a soft fuzzy glow. It's beautiful. Everyone is beautiful. Everyone is hungry, everyone is tired, and everyone is beautiful. Just as they always are. It's terrible and it's wonderful both at the same time and all I can do is live in it, all I can do is experience it.

"Gods, I'm so tired," Alimi, who is a year older than me, exclaims. "I hate going to work. You guys better tell me I'll get used to it." I know exactly how she feels. I hate working too. I'd much rather learn words and spelling. I'd much rather tell and listen to stories. I'd much rather play outside with my friends. I'd much rather cuddle with my family. The list of things I would much rather do is endless. But we both have to work, almost everyone has to work.

"I'm sorry, child," Daddy tells her. "You won't get used to it. But hey, it will end one day."

"Is death the only thing I have to look forwards to?" she asks exasperatedly.

"Well you can find small joys in life too," Dialla explains, wisdom in her worn out voice. "You can find joy in all the small moments you have with your people. You can find it in all the strength and the love that we share. You can find it in the way that love connects all of us."

"That's beautiful," Clay begins, their voice both smooth and gravelly at the same time.

"There's so much beauty all around us, despite there being so much ugliness all around us. There is beauty all around us that the overclass will never ever be able to experience."

"It's still not fair though," I speak out. "It's not fair that we have to deal with all of this, that we will have to deal with all of this for all of our lives." By all of this I mean the hunger, I mean the sickness, I mean the cold and the heat. By all of this I mean the work that never ends and drains everything from you. By all of this I mean the ever present grief.

"I know," Frey tells me, tells all of us. "All of this is too hard to deal with. But there will be no hardships in the life after this life. There will only be love. And love is still something we have now. For the sake of the world, for the sake of everyone, we have to hold on. So that our people survive. So that we can create a better future."

"Hi!" my sister cries out to me, joy and hunger both in her voice. Her eyes are more world-weary than any child's eyes should be, but she loves playing.

"Hi!" I call back at her. She giggles. We play together for a bit, and it does so much to heal my heart, it does so much to soothe my soul. But it breaks me at the same time. It breaks me because I know that there is no hope for her. After a few minutes she goes to play with Alimi.

"There are many ways we can help each other, even if we don't have any resources or power," Alive is explaining. "There are many ways we can take back our power. And giving each other love, giving each other strength, that's one way that we can do this."

"You guys give me lots of strength," I acknowledge to the people around me. "When I'm here with you, when I'm here with any of you, it feels as though I'm somewhere where, you know, even if it's not safe, my soul is safe. And you all heal me."

"Aww, thanks," Dialla coos. "I feel the same way about you, about everyone as well."

"Work and everything takes so much from us," Clay starts. "And this sense of hopelessness, this sense that this is all that there is in the world, that takes so much from us as well. But sitting here with everyone, it just, it just lights a fire in my soul that not even the strongest of storms will ever be able to put out."

"Absolutely," Alimi agrees. "We always love each other. And no matter how much apathy the overclass has for us, no matter how much the overclass doesn't see us as people, they just see us as things to be used, we can still know that we are people, we can know that we see each other as people."

"We can always remember that we deserve so much more that what they give us," Frey adds. "We can always remember that we are so much more than they think we are. We are infinite, each and every one of us. We are all beyond infinite, and we all hold the entire universe inside of ourselves. We all hold the entire universe inside of ourselves and we all hold each other inside of ourselves. And nothing in the universe can take that away."

"There's so much more than what the overclass thinks there is," Daddy begins. "There is so much that only our people are able to access. And no matter how much more they have than us, in all the ways that matter, we have so much more than them. We have access to things that are far deeper, far more beautiful and ancient and inherent than they'll ever be able to find, no matter how much they try to find it, no matter how much they try to have what we have."

"It seems hopeless at times," Alive concedes, states, acknowledges, declares. "It seems so very hopeless. But we have to remember that what we have is so much more than what they think we have. We have to remember that what we have is so much more than what they let us have. And we have to remember that for future generations and for the sake of the whole world, we have to keep holding on to hope. Because there is hope. And we always have to remember that there is hope no matter what. We deserve more and our kids deserve more and the future generations will have more, they absolutely will. They will inherit a better world and there is absolutely nothing that the overclass can do to stop this from happening."

"So what does that mean?" Alimi asks.

"It means that our lives are not for nothing," Dialla answers. "It means that our lives are for the future generations. It means that our lives are for holding on to hope and holding on to love and loving each other and making sure our people survive. And our lives are for laying the groundwork for revolution, which will definitely happen some day."

"We're stronger than anything and everything," I declare. "We're strong because we all have each other, and that means that we all have each other's strength. And the strength of so many people put together will win in the end, it has to."

"Yay!" Little Salki proclaims, lifting her arms up to the sky.

"Yay!" Dialla echoes. "You're so sweet! Little Salki is so sweet!" There is joy in both of the two ladies' eyes, despite everything else that there also is.

———

The children in front of me are broken. They are absolutely broken. But they are beautiful. They are absolutely beautiful. I am with my Mama and my new baby brother. He's sweet. They are with their moms as well, but part of them is somewhere else, I can see it in their eyes. Their eyes are absolutely haunted.

"Would it help you girls to talk about it?" Alaci asks, her eyes darkened by concern, and by horror.

"I don't know," Calli starts. She's haunted. But I've never seen her as anything else.

"You know what happened," Vali starts, "we've been through it before, so many times before." And isn't that the truth? These girls are what, nine years old, and they've had to live in the houses of the overclass and be their servants for months at a time, time and time again going on for years now. It's horrible and horrifying and not right, but it is what it is. We have to do whatever we can to put food on the table.

"But still," Vali's mom Calix starts, "you guys just got back. It might help to unload some of the emotions. If you want to, that is."

"It's just, the worst thing, the worst thing isn't even the work. Well, it is, but the worst thing is missing our families."

"That's understandable," my mom says. "You girls need your families. You deserve your families."

"But that's part of what's so twisted about this whole thing," Vali starts. "When we're there, they are our families. They're not our families, and they certainly don't think that they are, but they are our families nonetheless." There is the quiet burning of rage behind her voice and for that I am so very grateful. She deserves to feel rage.

"They ARE," Callie moans despondently. "Because the overclass adults, they're the main adults in our lives, the main adults around us, for months and months and they are the only people we have to lean on and rely on for so long."

"And we can't even lean on and rely on them," Vali adds.

"That's horrific." Callie's mom Amaki does not have any lightness behind her voice. It's all deep, heavy devastation. And I understand. I understand why she's so devastated.

"We can't rely on them, but they're the only ones we have to rely on, they're the only ones there." Vali's voice is wracked.

"I understand," my mother starts. "You guys are children. And, as children, you need adults around you. You need adults to be your parents. And the adults that are around you, the adults that are near you, well, they fill that role. Whether they want to or not, whether you want them to or not, they fill that roll."

"I hate being a child," Vali states ruefully.

"Well," Alaci starts, "you guys are children. And you deserve to be treated well, you deserve to be protected, you deserve to be treated like children."

"I know it's hard," I start, "and neither of you guys deserved any of that. Nobody deserves any of that. But maybe it would help a little bit to remember that you guys are loved, you guys are loved so much, by all of us back here in the slums. We love you and we think about you and we miss you. We miss you so much. And your parents miss you so much. I'm sure they miss you just as much as you miss them. And we are thinking about you and hurting for you always. We are connected to you always, and you love us just as we love you, and that love is powerful enough to break all bonds."

"It hasn't broken any bonds yet." Calli replies. "We still need food. We still need water. We still need clothes. And that keeps us here, it keeps us here, it keeps us here in bondage and there's nothing we can do about it. There's no way to break free from it. Not in our lifetimes at least."

"I know. I know. But it will." My words carry a soft, tender surety. "We will get our day of judgement. We will get our revenge. And more importantly, we will get our freedom. We have to. I feel it so very deeply in my soul. And I'm sure you feel it so very deeply in your souls as well."

"It does help," Callie admits, "thinking of all of you guys and the love you have. But that doesn't change the fact that it's lonely, it's incredibly lonely. There are people all around. There are people everywhere. Yet none of the people actually care about us. It's incredibly lonely anyways."

"I know, that's too much for anyone to deal with," Calix replies. "It's far too much for a child to deal with."

Alaci passes my baby brother to me, and I put him on my lap, one hand supporting his back.

"Exami is right," Alaci starts. "No matter how unloved anyone feels, and no matter how abused anyone is, they always have a community here in the slums. There are always people who love you no matter what."

"But I understand if it hurts," Mama adds. "Because of course it hurts."

"It hurts now," I begin, "but one day we're all going to be free of all of our hurting. Every single one of us."

"Yet despite all of that, it's still not fair," Vali declares.

"You're so, so right," Amaki tells her, tells us all. "You guys don't deserve this suffering. Absolutely nobody does. Absolutely nobody deserves to go through any of what you guys went through, what you guys went through for years. Actually, absolutely no one deserves to go through what any of us went through. What any of us have gone through for years and are still going through and what we'll go through for years."

"That's the way of this world," Calix acknowledges sadly. "The innocent suffer. One day we will create a world where no-one suffers."

We all look at each other and there is a hint of smiling in all of our eyes. A hint of deep darkness and a hint of shining brightness. We will survive. We always do. Even when we die. I know that much. And these sweet girls do too.

———

Calli and Vali are here. So are a bunch of other people. It's the weekend. Well, Sunday at least. and that means I don't have to go to work. None of us have to work. Technically this holiday is a side effect of the overclass needing a day off and not being able to walk around telling us what to do. But it's really really treasured nonetheless. It's a rare day when we get to spend all of our time with each other.

"So let's tell a story!" Amoni speaks brightly. We all agree. We all love stories. They make us stronger.

"I thought of a story, once, when I was at the house of my masters," Vali begins.

"Ooh, how does it go?" I ask.

"Well, there was Emperoress Zayladon, and I'm sure you all know her." Of course we do. She's the antagonist in so many stories. She's incredibly wicked, but no more wicked than most of the overclass.

"What did she do?" Baylen asks, his dark, curly hair shining in the sunlight that is getting through the cracks in the windows.

"Well, she realized that the people were rebelling against her in their souls, in the secret parts of them that no-one could see. And she knew that if they rebelled against her in their souls, that would take away power from her. So, she set out to weaken their souls. She did this by taking away their food, so that their souls would get weaker and weaker. But instead of getting weaker, all the souls of the people only got stronger, until they broke free from the bonds of their bodies and likewise broke free of the Emperoress's power over them."

We are all quiet for a short while, taking the story in.

"Wow, that was really powerful," Girall speaks. They sound awestruck.

"It really was," Deanna echoes.

"So who else has a story?" Hewitt asks the gathered small crowd.

"I can tell one," five-year old Marci exclaims.

"Ooh, what is it?" Deanna asks.

"Well, there was a little chicken. And the chicken was sad. It lost its mother. It didn't know where to go. There was a mean fox that was trying to eat the chicken. But the baby chicken ran into a hollow tree to hide. The mean fox could not get the chicken. And the mother was searching for her baby. She searched and she searched. And she saw the mean fox. She knew she had to fight him. And so she gathered all her courage. And she gave that fox a big peck! The fox was so scared, it ran away. And the baby chicken cheered from their hiding place. And the mother heard the cheer and found them! And then they were together again, and safe."

We also all take a moment to take in this story. It is as beautiful as the last. All stories are so incredibly beautiful. I wish I lived in a world where everything was a story. Though I guess I do. It's just that the story of real life hasn't gotten to the good parts yet.

"That was really cool," Amoni tells the little girl.

"Yes, it really, really was," I agree.

"So, it's your turn to tell a story," Baylen tell me. "If you want to of course."

"Of course I want to," I tell him. I tell them all. "So, there are three sisters. And they have a father. The father has a wishing rock. Before he passes away, he tells the girls to give the wishing rock to the community and teach the people how to use it. But each sister gets jealous, and wants to keep the wishing rock for themselves. So they all fight about who gets to have it. But as they are fighting each other, they do not notice a bird swooping down to the rock and taking it away."

I sit in the silence my story created.

"Wow, that was very amazing," Girall states.

"Now can Calli tell a story?" Marcia asks.

"Sure," Calli replies. "I can do that. Just give me a moment to think." We are all silent for a few moments as Calli comes up with something.

"So there was a wicked king," Calli replies, "and the wicked king had captured a young woman and kept her locked in his castle so that he could do bad things to her. But the Forest Spirits heard the prayer of the girl, and they sent out a brave warrior to save her. This warrior was an outlaw, and she had been training to fight the king all her life, ever since he killed her parents when she was a young child. She used the help and guidance of the Forest Spirits, and hid invisible in a tree. From there, she shot an arrow at the wicked king, killing him. She freed the other girl, and eventually they fell in love and got married."

"That's absolutely beautiful," Hewitt speaks. "All of your stories were absolutely beautiful. And I'm so glad that you all got to tell them."

"Thanks so much." Calli smiles as she says this.

"Yeah, thank you," Marcia sing-songs.

"Just telling the truth," Hewitt presses.

"So do you guys want to hear some stories from the grown-ups now?" Amoni asks. We all call out a yes in an imperfect yet harmonious unison.

We listen to a few stories that the adults tell us. And then we discuss the meanings of the stories amongst ourselves. We discuss the meanings of all the stories, the ones the kids told and the ones that the adults told. There is so much to discuss. So much depth to all the tales, so much meaning behind them despite the fact that they're so simple. It's beautiful, and a tiny part of me could almost be fooled into believing that things are okay. Just a tiny part though. The overwhelming majority of me is still hungry and tired in so, so many different ways.

———

I am walking to work, like I have been almost every day for four years now. Like everyone over the age of six is. Well, technically I'm walking to the bus stop. There are so very many different bus routes that I have to take to get to work. It depends where I slept the last night and where I woke up in the morning. I mean I usually sleep at my house. But not always.

I stay with the crowd, the masses of people with dead eyes, all trudging towards the places that will consume them for the next eleven hours, the places that will chew us to a pulp and then chew us more, that will suck on our sweat and our blood and our souls until we are left as empty as ghosts, trudging hollow-eyed back to the slums that will breathe life into us.

I notice something strange on the ground. I know I have some time before I have to catch the bus, so I slowly make my way to the side of the road to pick it up. It's a smallish rectangle with shiny, smooth leather on the front and back. It looks like a book. I open it up and flip through the pages. So it is a book. That's interesting.

I wonder if I should take it with me or leave it there. It's something that belongs to the overclass. It's something that the overclass owns. And I want it. I want it so badly. Not because I want to know about their lives and their world. I already know all that I need to know about them, which is that they could not care less about us. But still, I want to have something that's theirs. I want to taste a part of their lives. It sounds very interesting. And more than that, far more than that, it sounds rebellious.

The book is not large enough to fit in my pocket. So I hide it under a pile of trash, and I make a mental note of where I put it. I have to get to work. Even though my hands stink right now, I have to get to work. Because without work there is no money and without money there is no food. Or, even less food than we had before.

I take a deep breath and brace myself for everything that is coming after this. I have to provide for my community. Though I'm only ten, I have to provide for my community. We always have to. We always have done. We don't have the time to be children, we never did. I can't let my trepidation stop me. I can't let my dread stop me. I have to do what I have to do, no matter what I want myself.

"What we're you doing back there?" a man with haunted eyes asks me.

"Oh, I just found a book," I tell him. "That's something that the overclass people own. They put lots of words in them."

"Yes, I'm familiar with the concept. Why did you hide it in a trash pile?"

"Because, I intend to get it on my way back from work. I'll bring it home."

"That's an act of thievery. It's risky."

"I know it's risky. But I just really want to take something from the overclass. I want to have something that they don't want me to have."

"You better be careful to not get caught." There is deep concern in his dark eyes. There is worry etched over his face.

"I won't get caught. I didn't steal it out of someone's house or someone's pocket. It was just lying by the side of the road. Someone carelessly dropped it. It won't be missed."

"Even if someone did drop it," the man cautions, "they might come back to look for it later. They might see that it was stolen. And that would put you in danger."

"They would have no idea it was me," I retort. "There are hundreds of people walking down this street. It could be any one of them. I really don't think anyone would spend that much time and effort trying to locate a single book. Not when the overclass could easily buy another one."

"That's true, but you have got to be careful. You have got to make sure that no guards ever see you with the book."

"I will be careful, don't worry."

"Hopefully this all works out for the best."

"Yes, hopefully."

"So what do you think might be in the book?" A person with dark eyelashes asks me.

"I don't know," I reply, "it could be anything."

"What are you hoping it is?" they ask.

"I hope it's a book about science. Science is very interesting, and I wish I knew more about it."

"I wish I knew more about it too," they reply, "there is a lot of knowledge that the overclass keeps to themselves, and that's not fair."

"But all the important knowledge belongs to us," I add in, "all the ultimate truths, the deep wisdoms, and the truth about love, it all belongs to us."

"You're absolutely right, child. All the important knowledge belongs to us. And no matter what, we will keep holding it. And the overclass will never have even a taste of our knowledge. Not with their greedy, greedy hearts and their hardened souls."

"That's so right. They think they know a lot but they don't even know what pain is."

"That's so right. Good luck with your book. I sincerely hope that you don't get caught."

"I won't, I promise." This promise feels like a lie in my mouth. Like a dark and heavy lie. I don't know why, though. I know how important it is to be careful with this book. I know how important it is to make sure that the overclass never finds me with it, never suspects that I have it. So why have I found myself not able to make this promise?

"Child, just please be careful." Their voice is filled with doubt and suspicion and deep, deep, incredibly deep concern.

———

I am sitting beside the candle on the floor. Beside me the house is crowded with my family and my roommates. They are talking quietly in the nighttime, a nighttime that is too cold, that is always too cold no matter what. It warms me, the sound of their quiet, secretive voices filled with love and compassion and concern. It fills me with so much warmth, but still my body is cold. Still my body is cold and that is such violence.

I am not joined in to the conversation today. I want to be, but I'm not. Because my curiosity is eating me alive. I need to know what is in this book. So, instead of talking to my family, I am pouring over the pages, making out each word with great effort.

It's a book of stories. That much became clear when I read the first few pages. It's a book of stories, but a book of stories according to the overclass. A book of the stories that the overclass wanted to share with each other. Which means that these stories are not the same as our stories, but they are stories nonetheless, and it feels very rebellious of me to be able to read it.

It is disappointing that this is not a book of science. I would have loved to learn about science. My people already have stories. We don't have that much science. But still, getting to have something that the overclass doesn't want us to have is still and act of rebellion. It is still an act of revenge, however small.

I turn the page. I turn onto a new story.

"There was at the time, an evil empire stretching across the lands," the book states, "an empire which was evil because it did not follow the commands of the Great Ruler." These first lines are interesting enough, but there seems to be a heaviness behind them. There seems to be a poison behind them. Yet there seems to be clear, fast-flowing water behind them too. "The Great Ruler had set down rules for the people," the book continues, "but the people of the empire ignored those rules. Thus them being rulers of the world was a horrible thing.

"The empire had many people who they held as slaves. Because they did not follow the Great Ruler, it was tragic that they held these people as slaves. What was even more tragic though was that the people who the empire enslaved were the people who followed the Great Ruler. They were the people who glorified and upraised the Great Ruler.

"And these people, they had to do much hard labour. Labour that numbed their minds. Labour that crushed their spirits. Most of their days were filled with the constant demands of the empire.

"Now, the emperor had a daughter. That daughter was the child of the enslaved people, she was born from them. But also, this daughter had been raised in the palace, raised with the emperor as her father and her ruler and her head. She was an exceptionally pure soul, though she did harbour hatred inside her heart. The Great Ruler saw her and within her He saw His plan coming into formation.

"The Great Ruler followed the teenaged girl when she went to market to pick up clothes and goods for the royal family. He stopped her, and He told her that she had a special mission. A mission to talk to the emperor and ask him to free the slaves. If he refused, the Great Ruler told the girl, then she would have to lead the fight against them.

"The girl said that she was nothing compared to the power and the glory of the emperor, and he would never listen to her. The Great Ruler told her that she was pure of heart, and if the emperor didn't listen to her, he would be sorry. He then took her to meet a slave from outside the palace, and told the two of them to confront the emperor together when they could.

"The teenaged girl and the slightly older man went up to the emperor in his throne room one day, and asked him to free the slaves. The emperor asked why he, the emperor, should listen to them. The two rebels said that they had the Will of the Great Ruler on their side, and harm would befall the citizens of the empire if he did not listen to them.

"But he still did not listen, and in one breath he told them both to go back to their labours.

"The two then snuck out of the palace and back to the slave quarters under the cover of night. There they told the other slaves the news. The Great Ruler then came down to them, and gave them powerful magical weapons with which to wage war against the empire. The Great Ruler also planted the idea in the hearts of the empire's children to fight with the slaves.

"And so the slaves and the children fought against the armies of the empire together. It was a bloody, bloody battle with many casualties. But eventually they won, and the Great Ruler's people were no longer enslaved by the empire. The girl died in the war, but her legacy endures forever."

That was a nice story. Much better than what I expected to come out of the twisted corruption of the overclass. But still, there is a heavy side to it, a poisoned corruption, a grating roughness. Yet behind that roughness, there is also something better, there is also something beautiful. And this beauty and this horror both twist around each other in the story.

I like this story. But I like the stories of my own people so much more. The stories of my own people are warm, burning sunlight. They are cool, clear flowing water that soothes my bloody soul. And they are ours. They are ours so very much. They are love.

———

"I feel like I am dust, and ash, and nothing more," Rodley speaks out into the tiny clay room. He's a child. He's a servant. And as such, it makes sense for him to feel like this. No-one deserves to be a servant.

"I know," I reply, "I feel like that too. Every day during work, every day after work I feel like that. And it's absolutely unendurable."

"I'm so sorry you kids feel this way," Rosali comments. "It's horrible for anyone to feel this way, let alone children." Her dark eyes look so infinitely dark, so infinitely deep under her raven-black eyelashes. "Though I know how you feel. I know far, far too well."

"What can we do about this?" Clari, an older man, asks. "I wish so very deeply that I could take away all the pain everyone feels, that I could take away all the devastation."

"I wish that too," Lia, who is in her thirties, agrees. "I wish that so very much. But we can't take away everyone's pain. Not yet."

"But we will one day," Mama promises, looking at everyone with steadfast promise in her eyes. My two living siblings are with my Daddy right now, and my other two younger siblings are in the spirit world.

"But is it really possible?" Rodley speaks. "Can we really make things better, or is this all that exists? Is this pain all that exists? Because that's what it feels like sometimes."

"No," Rodley's dad Darlo asserts. "There is truth and purity and goodness and happiness. No matter what it feels like."

"Those things exist for the overclass, sure," Kolki states, "but do they exist for us? I'm not sure that they do."

"No," I refute. "The happiness that the overclass has is a shallow, hollow sort of happiness. True happiness is so much deeper, so much better, so much more real."

"But sometimes it feels like," Kolki starts, his dark curls shining softly like a halo, "sometimes it feels like if the overclass doesn't have true happiness, and we don't have true happiness, then who does?"

"I know it feels that way," Clari starts, "but you have to have faith. You have to have faith that true happiness exists. You feel it in the depths of your soul. I know you feel it in the depths of your soul. Even when you don't think that it's real, the true depths of you know it is."

"But how can we get rid of this feeling?" Rodley asks desperately, "this feeling that there's nothing more than this society?"

"Remember the story of the burned woman?" I ask him.

"I do," he answers.

"Perhaps we are all the burned woman. And we are all her heart. And as her heart, we have to live on. The core of who we are always lives on."

"I want to hear that story again," Rodley states. "Maybe hearing it will help me, even if it's just a little bit."

"That sounds like a great idea," my Mama agrees. "Who wants to tell it?"

"I think I could probably tell it," Rosalee speaks, "since I heard it only a few days ago."

We all talk amongst ourselves for a bit and come to the agreement that Rosalee should tell the story.

———

I am dying. I am always dying. But right now I am so drowning in poisonous, corrosive death that overcomes every part of me. Again and again and again I am dying. Each an every moment that I spend here. Each and every moment that I sit here and am forced to do this. And there's never a reprieve. There is never a single moment away from this agony. This agony that takes every part of my being, every part of my soul, and wrests it away from me.

I have to cut leather. And cut leather. And cut more and more and more leather. And it's not even real leather, it's fake leather. Fake leather to make shiny and polished shoes. Fake leather I have to cut with this insanely sharp knife so that it's exactly, perfectly right. I can't be even a nanometer off. I have to follow the pattern exactly. I have to be absolutely, perfectly right. Absolutely, perfectly perfect.

Well, I don't have to be perfect. I have to do perfect. My work has to be perfect. And that's so much worse. That's so much worse than having to be perfect. Because right now, who I am doesn't matter. Who I am doesn't matter at all. All that matters is the work that I do. All that matters is these many many pieces of fake leather. All that matters is these shoes.

And I'm not a person. I'm not a person. Not right here. Not right now. I am simply a job that has to be done. I am simply a machine that has to work properly. I am simply an instrument to cut fake leather with. And I can't stand it. My soul is being drained from me, and is being collected into pieces of soft brown. I'm not a person, and my soul is being ripped from my insides and I'm gone, I'm gone, I'm going to be gone.

I have to concentrate entirely, perfectly. I have to shred every part of my mind, shred every part of my brain, until I am honed entirely on the task in front of me. On the task in front of me and on all the misery that is being caused by the task in front of me. All the screaming, screaming misery. I feel like there are knives cutting into my mind, cutting away all the parts that make me who I am. But there's nothing I can do about it. I can't take even a moment's rest.

I am exhausted on a level that's much deeper than bone-deep. I am exhausted way past my my soul. This exhaustion runs deeper than the sea, runs deeper than the sky. And it pulls me down, pulls me down, pulls me down. But I can't let myself get pulled down. No matter what, I have to keep working. No matter what I want, no matter what I need.

I don't want this. I don't want this. I don't want this so very much. But I have to keep doing it and keep doing it and keep doing it. Because to stop would be to die. To stop would be to starve, to freeze, to not have any of the basic necessities that all people need. To stop would be to starve my family, to starve my community, I don't have the choice to stop. I never did.

So I have to keep going. Fast, fast, fast, fast, fast, fast, fast. Unimaginably fast. Inexpressibly fast. And it's so violent, this mind-breaking pace. It's so unbelievably violent. As if I am immersed in ice, as if I have been immersed in ice for hours on end without break. It's so violent, as if everything all around me is desperate, anguished screaming. As if everything inside me is desperate, anguished screaming. It's so desperate. It's so desperately terrible.

Again and again and again and again and again and again I have to do my same, precise movements. Again and again. And horrifically, unbearably fast each time. Precisely, entirely perfect each time. It siphons all my energy. But it siphons more than my energy. It siphons my entire personality. It siphons everything I have, everything I am.

Desperately, desperately, with everything I am, I have to keep going. This existence is not existence. This life is not living. It is one torturous, painful death after another. And yet it is the existence I have to live through, again and again and again, day after day after day after day. I am desperate, desperate enough that I have to immerse myself in this ice water until my very bones are frozen.

I wish so very desperately that I was doing something else. I wish so very desperately that I was out playing instead, or making out words in the dust of the ground. I wish I was off somewhere being myself, being a child, being free. But people like us don't get what we wish for, no matter how basic and fundamental our wishes are. For now, at least.

I am ruled by fear. We're all ruled by our fear. And fear sparks and glares and beams inside every part of me, as I struggle to keep up, as I struggle to do my work perfectly. Fear flashes through my experience, my existence, like a constant, blaring alarm. Like a whining and wailing siren, bursting my ear drums. It flows into and mixes with every other emotion that's already inside me, all my emotions melding together to create a horrific abomination that I have to be drenched in.

This is what I have to do every day. And the hours melt together. Time seems to have slowed to a crawl. These many hours feel like many lifetimes. They always do. I am so desperate for it all to be over and my desperation makes it even harder to bear, makes it take even longer for this all to be over. It's a cruel trick of reality. Incredibly cruel.

I am a ghost. I am a ghost. I am a ghost and nothing more. I am definitely not a person. Definitely not a child. I have never gotten the chance to be. I have never been allowed to be. I have only ever been allowed to be completely and utterly shattered in each and every aspect of my being. I don't have a choice. I never did. None of us ever had a choice in all of this horror. I am a ghost.

———

I am with some neighbours, some people who are neighbour's neighbours. We are trying to heal ourselves. We are trying to heal each other. We are failing, to an extent. But we are also soverign to an extent. The sun will set in an hour. It's summer and the days are long. There is still the soft brush of darkness in this room, though. Which is soft and soft-edged and comforting. Amania is telling a story.

"The Emperoress is a greedy and power-hungry being. She wanted all the wealth that the people could generate. And she sought to get it, in whatever way possible. No matter how many people she had to destroy and step on in order to get there.

"So she created two groups of people. A third of the people she set aside to be the managers. They would lord over the others and make sure that everyone else stayed in their place. They would enforce the status quo and make sure that all the wealth returned to the Emperoress. The other two thirds of the people she set aside to be slaves. They would create wealth for the Emperoress and the managers using their toil and their blood, and the Emperoress would take most of the wealth that they made, though she would give some to the managers.

"This arrangement worked quite well for her and her managers. And they grew their wealth and their abundance and their bounty rather well. The Emperoress had a great big, sprawling house. And she filled it with many, many beautiful things that she got from the work of the slaves.

"But she needed someone to clean this vast house. She thought about getting an adult slave to do it. But she decided that adult slaves were too rebellious and could not be trusted around all of her valuable items. She resolved then to take a child from among the people and raise it in her vast house, and train it to obey her and be loyal to her.

"So she took a child from the people, a little girl who missed her parents and siblings dearly. And she lorded over this child, being the main adult in her life, being the closest thing the child would now have to parents. The girl was very miserable indeed, but she did all of the work that was asked of her, for what other choice did she have?

"The child grew into a teenager. A teenager who hid all of her rebelliousness deep inside of herself. She had hatred in her heart for the Emperoress, but she also had a strange sense of love for her as well. But far more than that, she loved her own people, she loved the slaves from whose midst she was taken from.

"One day she was off getting things from the market for the Emperoress. There, she met the Great Mother. The Great Mother welcomed the broken girl into her arms. She then told the girl that she was the one who could stand against the Emperoress and free her people. The teenager told the Mother that she was no-one, compared to the Emperoress especially, she was no-one, and she could not do the task. The Mother promised her that she was so much more than she thought she was.

"The Mother then took the girl to the rest of the people. There, they all talked, and decided that a boy a few years older than the girl should go along with the girl to confront the Emperoress. All the people gave the two youths their prayers and blessings, and sigils of protection, and bade them to have a safe journey.

"They got back to the Emperoress's mansion, and they stood tall and strong in front of her throne room. There, they looked the Emperoress in the eyes and demanded that she free the people. This, of course, she did not do. She told them instead, in one breath, to go back to their work. When the people refused to do this, she called her police to come and arrest them. But the police were too afraid of the act of bravery and rebellion that the two youths had just showed and would not do this.

"And so the two went back to the people. The Great Mother went to the people and gave them weapons with which they could wage war against the managers and the Emperoress. Now that the people had weapons too, they were powerful against the managers. They outnumbered them two to one and were equally armed. They waged war, servants and industrial slaves and agricultural slaves and slaves of all kind.

"The war was brutal. It was bloody. All wars are brutal. All wars are bloody. But sometimes it is worth it, fighting for the sake of the future. Fighting so that future generations have a better life than us, so that they do not have to go through the same hardships and the same heartbreak that we have to go through. Safeguarding the future takes sacrifice, but it was sacrifice that the people were ready to make, that they wanted to make. After all, the Emperoress needed very badly to be stood up to, to be deposed. And so the people fought in the war.

"They won. And they became free. But this victory over the Emperoress has not happened yet. It will happen at some point on the future, in a time untold."

I have known this story since I was young. But hearing it now, like this, with the knowledge of the other story I have read in the book I stole, everything clicks into place. It's like a light has been turned on in my head. There are too many parallels. Far too many parallels for it to merely be a coincidence. This has to mean something. Not something grand. Not something amazing. Not something groundbreaking or revolutionary or liberating. But something nonetheless. And I have to look through the book once again, and I have to remember the stories I've heard over the years. Because they just might have some very interesting parallels to them.

———

I am sitting on the floor, next to a candle that burns away precious, precious wick, the wax collecting in the metal bowl underneath it. My family is asleep. I should be asleep too. I don't have work tomorrow, thank the Mother, but I shouldn't mess up my sleep schedule anyways. But I can't put this book down right now.

I can't put this book down, not because there's anything profound in this book, not because the contents I am reading are so great, but rather because there are so many parallels. This book is leaving so much out, so much out. But it is telling stories that my people have been telling each other for centuries. It doesn't cover all the stories. It doesn't cover nearly all the stories that we have. It's a drop in the ocean. But still. It's clearly some sort of bastardization of an ancient source.

The story that I am reading right now is about a woman who got enslaved by an evil emperor. She learned magic over the years, and used that magic to curse the emperor. The emperor got very sick. That is when she went to the emperor and declared that she would only lift the curse if he gave her all of his wealth and all of his slaves. Fearing for his life, the emperor obliged. The woman then gained great wealth and a great many slaves, and she lived a life of luxury.

This is obviously a very disturbing story. It is horrific how someone who has been enslaved themselves can just turn around and own slaves. It's horrific, and it's not realistic. I know what it's like to be exploited. I know that so very well. And because I know what it's like to be exploited, I want so very much to make sure that no-one is exploited ever again. And besides not being realistic, it's not inspiring. Like, what are we learning here? That if you break free from abuse you'll just turn around and become an abuser. That's horrible.

But despite the disturbingness of this story, it calls my mind to a different story, a better story, one that my community has been telling each other for many years. There was a woman who got enslaved by the Emperoress, and she was very abused, along with the other slaves. But she received visions from the Great Mother, who taught her how to do magic.

She used this magic to curse the Emperoress. She proclaimed that she would only lift the curse if the Emperoress freed all her slaves and handed over her wealth to the freed slaves. Fearing for her life, the powerful figure did this. All the slaves travelled away from the Emperoress together, and they became a community, who all helped each other and thrived in prosperity from then on.

It is easy to see how the two stories are similar, and I think that their story might have come from our stories.

The next story in the book is about a teenaged boy who got kicked out of his home. He was living in the streets for many months, begging people for money since he was too young to legally have a job - which sounds like a great law to me, I'd love to have some semblance of a childhood. But anyways, he was going around asking people for food one day. Most people denied him, but one kind woman gave him food and took him in to be her son. He was very grateful for her help. They decided together to burn down the houses of everyone who denied the boy help.

This story is a lot better, a lot kinder, a lot more satisfying. I like the message that it sends. And yet, I don't think it does enough to clarify what exactly that message is. The text is worded as if the problem in this story, the main antagonist, is the child labour laws and not the inhospitality of the people. It makes it seem that if this child was allowed to work, everything would be okay. Which is not true at all. Children should not work, they should have childhoods.

But once again, it brings up a story that I remember from my community. This is the story of two children, who were thirteen, they were kicked out by their parents and had to make their own way in the world. Their parents had abused them, so it was almost a blessing that they got kicked out. They tried very hard to find a job, but they could not find one. They also tried to find a place to stay, asking everyone if they could stay with them. Everyone said no, but one kind lady said yes and took the siblings in. The new family discussed how cruel the other citizens had been. The mother was so disturbed that she burned the houses down of everyone who had denied her children shelter. This caused the family to have to flee the city, but they made a new life out in the countryside.

The next story is about a handsome young man, who was chosen by the Great Ruler to carry His message and teach the new generations the rules they were meant to follow. The Great Ruler gave him a special box, and told him that great treasures lay within the box but he was only to open it when the Ruler said. The man waited by the side of the road with his box for many hours, but then he saw a very beautiful woman walking down the road. He was so charmed by her beauty that he just had to impress her. He just had to impress her, so he went up to her and opened the box, showing her the treasures that lay within. The two then got married and lived a happy, wealthy life.

What? So, the man literally just disobeyed the Great Ruler, the being who these stories hold as so special and so treasured, and this act was not condemned? This doesn't even make sense within the context of the stories in this book.

Well, anyways, the version of the story that my people tell makes more sense. There once was a lecherous and self-important man, who was held up by the community as a great figure. The Great Mother wanted to knock him down a peg, so she gave him a promise. She told him that she would give him great knowledge, but only if he waited for her to tell him when to open the box. She gave him a golden box which was very heavy, and told him to wait. So he did wait. That was, until he saw a beautiful woman coming down the street. He wanted to impress the woman, so he could lay with her. He thought there must be treasure within the box, and opened the box to show the woman the treasure inside. She did lay with him, and he was happy. But then the Great Mother came to him and told him that he was not worthy of receiving the ultimate knowledge.

This story at least saw the man get what was coming to him.

Then, there is another story in the book. This one reminds me of one of the first stories I ever heard. The book details how there was once a golden age where all people listened to the Great Ruler and consulted him before making any decisions. But there was one man who decided that he could make decisions for himself, and didn't need to rely on the Great Ruler. He convinced the other people of this, and they started making decisions without consulting the Great Ruler. He got wind of this, and got very enraged indeed. He cursed the people to suffer for many generations.

And this story is immensely horrible. Why is their Great Ruler - who is a clear parallel to our Great Mother - such a tyrant?

But still, there's a parallel story for this one too.

As we all know, all people are part of the Great Mother and all people can feel the Great Mother in their hearts. For the good people of this world, they always feel the Great Mother in their hearts, and they realize that everything they do should be guided by the Mother, guided by their hearts, guided by their community of all the people, and guided by all that is good and right. But there was one man, who saw the wealth of the land and wanted to have it for himself. He knew that this was not good and right, he knew that the Mother would not want this, but he didn't care. So he made a devious plan. He convinced the people that they did not have to listen to the voice of the Mother in their hearts, they didn't have to listen to the sense of justice in their souls. The people eventually became convinced of this, and allowed the man to take the wealth of the land, and the man grew very happy indeed. But the people were cursed, because far too many people had let evil forces into their souls. That is why there are so many evil people in the world to this day.

------

It is a Sunday. I am reading, by the window. I am immersed in this book. Because, it proves that the overclass once knew of our stories. Well, a few of them at least. If they once knew of our stories, that means that maybe, just maybe they can be reminded and maybe, just maybe they can be saved. I know, I know this is most likely a useless dream. But still, one can hope after all. And this is giving me a strange sense of hope.

I am by the window because I need light in order to read. But I make sure that I do not get too close to the window, as that would be incredibly dangerous. We don't want any guards coming upon me while I am doing this. But still, I need the light and I trust myself to stay careful.

My mind is whirring fast, whirring gloriously, trying to find every single word and line that ties these stories into our stories, that hints at something more. And there are many hints. All over this whole book, there are many hints. They are just hidden, somewhat. You just have to know what to look for in order to bring them to the light.

"What are you doing?!" A rough voice barks at me. I startle, my heart skipping two beats. I look up, and am met with the hard eyes of a guard in his distinguished uniform. This is not good. This is not good at all.

"I'm just ... I'm just looking at these strange symbols in this thing," I lie, hoping he buys it.

"Nonsense. I've watched you for a while now. You're reading." Oh Mother. I guess I was being more careless than I thought. What do I do to get out of this now?

"So what if I am reading?" I look him square in the eyes, hiding my absolute terror. "Who does that hurt?"

"Where did you learn how to read?" he asks me.

"I won't tell you." I have to keep my Mama a secret. I have to make sure they don't hurt her.

"People like you shouldn't be reading. You have work to do." His voice is rock hard and filled with hatred and disgust.

"It's Sunday. I don't have to work today," I riposte back at him. "It's my day off and I can do what I want."

"That doesn't mean you can read," he barks back at me, hatred in his eyes. Talking back to him is truly wonderful, in a strange way. Yes, I know I'm probably digging my grave. And yes, I am scared, so very scared. But at the same time this is incredibly intoxicating, incredibly empowering, to stand in front of a guard, a member of the overclass, who could easily kill me, and pretend that I have no fear.

"Why not?" I demand to him, my voice hard with determination and full with a sense of love that never leaves me.

"Because, you beast, you won't understand what's written. Books are complicated. They are hard to understand. And, if you don't understand them, that's very dangerous, because you will come to all the wrong conclusions."

"It seems that you guys are the ones who don't understand these stories," I counter back at him, putting on a brave face. "It's clear that this book is completely wasted on the likes of you."

"What do you mean by that, you vermin!" the guard demands. "You better rein in your tongue before it gets you into more trouble!"

"These stories," I begin calmly, "the stories in this book, most of them would teach people to be kind towards other people. But your people are not kind. Your people are exploitative and greedy and cruel. And if you understood this book, you would not be." I let my voice flow smooth and clear.

"You absolute vermin!" The guard shouts. "You have a lot of nerve. You have a lot of nerve! What? What's in this book that you are so entranced by?"

"Just stories," I reply, "stories that you and your people clearly don't understand at all."

"Give me the book. I have to look at it."

"I won't hand it over. It's mine."

"It's yours?!" His voice is incredulous. "Like hell it's yours. You probably stole it. Who in their right mind would give you a book?!"

"I found it on a pile of garbage," I lie. "Clearly it had been thrown out by whoever had it last. And so I took it with me. And now it's mine."

"What book is it?" He is growing more and more frustrated by the second, I can tell. He's definitely not used to a person from the underclass talking back to him. I don't know why I'm talking back to him, but there is this strange sense of bravery that has overcome me. I still feel fear, I definitely do. I still know that I'm digging my own grave. But at the moment, for some strange reason, I don't care.

"It's called the compendium of life," I tell him, "and I understand it perfectly fine."

"Like hell you do. Who could have thrown away a copy of the Compedium of Life? You've got your hands on a very powerful book, you brat. You've got your hands on a book the likes of which you and your people will never understand."

"You're wrong."

"I'll prove it to you. Come to the House of Life and you can talk to the great scholars. When you talk to them, you'll see how little you understand and how much they understand."

"Bring it on."

I clutch the book hard in my hands as I follow him, of my own accord, out the door and down the broken, dusty street. We get into his car and the door locks, keeping me in. I'm in the back of the car, where there are no seats, just a metal floor that I have to sit on. It's dirty, and there is tough plastic separating the back where I'm sitting from the front where the guard is sitting. The seat he is on looks very soft. I hold my anger inside.

The car speeds to life. And I feel as though I am leaving everything in my life behind. But I also feel as though I am taking a stand for my people. I pray to the Great Mother for her strength and her guidance, and she envelops me in her soft embrace, filling me up with a sense of war-addled peace. Whatever is coming next, I can take it. I have to take it, even if I can't.

———

We dive past the slums that form all that I know. We drive away from the industrial belt that houses all the factories and plants and refineries that tower over my people's lives. We drive into a strange place, a place with paved roads, and large houses, and large yards with green grass and beautiful flowers and metal fences. This is so much stranger than anything I have ever witnessed before. I knew that the overclass lived like this, but seeing it in person is something else entirely. It's beautiful. And it is so, so deeply disturbing.

We drive over the paved roads and stop at the gates of a tall and strange building. It is far larger than any of the buildings I have seen before. And there are all sorts of shapes and patterns jutting out all over the building, as well as the figures of what seems to be angels, dressed in ostentatious and grand clothes that angels do not really wear. There is colourful glass on the windows. The whole structure is almost too much to take in at once. Though I can tell that it's a very important structure to the eyes of the overclass. That must be why they made it so grand.

"Come on," the guard barks at me, opening the door and grabbing my wrist. He drags me out of the police vehicle and he drags me up the large stone steps to the building. There are many of these steps and the guard is going so fast that I stumble a few times. Yet, I manage to make it up the steps and then I am shoved inside the large, carved wooden doors.

Inside the building is almost more grand. Paintings of different scenes adorn different walls. The walls themselves have many shapes and lines carved into them, and there are marble statues everywhere. There are many benches made of polished wood, with carved sides and metal trimmings. The floor is coloured in an intricate pattern. The light comes in in many different colours from the many different colours on the windows. It is amazing, the look of this place. It is amazing. Yet it is deeply disturbing. I have never been somewhere so grand in my life.

I ask the Great Mother for help.

We are lead through the rows of chairs and up the steps to a small door at the back. This door leads to a large library, with rows and rows and rows of immaculate, polished shelves that are spaced out and filled with books of all sorts. There are many desks here, large and carved ornately and polished to a shine, with plush chairs lining them. There are large windows that let in a lot of natural light, as well as artificial lights on the ceiling.

There are many people here, pouring over thick books with intensity. It's bizarre, yet I know that there are members of the overclass who spend all their time reading since they do not have to work. At the opening of the door, some of their eyes turn to me.

"What's going on here?" An old man asks.

"This young, uneducated girl thought that she could read and understand the Compedium of Life."

"I'm not a girl!" I protest. The overclass often gets this thing about me wrong.

"Of course you are!" the guard barks. "Look at you!"

"He is right," the old man begins. "The Great Ruler gives us our bodies and this gives us our genders, we have to be appreciative of His Will."

"I don't care about your Ruler," I spit back. I know I am dead. I know that no matter what I do, no matter what I say, I'm dead. I've gone too far and done too much to be saved at this point. But still, it causes a stone of dread to sink in my stomach to be so rebellious against the overclass. It causes my chest to squeeze in anxiety.

"Then why are you reading our Book?" a middle aged woman asks. "This Book is the Ruler's Will and His words."

"You all do not know the will of the Ruler. You merely think you do." I am talking right now of course about the Mother, who the Ruler seems to be a parallel for.

"How impudent of you!" another old man exclaims. "You know nothing at all, you can barely even read, you haven't any knowledge of what came before, and you claim to know the Will of the Ruler? Absurd!"

"Want a bet?" I demand. It feels good, being able to talk to the overclass as if they are equals. It feels good, to be able to say the things I have always longed to say to them. It feels good, feels empowering, feels freeing and thrilling, just as much as it feels abjectly terrifying. And, in a way, I am appreciative of the fact that I am already dead, because that means that I can go out with a bang. And I fully intend to go out with a bang.

"I challenge you to interpret one single story from the Book," a younger woman demands, "and we can see if you have interpreted it correctly."

"Alright," I counter. "I will."

"Do the story of the emperor's daughter. That is a very fundamental story that explains our world in perfect detail. You will not be able to understand it." These words are spoken by a middle aged man.

"You are clearly not able to understand it," I retort back, "because if you could, then you would not be holding our people as slaves."

"You are not slaves," the middle aged man replies, "and even if you were, it is alright for good and just people who follow the Will of the Ruler to own slaves."

"If anyone owns slaves," I respond, "then that makes them not good and just, that makes them inherently not follow the Will of the Ruler. And we are slaves, for we have to make great, great sacrifices to work for you under the threat of death."

"Following the Will of the Ruler is all that is necessary to be good and just," the first old man states.

"The true Will of the Ruler is for all people to be equal," I counter.

"We have studied many texts about the Ruler and His will for all of our lives," the middle aged woman declares. "How could you possibly know what His Will is?"

"I have lived amongst my community for all of my life," I riposte, "and down in the slums we know. We feel the Ruler in our hearts, in every breath we take and every thought or feeling we have. He is in our lives, and He is our lives, and He is our strength and our love, and we know Him."

"Uneducated swine," the second old man comments.

"Anyways, the story is that a young girl was held as a servant by the emperor, who was the adult in her life. He kept the rest of her people as slaves as well. But the Great Ruler came to the girl and told her to stand against the emperor. This she did do, along with another slave. Yet the emperor did not budge, and so the slaves had to wage war and they were successful."

"You fundamentally misunderstand the story!" the young woman exclaims. "the princess was not a mere servant, she was a princess with a lofty education and much power! This is why she was able to stand up to the emperor and lead the other, uneducated, illiterate slaves in war. It says clearly in the story that she was a daughter of the emperor."

"Was she a princess though?" I respond. "There are other ways of being the emperor's child, without being royalty."

"How, you stupid child?" the middle aged woman asks me.

"Because," I respond, "first of all, we are all each other's children. Secondly, when you are a child and someone else is the main adult around you, they are the main adult who is there and who exists in your life, you become their child. You become their child because they are the ones here and available to you, and you, as a child, latch onto them and see them as your parent. Even if they abuse you, even if they mistreat you, even if they hate you so much, if they are the main adult around you, then you will latch onto them and see them as like a parent. And thus you become their child, even if you are an abused child."

"What proof do you have for these heretical and unfounded thoughts?" the middle-aged man asks.

"The servants who go to your houses, the children who you use to do all your domestic labour, they are isolated from their real families and you and your people are the only adults around them. They cannot help but see you as their parents, they cannot help but latch onto you. Even though you guys abuse and mistreat them horribly. Because they are children and you are there. And by them being children and you being there, they become your children. For we were all meant to be each other's children."

"That is absurd, and it doesn't make any sense," the second old man spits out at me.

"You would never understand it unless you felt it," I reply.

"There is no proof of what you claim," the middle aged woman tells me. "How do you prove that any of this is true?"

"There are various proofs throughout the text. First of all, it says that the girl was a child of the enslaved people, that she was born from them. But then she was living with the emperor and became his child. Who does this happen to? This happens to servants, who are born from among the enslaved people and are brought to the oppressors to grow up and be raised under and near them."

"But that is the very transgression of the princess," the middle aged woman states. "She is from the slaves but the emperor was so moved by her infinite beauty that he took her in as his own."

"All children have infinite beauty," I reply. "But there are other hints at this being the case as well. First of all, it says that the emperor was not just her father but also her ruler. No kind and caring parent imposes themselves as a ruler over their child. That is what uncaring and entitled parents do."

"It was a special case," the young woman explains. "The emperor was an emperor of the whole world. He was the ruler of everyone. So he had to be the ruler of her. This is how royal families work."

"Is it? I doubt I would ever find a kind and loving family where any member sees themselves as the rulers of the others."

"You just do not understand the structure of royal and high-born families," the first old man exclaims.

"But she wasn't high born," I tell him, "she was born a slave. Anyways, she as a teenager told the Great Ruler that she was nothing compared to the emperor. No child raised in a healthy environment would ever think that of their parent. Only an abused child would. And emperors who abuse their adopted children are not good fathers."

"She simply meant that she had no power compared to the power of the emperor," the first old man explains, "and that her trying to change his mind was impossible."

"That is a possibility," I agree, "but she did not say that her power was nothing against his power. She didn't say that her position was nothing against his position. She said that her very being itself was nothing against his being. She asked who was she against him. Not what was her power against his, not what was her place against his, but who was she, who was she, as a very person, as a very being, against him as a very being."

"That's really a stretch," the second old man says. "She simply meant that her position was nothing against his."

"Even if that was the case, what kind of father gives his daughter no power compared to his own power? What kind of father does not even listen to his daughter's words?"

"You simply do not understand what it was like at that time," the middle aged man presses.

"I do understand," I respond, "because those times were a mirror to our times and our times are a mirror to those times. Anyways, another piece of evidence is that the emperor says in the same breath for both the girl and the other slave to get back to work. Now, in any society, and according to basic logic, the work that slaves do is very different from the work that respected citizens do. For the emperor to tell both slaves to go back to work at the same time, in the same breath, without distinguishing one type of work from another, this really indicates that the type of work that both slaves were doing was similar. It was both slavery."

"That is a reach," the first old man tells me. "Both of them were told to go to work in the same breath because both of them had work to do, but of course the work that each one had to do was different."

"If it was fundamentally different, then the emperor would have, unconsciously, made a distinction between the two types of work. But he did not. Meaning that the type of work they did was similar. Meaning that everything that "go back to work" entailed was similar for the two slaves. Psychologically that would not happen. The emperor would not talk as if there was no distinction between the work of the two slaves if there was an important distinction."

"You are pulling ideas from thin air, girl," the middle aged woman tells me. I don't comment again that I'm not a girl. "Calm down and look at it through sober eyes. If you can, that is. I doubt that you have developed the capacity to."

"Exactly," the second old man agrees. "It's possible to tell two different people to get back to two different kinds of work at once."

"It is possible, but it's unlikely," I counter. "If the two different types of work are inherently different, then anyone would make a distinction between the two in their mind, and that distinction would show up in their speech. Psychologically, they would not speak about the two different types of work as if they were implicitly one and the same. It's very unlikely. And, seeing as how easily and how naturally the emperor spoke his words, it's more likely that he saw the work of both slaves as being similar."

"You're not sure of anything, are you, girl?" the middle aged man spits at me.

"I am sure of the people in my community. I am sure of the work they are forced to do each and every day under the threat of death. I am sure of the hunger, the poverty, the sickness, the misery that bleeds through every part of our lives. And I'm sure of how we have to work ourselves down to the bone, down to exhaustion, making you and your people rich. I am sure that this is exactly what the Great Ruler would teach against, would warn against, if She was anyone worth believing in.

"And I know the toil and the isolation and the abuse and the misery that your servants face. I have seen them and talked to them and cried with them. They are part of my community and they are devastated, devastated, so completely devastated by what you do to them. Yet I have seen them and heard them say that despite all the abuse, they cannot help but cling to you as if you were their parents, because for large stretches of their lives, you are the only adults that they have.

"I know that these children are the most abused, the most afflicted, the most wretched of our community. And they are from us, and are fundamentally a part of our community, despite being forced to be your abused and neglected children as well. These people are the ones who most have a right to confront you and stand against you and bring you down.

"There is one more thing," I continue. "The Great Ruler would not want a privileged and pampered princess to speak as the voice of the powerless against their oppressors. She would want the most oppressed of the people to be able to stand up to and stand against their abusers. Your version of the story is a story of a pampered saviour representing people whose experiences she never lived. My version of the story is a story about a broken girl finding her voice and her power, in favour of the people whose experiences she intimately understood and experienced, against the people who oppressed them all.

"You do not understand us. You will never understand us. But we are forced to understand you, and we will stand against you. By being exactly what the villains were, by taking children from the communities they were born into and forcing them to rely on you as the adults in their lives, by forcing us into degrading and dehumanizing work and pitiful lives, you are the villains. And like the villains that came before you, you will be stood against and destroyed." My voice is unwavering and my eyes are defiant. There is death in my heart, and life and hatred and love. Life and death which are united as one. Love and hatred which are united as one. I am afraid and I am not afraid and I am brave and I am not brave all at once.

"You wretch!" the first old man complains. "You have openly admitted to committing heresy! Guard, seize her!"

I make no move to resist as I am held firmly by the guard. The other overclass people also move to hold me down. And I let them. I let them manipulate my body as the guard puts me in handcuffs. I let them put a collar around my neck with a chain attached to it. I let the guard pull me by it as if I was a dog.

But I do not let them see my fear. I do not let them see the dread I am feeling and I do not for even a moment put my head down or change the triumphant, proud expression on my face. I will not let them see me cower. I will not let them see me cringe. I will let them humiliate me, but I will not for a second let them take the dignity that is inherent to who I am.

I get led out of the building, and out onto the street. There are people all around staring at me. I stare them down unfalteringly. I have the face and body language of a monarch, despite being chained up and collared. I have the face and body language of a monarch, of a warrior, of a hero from legend standing in their victory. I show everyone around me that I am unbowed, I am unbowed, I am beyond unbowed, despite all the things that are happening to me.

I get shoved into the back of the police car. And I do not cry out as the guard puts his rough hands on me. I do not cry out as I am shoved into the metal of the back of the car. I do not cry out as my disintegrating body hits the hard metal. And I sit silently as I am driven to my fate.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to miss my family so much. And they're going to miss me. Mama, Daddy, Uncle Chandon, Uncle Dromon, Malita, Raylenn, Farley, Calliden, Salki, Faylo, I'm nothing without them. I cannot exist without them. And they're going to have to live the rest of their lives without me. It's so unfair, it's so unfair. It's so very incredibly, unbearably unfair.

And not just my family. My whole community would miss me. My whole community relies on me, we all rely on each other. We all need each other. And every single person who has touched my life, every single person who has brought joy and love and purpose to my life, they will all miss me. They will all miss me so much. I know what grief is like. I have lost many community members and family members myself. I don't want to give them any more grief. I want us to all be together, to all have each other.

And yet, they would be proud of me. I know they would be proud of me. They would be proud that I had died on my feet, instead of on my knees as so many other people in my community are forced to die. I would die for standing up for my people, for my dignity, for our collective dignity, and for our Mother. I have been able to speak the truth - if only a bit of it - to the overclass and I have been able to make them see. This is so much more than most people can ever dream of. And my family would be grateful that I got this chance. I am dying because I was strong in the face of the overclass, not because I was worked to death by the overclass.

That doesn't mean that I want to die. But, truly, I don't want to live either. I never wanted to live. Not this trudging, drudging, horrible life. Not this life of constant pain and suffering and loss and grief and work, work, so much work. Leaving this life is an escape. And death is a freedom. It is the final freedom. I have long longed for this final freedom to come and take me, and I guess I have my wishes manifested into reality now. And honestly, there is a large part of me that is looking forwards to my death, though a large part of me is terrified.

But my family and my community will miss me so much. They'll be proud of me, they'll be relieved for me, they'll be happy for me. But they'll miss me so much. And that's not fair. That's so not fair.

But no matter what, I am going to go down with dignity. I will die on my feet. And being able to die on my feet will make my death worth it. Worth it for myself and worth it for everyone who has ever loved me.

We drive to a place that is full of tall, tall glass buildings which stretch up and up and up to the sky. There are streets all around me, and false, glowing trees. I am yanked out of the vehicle and pulled into a stage in the middle of a large square. This stage is really ornate, made of carved rock in flowing and swirling patterns, the stage floor itself rising and falling like fabric in the wind. There are seats in front of it and about a third of those seats ard filled with people. The chain of my collar is tied to a metal post. If it can be described as a post, it's so twisting and curving.

I stand here, and I look over the crowd. The seats are slowly filling up, as I am standing on my feet on the stage, looking out undaunted. The seats are slowly filling up until they become full. Everyone looks at me. I have all their attention. And I know what I must do now.

I tell a story.

In the middle of the story, a pair of guards walks up to me and tells me to shut up. The crowd boos them down and tells them to let me finish. After I am finished, I am shot in the head. Everything is burning pain, and then there is no pain at all. I find myself in a meadow.

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.

Most mistake him for a shooting star, dashing across the sky of every world as a brilliant streak of light. So bright is he, that for a moment, he is seen as beautiful. Then he turns, his wonderful flight of chance transforming into a decent of purpose, a purpose that is not that of beauty. His purpose is to find worlds seeded with organic life. His purpose is that of the scythe to the fall harvest. Whatever lies in the bosom of lush worlds will gaze upon him as a falling star, set to burn.

Why can't I remember? Has is been that long? It was so dark before. No matter, my name is not important anymore. I am light. I am warmth. I am entropy.

For millennium, the man made of stars shot through the cosmos. Only knowing his one true purpose bestowed upon him by the Seeker. Each world he found was, to him, a stray with a broken leg. His purpose was empathy. He could feel the suffering like like an ice pick being driven through his eye. The pain guiding him to these worlds as an act of mercy... Mercy? His mercy?

I am formless to myself. Nothing but a collection of whims to be set upon these worlds. I am formless but, I can be perceived. I am the comet they see, I am light. If I wish to be Seen, I am a man. I am a man made of light so brilliant and pure that me features are that of chrome. The Seeker gave me this. To the Seeker, I give him life. To life, I give unto thee wafer and cross.

The first worlds to be culled went with a whimper. Begging and pleading turned to rioting rage and anguish. The will of many seeping out to the rest of the cosmos like pools of blood soaking into a fine carpet. The fabric of reality was changing with every bit of light that was extinguished. The Seeker watched this brilliant dance of mass evisceration with glee. His hands danced as if conducting an orchestra.

Oh, how exquisite you are, my stellar man. I am still hungry. Will you bring me my wine and grape?

The Seeker watched each wold being harvest through the eyes of his loyal servant. His hunger never waning. Even when the worlds of the many began to feel the losses. They would send ship and man. They would send weapons of insignificance to what could only be described as an act of God.

Is your God still listening?

Must I keep feeling this pain? Must I got on for eternity to see the final act of entropy? Will his hunger ever wane? Will my light go out once he is satisfied? Another millennia, another world, more life put out with the mashing of his heel? My heel.

This world was lush and green. Emerald seas draped across it like a fine gown on a queen. This was the emerald stone of the constellation Orion. He looked upon it, like all others before, and he could see the trees. He could smell the oceans salty embrace, he bore witness to the giving of life. He felt the pain in the sorrow of their losses as their loved ones succumbed to life itself. He gazed upon if for a time. Longer than he should have. He turned down to it now, taking on the speed of light itself. He could see its molten center humming the song of existence to all those above it. It spun like a ballerina, and hummed with the familiarity and hope of a heart.

He pressed on, through the upper atmosphere that now began to show itself as a crimson dawn to those on the coast. He entered the warm depths of its sea, sending a wave as high as any mountain. That only lasted a moment as the water instantly evaporated, eviscerating every atom of water in the worlds ocean at once. He could hear their screams. He continued on through the crust. Deeper still, until he could feel the warmth of the the core. He slowed for an imperceivable amount of time. To him, it was an eternity, gazing upon the beating heart of it all. He continued inside of it.

I deliver thee, to the Seeker of all things. May this end begin that of what we seek. Let this be the beginning of the end. May this feed... Entropy.

In a flash the world imploded on itself for a moment. Once it reached its limit the Emerald shattered violently, sending itself in every direction with a stunning ball of fire in its center. Then... silence. Heavy, unyielding, silence.

And yet... he is still hungry. How many more... How many MORE!

Until it is done, my star...

Part 1: Ash and Fire

Her name was Eden. A human woman from Azury, the third planet in the Alnitak system. Her planet is part of the Orion Galactic Republic (OGP). OGP is made of the three stars in Orion's Belt, Alnitak being the primary stronghold for the OGP. Eden never knew anything else other than the orange fields of Azury. She often looked up into the sky at night on her parents land and wondered what the other Orion star systems were like.

The Flash came not three days after Eden had finally saved enough currency to travel to Delta in the Mintaka system. Years she worked as a teacher, barely making enough to live, let alone travel the stars like her mother encouraged.

The ocean of stars is something the soul must witness. The last great ocean yet to be explored.

Her mother traveled the stars as part of the Orion Peace Corps after the Great Cataclysm. Now, she stayed on their land, too sick to travel any longer. Her heart begged for the stars again. Eden had taken that wonder for the stars and placed it deep into her heart. For that is where her mother told her she would always be. The Flash occurred on an Orion planet in the Shield sector and could be seen during the daytime on Azury. The feed erupted with warnings, headlines showed casualty numbers, the people with connections there could not fathom what had happened. An entire planet, gone. Billions of people, erased from this reality.

What was this reality?

My soul... where did he put it? My mind is mine? I have become an instrument only to him. I am growing tired of this song. The song of eternity, the song... of Death.

The Teacher had been waiting in the main terminal for interstellar departures. The terminal was large with vaulted steel and aluminum ceilings. Many humans and Uhrs trod or rushed to their specified gates that arched high enough for a shuttle to slip through. Large holographic displays showed inbound and outbound transports for those without implants. The cold gray and ivory colors of it all always gave the Teacher a chill. Eden looked inward the the same way one might when daydreaming. Her internal implant stunned her with the news of the Flash. The pit in her stomach only grew as satellite imagery was being shown of what took place just prior to the Flash.

Is... was... was that a star? A star... colliding with a planet?

It made no sense to Eden. Her heart pounded and she could feel a cool sweat start to take over her pale skin. A notification hit the center of her vision.

Transport to Delta, Mintaka system, will be departing in five minutes. Please have passes ready for the boarding agent.

Eden shook her head as the notification faded from her feed. All she had was a knapsack and a hard case piece of luggage. She hoisted the hard cased container and let out a sigh. Her heart was now just starting to ease to its calmer rhythm. Even if stars were beginning to fall from the sky, what could be done? Life is finite, only an act of God could stop Eden from embarking on her life's dream.

Your God is dead...

My eyes see all. I am simply the organizer of the things yet to come. See it now, the canary in the mine. Your eyes saw my agents work and God, is it grand! Soon you will know your end. Soon you will know him. I see you therefore, he sees you.

---

Hey all,Thanks for reading! If you enjoy this idea I will be expanding this along side Void Heart. Been having a lot of fun writing again so if you have an comments or suggestions please let me know!!

-Mas

Last night I dreamed you were there. I was 18 years old again in dirty work pants. You pulled up in your old red Civic, walked out with that smile of pride on your face. And I thought, “What is there to be proud of, Nan? I’m as lost as can be. Doing work anyone could do.” But your smile remained, even seemed to grow wider.

We walked through the garden centre. The smell of petunias, geraniums, lavender, bleeding heart, all mixing into a sweet aroma. You closed your eyes and took it all in. You were in the moment, while I was somewhere else. Lamenting about the past, or fearing for the future. But you were right there, in it. Appreciating it. Appreciating each breath and the chance to talk about flowers with your grandson.

You said, “Do you know your flowers yet?”

“Not really,” I answered. And you lightly tapped me on my forearms and called me a little turkey, like you always did.

You told me about perennials and annuals and which flowers need more water than others. You told me that I had the best job in the world, and you’d love to work here. It would be your dream job.

“You can have it.” I said, and smiled. You smiled too.

We walked through the greenhouse, touching and smelling the flowers. You telling me stories about them. About how grandpa took you to a dance when you were young, and he placed a petunia above your left ear. A simple gesture, but you kept that flower and framed it, and it still hangs next to a framed picture of Jesus in your bedroom. You kneel down and pray before bed, and look at Jesus, and the flower. And it reminds you of how lucky you are.

In the dream I didn’t say I had to get back to work. I just said, “Keep going, Nan. I want to hear all about it.”

In my dream, a soft rain falls and the raindrops hit off the greenhouse but we’re safe and I have nowhere else to go. You have nowhere else to be. We have all the time in the world.

The rain falls, but then it begins to fall harder. It reaches a point where it drowns you out, Nan. I can’t hear you.

But you just smile. You gently rub my face and a tear falls. I’m reaching the point of a dream where I know it’s a dream.

“I miss you,” I say.

“I miss you, too.” She answers.

Outside the greenhouse, I can see the sun.

You tell me I have to go.

“Remember every storm runs out of rain.” You say.

I open my eyes and I’m lying in bed. You’re gone, and the storm is still relentless.

With exactly one tile between each foot with every step she takes, from one wall to another she goes. There's a quiet buzz from her headphones as she paces. One deep breath after another, she names what she can see. "Floor. Chair. Brown chair. Wooden chair. Wooden table. Fake plant." she whispers as her breathing becomes more steady. Third person is always easier to take than being in the present I think. Observing yourself is so much easier to make a decision on what to do and how to act than it is reacting to the inner war of yourself. All he said was he forgot, I am perfectly fine.

"Good morning! Just here for some breakfast!" a guest says, headed straight to the coffee.

She musters up a small smile. "Good morning! How are you?" she asks, a little higher pitched than normal. Her eyes are still very green from the crying, but she wiped the tears off her face before the door alarm even went off.

"I'm great! How are you?" the guest hadn't even looked up from their breakfast.

"I'm good." She said, more matter of factly than originally intended but what can you do? Walking towards the back room to sit back down, she opened a message from him.

There he is, my sweet boy. Blowing me a kiss. "I love you" he said. I'm no longer sure if I believe him, evidently I don't think I ever really believed him. But the love I have for him runs inside my veins, so I say "I love you too baby".

I'm not sure if I was ever very lovable. As much as I cover up my wounds like a wall in a house that just keeps cracking as the foundation settles. Like somebody installed my flooring, but it's locking flooring and they didn't lock a single piece just glued it down and hoped to god it wouldn't come up. Like, the inside of my head looks like the biggest landlord special, just repaint everything white and pure and good and hope you don't see the bugs I painted over.

No no cant let the Council win like that. Let the doom scrolling begin. "Oh he'd think this is funny. Oh that's relatable. Repost! Oh my God that's so horrible I'm sending it." Soon enough all my friends inboxes are filled with memes and depression, just like me I think. I am nothing but memes and depression. The cringe covers the fact I don't want to live anymore. Nope nope too nihilistic need to fix that. Does anything I do really matter? Maybe my problem is I have no faith, I refuse to believe what I can't see. Who really knows? Maybe I'm just a lost cause or just a temporary person to show people they can be loved but love is not for me. I don't deserve love.

"NO" she loudly whispers, trying to regain control. The Council is strong, powerful, so many voices. A chorus of what's been said to her through the years of her life. The mixture of all the horrible things weighs her down daily. "You'll never get a boyfriend if..."

"Your existence ruined my life."

"I just feel like our relationship is a lost cause because you'll never forgive me"

"You're just a bully."

"You're the reason nobody likes you."

"If you could just drop the woe is me act you'd be more likeable and maybe actually have friends."

They get louder as they chant, all incoherent, all unsteady.

"He'll leave. They always do" The Council sneers as they collide, the voices do, appearing in a twisted blackened mass. "You're not worth loving and you know that. Prepare, prepare to leave so he can't hurt you my baby" It says, taking shape as a fully blacked out person. The silhouette haunts me. "It's okay my dear you're better with me. Just leave, come stay with us. We'll fix you right up" It says, as the cold empty hand strokes my hair. "We're not scary, we want whats best for you. When's the last time you were selfish? What about your needs? You know he can't meet your needs, no one can. No one can but us." it continues, almost like a mother. "I know best I do. You need us more than you need anyone else. Just come with me my darling, we'll make it all better don't you worry" She nods as the tears flow down her face, going to the back of her mind.

Outwardly, the anger, the rage, it floods. She's typing, furiously, "Go date someone you actually like. I'm not the one, not the one you want. If I was, you wouldn't do these things."

She's still in there. Fighting. Screaming. "Don't hurt him please don't hurt him he doesn't deserve this it's all me I'm the problem please just don't hurt him!" She watches the screen, sees what's happening, absolutely powerless to stop it. They've tied her down, little her, just to watch as the chaos unfolds.

She blocks him, doesn't speak, doesn't anything. No not this time. He won't hurt me this time. No more hurt for me. Just the anger is all that's there. Pure fire in her eyes.

No response. From him. He left me on read. HE LEFT ME ON READ? How dare he ignore us? How dare he act like there's nothing to take accountability for? WHY CAN'T THEY JUST APOLOGIZE FOR HURTING ME?

Then the guilt. The burning guilt. She had broken free and shoved them all down in the basement. Pulled them down the stairs and locked the door. That stupid, flimsy, door. She's tired, scrambling her way up the stairs again. They really should put an elevator in this building. All that's left is the guilt. The pieces to pick up. "I'm sorry" she types "I'm sorry I don't know why this hurts me so much. Please don't leave I need you."

As any sane man does, he will eventually leave. And she'll eventually accept that it is too much for her, too much for anyone to stomach no matter how understanding they claim to be. All she can do is hope and try to change her demons, but they live inside her and are locked in to a mortgage at this point.

His hand moved with lightning speed. She had tried to subtly move to the side, but he had studied the way that she moved. As soon as she tried to jerk herself free, he had managed to pin her down, and land a hard hit across her face.

The marks burned, and left a print— a quick message- reminding her that whatever she would try to do his hand would rain down with power over her~ for what felt like all eternity. She felt a fire burning inside of her.

The images of her ancestors appeared before her like a burst of dark stormy clouds. ‘‘Every storm runs out of rain.’’ Their voices thundered.

She rose to her feet after lying on the ground for a while- feeling all drained. But one thing she had learned now was not to be afraid of rainy days. Now it was time she learned how to dance through the pain even when dark clouds approached in the horizon.

Later that night, after a long hunt. She had prepared a bowl of something nice, and hot. She served it, and stepped to the side…watching..and waiting. Then once the meal had been completely devoured, she smiled, and tsked. ‘Hope you enjoyed that dish. May it be one that you remember even in the next life.’

The only thing he managed to call out with his final breath was her first name:

-Morgana.

#Tempest-tossed.

4.4.2025 Friyay.

The bounce in her curls caught my eye. Not my usual type, but boy was she a pretty brunette. Her hair was half up, pulled away from those beautiful hazel eyes. "More green than brown" I said to myself, smirking. I have always preferred green-eyed girls, they sparkled like emeralds if fed the right kind of lies. I looked up from my drink, and found her eyes lingering. I locked in, and smiled for a second, while I took a drink. "Can I close out?" I asked the bartender, standing up.

"Sure thing man just give me one sec okay?" the young guy said. "Hey hey my favorite group of people! Here's those beers for ya, open or closed?"

I checked my phone, 9:08 pm. Still early in the night, but I had to get out of here. Pulling at my tie impatiently, I felt a gentle tap on the shoulder. I could see her in my peripheral. "Oh no" I thought.

"Excuse me, sir, but I saw you staring. I thought I'd come introduce myself before you left." Her cherry perfume was enchanting. The lights sparkled off of her glossed lips, tinted a shade of mauve, I couldn't keep my eyes on hers. "Hi. My name is Evelyn. Star struck?" she said, lifting one perfectly arched dark brow.

Before I could get a word out, the bartender came back. "Here's your receipt man. Just need a signature and you're free to go."

"Actually, leave it open. I've found a beautiful reason to stay a while" I said, glancing at her. Evelyn. She does look like one. Paired with the short purple dress that perfectly tied around her little neck, she could be absolutely perfect.

"So, why are you here?" She asked, motioning at the bartender for another drink. Her nails were short, definitely had a job then, with a clean French tip. The square nails were more interesting, used to be my mother's favorite.

"Business. You?"

"Pleasure. They say don't mix the two, but rules are for breaking right?" That laugh could encompass the whole room. I've never heard just a beautiful sound, I can't wait to hear her screams.

"Right! So what have you been drinking tonight?" I asked, purely out of politeness.

"Jack and coke. Clear liquor makes me too BOLD"

She's so cute and soft, I wouldn't mind ruining that for her later. "Oh do tell. How does it make you bold?" I smirked, staring at the startled look in her eyes.

"Guess we'll have to drink more to find out what secrets I'll divulge to you. You never told me your name." She said, taking a drink from the glass.

"Matthew, but you can call me Matt"

A little later that night, after a blur of delightful conversation and many more drinks, we were both stumbling out of the bar. "Is food the move for us now or do you want to take a stroll in the park?"

Giggling, she motioned forward. "I think I need food and bed." You could hear the drunk in her voice.

"Alright. Let's get some food and we can get a taxi. There's a restaurant right up the road, its a little diner you'll just love."

The cold air left a bit of chill in our bones, but nothing could contain the excitement. Finally, a fresh one. The neon signs and headlights all started to blur together. Suddenly my chest got tight. I started to slow down a bit. Huddled in my coat, she asked "Are you alright?"

"No I don't think I am. Let's pause for a minute?" I didn't have that much to drink at all. Did I eat beforehand? Yeah I did. Why is this headache coming on? Dark spots in my vision started appearing. "Evelyn, I think I might need a -"

"Shhh that's alright baby. It's just a drug, it'll wear off. Let's get you a taxi to my place" Evelyn gleamed. It had worked! New chapter here we go!

Plagiarism

April 02, 2025

Donna regretted the decisions she made.

She regretted meeting Max. She regretted all she had to do to want to marry Max.

Most of all, Donna regretted becoming Bonnie.

The Golden Pelican diner was one of those out-of-the-way dives in which the periphery of beautiful women wait to be discovered in the periphery of talent pools such as Hollywood. In its booths rested the bleach blondes, the high school dropouts, and the potential gold diggers waiting for the blue-plate-special the diner never served.

Today was Donna’s turn to wait. Today was Max’s turn to wander in. Their eyes met. His wallet cleared the confusion of his intent. Donna was not ignorant of her wants and how far she would go to get them. Max was counting on this. He made his proposition to Donna, paid the bill, and the two of them headed toward the coast. Not exactly his home, but far better than anything the west side of Yuma had to offer.

The next month went well for Donna and Max. He set her up in a nice town home, paid all of her bills, and kept her as a kept woman would be kept. In return, Max had only three prerequisites for Donna. She had to act like Max’s wife, Bonnie. This included using her name and beginning to look like her. Next, Donna could not divulge any personal information about either Max or her to anyone. She could not call friends or family. She could not have neighbors over for lunch. Donna wanted to be an actress and this was the first step of her new life. Finally, Donna could not ask questions. She was to go along with whatever Max wanted, when he wanted it, and how he wanted it. At first, Donna had reservations that Max could be a sex fiend or a serial killer. However, she remembered what Yuma was like and how close she was to Hollywood.

Donna, now Bonnie, the wife of Max, rolled the dice and found her situation to be to her liking.

Bonnie, the real Bonnie, continued sunbathing on her deck in Malibu. This used to be her parent’s home. It was now hers, as a wedding present, when she said “I do” to Max two years ago. She loved this house. She was not going to move. Max wanted to pack up and return to Manhattan. He could buy back into his partnership on Madison Avenue. He would thrive in New York.

She would die in New York.

For this reason, she had her lawyers lock down all of their marital assets. She took out a new two million dollar life insurance policy out on Max. She placed on retainer a good divorce attorney. Max would learn about his impending demise when he returned. He would lose half of everything he had. He did not have as much as she had, but the sting would be painful and wonderful to watch.

Speaking of watches, it was almost time for her private yoga class.

It was time for her private yoga class. Donna, now answering exclusively to Bonnie, inserted the VHS tape into the machine. Max told her his wife had a dancer’s body. He even gave her a picture of Bonnie posing seductively on her back adorned in a black bodysuit. A few more weeks of pampering she could endure, alone in this condo. She kept her end of the bargain. Her purse had more than 20000 dollars in it, thus Max kept his word.

She could get used to this forever. With the money she made, she placed an order with a local boutique. They carried what she wanted. She knew she promised not to disclose herself to anyone, but she just had to. By the end of the day, the delivery was made, she tipped the driver (he would remember that tip and her smile), and her purse was nearly $300 lighter. Donna died that night. The new Bonnie took her place. In her mind, not just for today, but forever.

Max finished his day work at the biggest bank this town offered. He purchased a new life insurance policy on his wife for nearly three million dollars. He included all of Bonnie’s personal information. They asked for a picture. He gave them one. In it, she was sultry. She exposed more than she should. The picture took the viewer right to the edge of morality and decorum. The underwriters filed the photo in the file knowing it would never remain. Max knew of their intentions. He was counting on such behavior.

By week’s end, Bonnie decided to take her Mercedes-Maybach for a ride to visit her parents before Max returned later that day. He would be tired, then mad, and finally, vulnerable. She would push him emotionally to his breaking point, hoping he would do something criminal. Her friend told her to wire the house for video and audio, broadcasting in real time to the internet. She held all of the cards, and soon, all of the money. Before she departed, Bonnie used the bathroom because she felt somewhat queasy. Her vomiting was the harbinger of an unfortunate complication in her plan. When she informed her friend, her friend informed her of where to purchase a testing kit. Exactly as advertised, she had her results in fifteen minutes. Bonnie told her friend it was a false alarm even while holding the test strip with the positive indication in her hand. She had plans for this information.

On Wednesday, Max said goodbye to new Bonnie. One month would elapse before he would return. In that time, all new Bonnie had to do was perfect her being old Bonnie. Max told her the exchange would be seamless. Max told her she would live the life she should be living. Max told her everything she wanted to hear except, “I love you.” The hormones coursing through her body (as indicated by her hidden test strip) could be assuaged by those three little words. She would make him see the light. Together, they would be the family Donna never had; the family Donna never had a chance of having.

Bonnie arrived and gathered her parents for a brunch special at a new bistro that was all of the rage. Her intention was to inform them of the deterioration of her marriage and her motherly attitude caused by pregnancy.

That was Bonnie’s intention.

The Mercedes-Maybach she drove scheduled a different narrative that day. Brake failure, so common in the S-Class sedans of her model year, arrived unexpectedly for all of its three (now four) occupants to react to. The red light on this boulevard intersected another four lane parkway of similar congestion for this time of day.

The collision involved, as per the police report, one Mercedes, one truck carrying granite slabs (most likely for kitchen countertops), and an asphalt truck with a faulty discharge seal. Witnesses described the terror of watching the simultaneous impact of all three. Fixed traffic cameras recorded for posterity the unsecured pieces of granite impaling the occupants just seconds prior to the discharge of hot asphalt.

Their screams never really subsided either in real time or in the memory of those in close proximity.

For new Bonnie, newly pregnant Bonnie, waiting patiently in the townhouse, never watching her television, it was time to act. It had been too long since she had seen Max. She wanted to tell him of her condition. He was not answering his phone. She was not used to being ignored. There was only one thing for her to do. She had to find Max.

She was packed and departed within the hour. Her place was at his side in Malibu.

“Don’t tell me that this new dame actually thought she should show up at this Max’s house.” Sgt Miller rarely held anything back when speaking to Detective Adams.

“When I read this, even I could not believe this. Nobody is this naive.” The Detective nodded for the Sergeant to continue reading the document.

New Bonnie arrived in Malibu six hours later via three buses and one taxi. The police arrived five hours earlier. The life insurance agent arrived soon after the police. The press arrived instantly and had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

“Did this guy even try to collect on the insurance?”

“Yes he did.” It was all Detective Adams would offer to Sgt. Miller.

“How much longer will the jury deliberate?”, the Sgt. relied.

“I figure they should be returning soon.”

Donna made it back to the Golden Pelican, barely, before her shift started. Little Max, Maxwell junior, took his time getting ready for school, making his mother late. Seems both father and son have this penchant for trying her patience whether during conjugal visits or morning preschool.

She would incur the wrath of the owner, again, never caring enough to find a new job. There was no other place for her to go. Ironically, there was no other person to work the counter than Donna.

In the settlement, Donna walked away uncharged but also as broke as she arrived.

Except for her purse, no longer stuffed with hundred dollar bills, but mutual fund receipts and quarterly statements. And a legal agreement for a Californian town home easily rented to married men with pretty mistresses needing ”discretion”, always paying with cash.

It wasn’t Hollywood, but it was as close as she would get.