I cry out at the injustice of the world. I watch my friends die. Flames envelope the buildings I called home. My country is in ruins, the planet: a roiling mess. All I know to do is shout at the sky, hoping there's a god somewhere who'll hear me scream.They start as a prayer, my cries for help, and they form into a tempest. I watch me friends die like butterflies caught in a net, killed for the beauty of destruction, for the benefit of someone so wealthy and far away that I do not recognize the world they're in. I do not recognize them as human. They are a monster, a vengeful god who was given the left overs of an experiment long doomed to fail. We are the left overs. I am what's left over. And I wish I could say that that made me better somehow, that it was somehow worth it in the end, that I'm a better person, that I've gained some knowledge that'll sustain me through the ages, but none of that is true. I'm not better, and no matter how much knowledge I gain, it could never be worth this much agony. It could never be worth the lives of my friends. It could never be worth feeling of my own soul suffocating under the weight of tragedy. It could never be worth dying, touching peace... then being ripped back to the present, into a world so full of sorrow that nothing else is left. Even now, I feel bombs shaking the floor above my head. I'm underground, in a place where the war is a distant echo that reverberates through every nook and crany, starving our children, depriving us of the sun and the chance to feel safe, both things I learned to value as soon as they went away. I break my back trying to end this, end days that never come to an end, each moment unleashing a cataclysm of such destruction that a child's worst nightmare pales in comparison. The only thing my work changes is how much it hurts to fight. I don't want to keep living like this. I don't want to keep living at all. I need a god. I need a god who will save us from the horrors of war. Even as I write those words, I know a god will not come. The gods have forgotten us and its time I forget them to. I look around. There's a baby crying, a father injured with a spear and there's blood on the apple a mother is holding. She takes a bite. She doesn't even notice the blood. I look into her eyes, they're numb. She doesn't shake when the room trembles. She just sort of sways. I can't handle this. I can't watch the husk of a being endure. For then... then I will become a husk too. I'm breaking, just like this broken world. I'm breaking, I might be cracked open to find a reflective jewel, but there is nothing to reflect. The light is all gone. Instead of shining, I absorb. My insides fill with the cries of an eternity, my mind with the screams of mothers and fathers and parents, my soul with the silent agony of those who are dead. It doesn't go anywhere. I just sit. With desperation, I pick up my pen for one last sentence. This is the end, for there is no way I could express anything close... A few ink splots hover over the page, a tear from my pen that my eyes will never shed. I am numb. There is too much, for even reality to comprehend. I am numb, a husk. My pen, more alive than I am and my sword more broken than I shall ever be. I am numb. The war is over, because I have given up.

You know, I never thought I'd be sitting in a sex ed lecture feeling jealous of how innocent the teacher is. The teacher asked us why teens aren't concerned about STDs. My first thought was, because I don't plan to have sex. The only way I'm gonna get an STD is if I'm raped. You should be trying to stop that instead of lecturing at us knowing we won't listen. My teacher started talking about how kids don't think about death because they're so young and healthy that death feels like it's just a story. Bitch, I've tried to kill myself. Shut up and do something useful. The first thing you said in this class is that you know what you're saying is going to go right over our heads. If you know that, why are you saying it? And btw, I may be young but I'm not healthy. I couldn't walk last night because my ankles are too weak to support my body on any surface that isn't flat. I think about death constantly. I know that my uncle would kill me himself if he knew I was trans. I'm fuckin seventeen. I have a job. I'm raising a kid. I've never had sex. This wasn't my choice. And this lecture is not helping.

"They were born like this."

"No, I wasn't." I think, looking at the screen and watching a stranger talk about my psychology. They have no idea what happened and they never will. I smile to myself. It is a smile of pain. It's the smile of suppression. A smile just for me, from one cruel bitch to another. They'll never know what I went through, they'll never know what I do to myself and that makes me laugh: one long cruel laugh, a laugh that never stops because... If it did, I don't know what would happen next.

So, I laugh. I laugh and I hope it never stops. I hope this cold, dead face never stops because if hell is worse than this then there is a type of fear I can never comprehend.

I laugh. I laugh so hard my ribs begin to burst. Pain, I feel pain. I hold on to that pain. I cling on to that pain for dear life. It's a life line. Still, I laugh. Hysterically, I laugh. I laugh because of the absurdity I live in. I laugh because they still think there's reason behind this horrible world. I laugh because they try to grasp at the strands of the insane. Don't they know I already tried that? When I started spiral... felt my mind slip... into the abyss. Don't they think I tried as hard as a could to find some reason behind it all? I laughed, because there is nothing I can do but laugh.

I laugh,

at the absurdity of this world.

I laugh,

because there's no where left to turn.

I laugh,

because they're still trying to find reason when its long since left.

I laugh,

because even I don't know what I'll do next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ya know, I was hanging out with normal people again today. It makes me realize how hard my life has been. They just... fix things when they come along. They aren't scared of asking for help. They don't analyze their every move in fear of retaliation. I can barely imagine living... at all. I was gonna say living like that but I barely feel alive at the moment, I don't feel real. They live... and I don't. I switch five times every night just so I can touch water to wash my hands and brush my teeth without getting triggered and its so strange to see someone living as if they don't have to fight for their time on this planet, as if the war is already over when, for me, it's just begun. It's so strange to see people acting normal, when I barely realize that's a concept. It's so strange to see people living, walking, driving, going about their day, when I feel stuck inna cage of my own making, never escaping and certainly never living, for real. It all feels fake, like I'm a character on television. Next thing I know, I step into the real world. People have jobs. The camera doesn't cut to the details anymore, you just have to guess at what's important. And let me tell you what, none of it seems important at all. So, why was it so weird to see people living, truly living? Why did it make me sad?

Every time I see something about ancestors being proud of you, about you being their gift to the future I think this:

No, I'm their abomination, the child they never wished to be, the end of the world as they knew it, I am queer and the fact that me, that, originated from them, makes them roll in their graves and I love it. I have learned to feed off their despair and discontent, turning it to love instead of desperation. I use this knowledge to love those like me: the abominations of this world that only ever wanted a home.

I remember this and I keep walking, I keep loving, I hoping hoping out of spite. I keep trying to make this world a better place as revenge. It spurs from anger. My ancestors were colonizers and I have dedicated my life to undoing everything they ever did. I hope they feel worthless and unloved. I hope they watch their own culture of domination disapear, just as they did to so many others. I hope they watch, as I, their descendent, do what they never could, and turn their dreams of a new world into a pile of ash.

My sister came up to me last night.

She was crying.

She didn’t want her Dad to see.

She was scared he would get upset,

so she came to me.

She came to me,

her sibling,

to do the job of a parent

and I did that job.

I helped her calm down.

I helped her organize her thoughts.

I did everything I could.

But I still have to wake up,

knowing my sister will never have all she needs.

I don’t want

what happened to me,

to happen to her.

So I work,

I keep going,

for her.

I finish what I have to do,

Then, I ask her if she’s ok.

I ask her what happened at school today.

I ask her about her mom.

I ask if her mom was in a good mood today.

I ask if her mom gave her dinner.

I ask what my sister had to hide in order to survive.

I ask all this

because no one asked me.

No one asked me if I was ok,

they just assumed.

No one told me parents weren’t supposed to blame you for the grocery bill.

No one told me parents were supposed to love you more than they loved themselves.

No one told me I was supposed to be allowed to leave the house,

I was supposed to be allowed to go to school,

I was supposed to be a kid,

I was supposed to have been ok,

been taken care of.

Instead,

I assumed that the best the world had to offer was a cold room,

a blanket on the floor

and a child who got yelled at for wondering why nothing ever changed.

I don’t want that to happen to my sister.

Now it is.

I can do nothing to stop it.

All I can do is hope,

give her a person to talk to,

make sure she knows she’s loved

then watch.

Watch

as she is taken away by the same person who ruined my life.

All I can do is watch,

as she comes home hungry,

gets to school late and lies

Because no one believes you when you tell them it was your parent that made you late,

it was your parent

that didn’t get you dinner,

it was your parent

who made you sleep in their bed,

it was your parent

who tried to stop you from going to school,

it was your parent

who told you you would be safe in their clutches.

It was your parent,

who decided you were too broken to be saved.

And it was every other adult you told

who made it impossible to escape.

This was my life

but I’ve never said a word,

Why?

I’m sure you can guess.

So guess.

Think of everything that could have gone wrong and ask if you could do the same.

Could you last the pressure?

I could, but it almost broke me.

I don’t want that to happen to her

but it is.

There's nothing I can do to stop it.

And the worst part?

The worst part is when my sister, the kid I raised,

Calls me mom

And I have to tell her she’s wrong

I have to tell her I’m not her parent

I never will be

Instead,

it's the adults

who are watching a movie

Taking a nap,

Ignoring the world

While I sit here, and watch my sister cry

Cry, not because of what happened at school

But because of the response her parents have

They didn’t notice she arrived

They didn’t notice she was crying

And worst of all

If she tells them

It will only get worse

So she comes to me

My sister,

Comes to me,

her sibling,

to do the job of a parent

and I do that job.

I will continue to do that job for as long as I live

Because no one did it for me.

You don't realize how scary it is to see your own blood on your hands and know that you put it there until it happens. Until, you're looking at your hands and no matter how many times you touch your face they always come away covered in red. You know you put that cut there. You know you dug your fingernails under your skin. You know you've done it a million times before. It's an addiction you can't stop. So, you touch your face again. Your finger comes away red. You take a deep breath, get out your phone, flip the camera to selfie mode and wipe it away as best you can. Your friends can't know. Your family can't know. You have to keep it hidden but your head is faint, your arms have scars you don't remember putting there and you don't know if its ever going to end. This is fear. This is what it means to have lost control. To not know. To never know. And, to never be able to tell.

I am realizing I don't want to talk to my Dad because I don't understand what he sees. I don't know what I look like in his eyes. I can only remember what I looked like in the mirror that morning. I can only guess what name crosses through his mind. I barely understand what he sees in my face when he says I look tired and everything but that is true. I don't understand. I don't understand what he sees. I'm so used to analyzing other people, gathering their view of the world then emulating it in myself that when I don't know what he's thinking my whole personality crumbles. I feel uncomfetable and I don't know how I'm supposed to act, what stereotyoe I need to fill for them to ignore me so I can disappear into the background. I don't know... I need help and I have no where to go, no one who knows the truth and I don't have nearly enough confidence to burden someone else with what's on my mind. So here I am, writing on prose, to an audience I will never know because it is easy for them to dismiss me and for me to do the same in turn. Here, I don't have to pretend in order to disappear into the background. It happens by itself.