Picture a world of Sepia—not exactly colourless but void of creation; bleak; a place of nothing new or evolving or artistic. Otikka. That was the land between our worlds. It was dull and boring, but stable.

Our love broke that.

This is the story of our story:

Asra

It was a stony place where I stood; an untrained eye would think it to be pitch black. Maybe it was. Colour had not come into creation back then; it was not a thought we knew to have. So perhaps I was born in blackness. Even if there had been colour, it was still a world with nothing to see. Maybe no one there knew how to look. Their desires—if that’s what they were—were only to stay in their spots, to stick to their habits. To be lone vessels of the dark.

I did not know if people died in that place because no one really lived. Nothing changed. No one was taught change; how to want things or feel things.

I wish I could explain to you why I chose to walk when no one else did. I do not know. Maybe I was just the first to grow a desire. Maybe some greater creation out there decided to put change in me. But I walked. I sought out something new.

I learned the ground was hard and cold on feet I learned were bare and mine. Without the vocabulary to describe such things, I saw other creations, learned other vessels were not the same. I touched their faces, enjoying the different molds, but they were all trapped in their stagnant ways and I learned I did not want that.

So I kept going… and going, and I learned, through experience, the pain that was time. It might have been seconds or centuries, but to me, travelling through that place was a kind of forever. Not knowing what I was searching for made the journey all the more brutal. But I found it; the type of 'different' I’d desired.

And when I did, I climbed towards it.

Fos

It was a cloudy place where I stood. Everything was white and everything was there. All the world had to offer dwelled in that scratched out space. Everything: carried in our hands. Every receptacle held their part and every part was shared: the very pieces of the world. We carried them in our arms like babies. Forests, canyons, fire, snow, oceans, and emotions. We held them in clear spheres like crystal balls, whilst diamonds of light revolved around their frames, blinking from one set of arms to the next. The world’s belongings were ours to hold, ours to bask in. We saw everything there was to see without realizing how blind that made us.

Sensibly speaking, we should have been happy, but happiness was merely something we held not something we felt. We had everything and knew nothing.

I think what I was meant to do was not what I did. In this place of light and shine and all the things that were, I was not supposed to strive for anything more, because, in theory, there should have been nothing more to gain. All I had were things to lose.

And I lost it all. Willingly.

I made the choice to let go. I couldn’t tell you why.

Why drop all that you could ever have? Maybe some weaker part, of whatever I was, had finally felt their weight. Maybe I’d sensed that something out there needed the things I held so much more than I could ever understand. I simply did what no one else did, and took on the consequences.

It was when everything fell—when I had nothing left to hold—that long tendrils of black light had reached up from the clouds to hold me. They slid across my silhouette and tugged me down through what once was my only ground. And I accepted it.

Asra

After falling and falling and falling again, I finally sat at the peak of my climb, and placed a palm above me, on what had felt like a brittle border of the world. The moment my claws grazed the surface, the blackness gave way, dots of it sprinkling down my arm and drawing hair on my scalp. Then, for the first time in history, I had witnessed something that was not covered in shadow. The ‘new’ of which I’d searched for; bright things like white-golden shawls draped down from the cracks in the world. I clutched onto one, feeling warm emptiness in my palm, and with a huff and a shudder, the entire border showered over my people.

Otikka—the world of sepia—opened up to us. ‘Change’ in its rawest form. It was there I discovered air and took my first breath of it. I drank the stuff like water and never stopped drinking. I saw the sky and its bronze-like beauty, felt the wind and watched the many bubbles of things raining down from far above.

I felt hope. As strange as it may sound, I realized I was alive and felt gratitude to life itself. There was an abundant overload of beautiful feelings and I couldn’t get enough. I pulled myself out of the Dark and took my first step on the new world. With my step came a—

Boom!

Fos

I landed hard upon Otikka’s grounds. The shadowy things had dragged me through clouds, pierced me through skies, choked me the whole way down. I felt pain for the first time in history, too much of it—as if pain itself had found its first target. I felt sorrow, I felt rage, I felt regret, and hate to all that surrounded me, and all that I was. It felt so easy— so necessary to slip into these feelings. And when I had finally hit the ground, it was like I was still falling. I realized: I was a being that could die. I should have died. If the land and its magic had not been trying to figure out what I was, I would be dead—and all because of a foolish choice.

I abandoned the one task the world had given me and for what? This copper-coloured place?

I cried out—roared my everything out—and struggled against the agony of the fall, pushing myself away from the ground. My mistakes raining down around me: Trees and their leaves, mountains with their ice, volcanoes, lakes and lava, and lightning fields; Otikka’s power had warped their sizes to its liking.

Old magic had filled that place. It was potent in air that was as new to magic as it was to being breathed. Mixed together, no one knew what these equations could do.

This was the stuff fate was made of; reality; physics; the art of creation. And we were the intruders.

It felt like another phase of eternity would have to pass before change would strike again. I was convinced I would have to sit there in my agony and face the punishment of setting a definition to ruin. But it was during this vulnerable time of doubt and hurt that I saw her: a being so different from me or my people or anything I’d known to be, that it was incomprehensible just to look her way. I thought our people held everything, but her presence negated this. Blackness clung to her in sheets of soot and ash, as if the very same tendrils of black light that had dragged me down had formed her dress—thinner tendrils made her hair which cascaded around her in waves. Then her eyes: black abysses—like staring into nothing.

She walked towards me—with little bits of things I’d dropped snuggled in her arms—and it felt like my pain had lessened by more than half its weight. All my woes seemed small. All my mistakes were no longer mistakes, for seeing her stand there at the edge of the crater I’d created: it felt like this was what the world truly meant for me to do. My entire being was made for meeting her.

Asra

When I’d heard the boom, I’d wanted to catch the sound in my hands, to feel its dance in my eardrums again. Sound was a magnificent concept to me. How could something so far away be so suddenly and wonderfully inside you? I hugged my ears, traced its pointed frame with my fingertips as I journeyed towards the sound’s source. The journey itself was ethereal. Otikka was swimming with magic and grand creations falling from the sky. The sky was a wonderful creation all on its own. I tried to put my handprint on its strange shade.

A bubble with stringy somethings inside descended slowly towards my hand and I followed it down with the backs of my fingers. It popped, releasing uncoloured grass in a patch that grew from under my feet. I picked some strands, some similarly fallen twigs, fragrant-less flowers, rocks, and leaves. I heard his cries of pain all the while, without understanding what the sound meant. Until I found him.

The same white-gold shawls I’d tried to grab before seemed to be gathered around his body in a tight, majestic formation. His hair was a long scatter of star-white constellations funneled together through a bubble at his back. It gave the impression that his strands of starlight may have been perfectly aligned once, but streamed wildly across his back now. Disorder, franticness, unrest; those were the impressions he gave me. His eyes shone too bright and seemed too lost, as though he were blinded from staring at too much.

He did not look like something that could exist. How could anything so bright resist fading itself away? Watching him struggle there gave me fear, and worry, and sadness, all of which I felt for him. Instinctively, I knew he needed me, and I needed him. And that was all it took.

I tucked my collection of things into my dress, letting its shadows eat them up, and then I crept down the crater and approached him. He stumbled to a stand and did the same.

Fos

We were both too curious for our own good; too new and naïve.

She stood before me feeding off all the emotions I hadn’t yet acknowledged, pulling some from me as she gifted some in return: hope, joy, gratitude, something else…

I reached out towards her, half-expecting her to disappear, but she only mirrored the act. We were two beings that could act, when no one else knew how. That, in and of itself, was an unprecedented occurrence that not even Otikka was prepared for.

There was a mixture of too many unknowns coalescing between our fingers: freshly fallen air atop ancient magic, the chemical makeup of two creatures the land had never once had to deal with. There was nothing in that space that knew how to react to our interaction. Her fingers intersected with mine, the gaps—my unknowns—were covered by what she understood and the opposite was true as well. We were two parts of a dangerous whole dripping our first drops of chaos.

Thus, [Secret Title] was born.

Asra

The world staggered, as if everything hiccupped for a moment. Time flinched. Reality tripped. Unspoken rules that had been set in place had flopped on its side, and colour, life, and everything in between, exploded into existence.

The ground covering my people cracked open, the sky shed its tint of tan and blossomed a purplish-blue. The clouds holding his people dispersed and, on the ground, greenery bloomed.

As my people rose from the ashes, his fell from the skies.

What had once been vessels of the dark grew smiles on their faces. They climbed and climbed to see the things I’d seen, they walked the paths I walked. They learned to love, and loved me for what I’d done. His people, the vessels of light, hated him for what he’d done. And it broke my heart.

I wanted to change the world that hated him…

Fos

But we quickly learned that the things we wanted, the things we tried to change, brought about chaos in the world and we learned much quicker….

that we didn’t want that.

Together

And now it’s yours: the story of our story—two entities bathed in a blunder of the oldest of magicks; two curious existences who’d been diseased with a gift of immortality. The fate-crafting pair who’d quickly been appointed the gods of this realm. Our forbidden love gave birth to a hell of annoyances—and wonders. Our choices had ricocheting effects on entire civilizations and land formations and it felt like the world’s catastrophes—and its blessings rested on our shoulders.

Nevertheless, the approaching tales is not of our own. That would be boring. Our story is only the stepping stones to an entanglement of adventures that had rippling effects on one another. Our appearances throughout their history shaped them into what they are today. To understand their struggles, you must understand our backstory. Not that hearing this will prepare you. We suppose it is up to you to know whether or not you’re ready…

To my future spouse,

Thank you for maybe existing, I truly appreciate it. I need to hope someone will love me again someday. I hope you’re doing better than I am socially, so maybe I can just hijack your friend group the way I had Lucius’ in high school.

I know, it’s kind of sad my only relationship so far has been three months my freshman year of high school. I needed that independence afterwards, though, and I am not completely alone: I do have friends from university I have kept in touch with, and I even have a job now, so not all my socializing is internet or phone based. An unfortunate amount is, but not all.

And who knows? Maybe we will start as an internet based interaction before blossoming into some people whose lives can intertwine.

I’m on a dating app, Boo, but somehow I doubt that that’s where our worlds will collide. I don’t even know if you exist though, so I’m just throwing as many opportunities to connect into the universe as I can without opening myself up to danger.

Yeah, it’s hard to know what to say to someone who might not even exist. I love you or will probably love you, and I don’t want to ruin that. It would be kinda cute if maybe I met you via this Prose post, but I’m not holding my hopes very high that that’ll be our path-crossing either. Maybe I just have no idea how relationships start anymore now that school is not exactly a facilitator in the equation.

Unless we meet in grad school, which would be brilliant. Spouse-spouse entomologist teams tend to write books together, and interesting papers.

Hopefully this will inspire someone to give me a chance,

Felix

Finally, I write.

I’ve been avoiding you

for so long—Afraid

I will let my emotions fall

Like Ash in the wind

White burn with charred hope

Wound so tight, and twisting

In my gut —my pain cries

And I long for you.

My own blood fresh drawn

On paper, and ink

But this is how it ends.

Speechless, and homeless

And who am I but not

A poet—Sad, sad, and

Long gone before —

I took my first breath.

I absolutely hate it when the bathroom doorknob is wet. In fact, I hate touching anything that's unexpectedly damp. Once after someone else's shower, I picked up the tube of toothpaste and found it soaked with condensation. It was like touching a dead slug.

I always dry my hands very thoroughly after washing them, because I don't like the feeling of lingering dampness. I don't like having to touch things with wet fingers. I take forever at the hand dryers in public washrooms—even the really useless ones, because they work eventually, if you're patient enough.

I always brush off my dishes and utensils with my fingers, before I use them. Sometimes I feel silly doing it. But sometimes I feel crumbs, and then all the satisfaction of validation. If I hadn't brushed it off, those crumbs would be in my food.

In the shower, I imagine I'm washing away all the crusty old thoughts and beliefs I don't need anymore. I tend to hold onto things, once I have them. So I make a point of trying to let go.

It's because I'm so good at avoiding things. I keep everything away from me. So when something gets in, I cling for dear life.

I'm a small pasty, bald, Irish guy that looks like the product of an unholy, biological-law-breaking union between Uncle Fester of the Addam's Family and Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. On a scale of 1-10, most people would say that I'm a C-. Already in my middle years, I fully expect that by the time I'm an old man I'll have to shop at the Big, Tall, and Hunchbacked store for clothes.

In terms of a personality? I have one. I guess. However, it's an open box, slightly irregular, analog, neon plaid, and batteries not included purchased at a shady flea market stall kind of personality.

Psychologically, I suffer from major depressive disorder, with manic tendencies which is interesting because I can't find, "Manic Tendencies" in the DSM-V. I guess my psychiatrist really thought I was special and deserved something customized! It was sweet of him, really. I also have PTSD related to domestic violence, social anxiety disorder, and was exposed to a buffet of illicit drugs in utero.

People think I'm eccentric when really, I'm a ball gag, straight jacket, and resides in a padded cell kind of psychotic. My delusions might be absurd and self-destructive, but they're a lot of fun!

I am a social worker with crippling social anxiety. I can be in a room with 3-4 people, but any more beyond that and I want to curl into the fetal position under the nearest bed.

I am a husband and father of 4. Really! No, they're not imaginary and I know this because if they were imaginary I'd have a lot more fucking money.

I can quote hard rock and heavy metal lyrics verbatim, but I know fuck all nothing about anything that qualifies as useful. Change a tire sew or replace a button on a shirt? Fuck no! Quote the lyrics to both versions of AC/DC's, "The Jack?" Fuck yes!

I was a Taco Bell restaurant manager for more than 10 years. Although it's been nearly 16 years since I worked there my sweat still smells like red sauce.

I hate reality television and country music. Honestly, prolonged exposure to either will likely result in a loss of a minimum of 10 IQ points and at least 1 child conceived with a first cousin.

I'm not into porn, but if there isn't a Golden Girls inspired porn series there should be!

The only addiction I never treated as a substance abuse counselor was addiction to Flintstones Chewable Vitamins. It's probably a good thing because I don't have a fucking clue how I would've responded to being told, "I used to do horrible, horrible things for a hand full of Bam-Bams."

Is there a Just Fans page with just fans? Do you have to pay more for variable speed or oscillating? I can imagine someone getting a little moist in the knickers after watching a black stainless steel oscillating fan with a chrome fan cover blowing on high.

I would rather have my ass lubricated with battery acid immediately followed by a prostate exam performed with a running, rusty chainsaw than be anywhere near a clown.

Have you ever heard of fear?

Of strangers' eyes bobbing from that blind spot over there.

Milky shadows that shift and follow.

A breath cut shor--

To match the gasp of a ghost

holding your hand without your consent.

The hairs on your arms standing tall, being touched

without a presence, just a hush.

Cold and cold then hot.

You forgot something.

Don't breathe.

Stop.

Tick Tick Tock.

It's not clean. Your soul. Your back. Your face.

Their judgments rattle the seats beneath

disgracedisgracedisgracedisgracedisgracedisgracedisgrace

The vehicle--its heavy metals--lose its tracks to a cliff

Nosediving

You are groundless

plummeting to the ends of a nightmare

where the bed cannot hold you.

And the floor cannot find you

Yet.

Faces

you can't look at,

tower over you the whole while.

In black and white and criss-crossed eyes

They watch,,,,,,

The vulnerability that you are

Something chases you

slowly.

Both fleshy and frothy

and unseen and

slowly.

It will reach you.

The question is when.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

You anticipate it.

It anticipates you.

It cannot wait to get you.

A little more than hug you.

It hovers over your ear

with a whisper of a question:

Have you ever heard of fear?

Of course its not like any of that stuff is really there

?

The world feels broken these days. Every morning when I wake up, it's like staring into a shattered mirror, with cracks running through the reflection. The news is full of conflict, injustice, and human suffering on a mass scale. Sometimes it feels hopeless, like there's nothing I can do to make a difference.

But then I remember Grandma Rose's mirror. It was an antique, passed down through generations, with an ornate golden frame. One day, it slipped from my clumsy child hands and shattered into a thousand pieces on the hardwood floor.

I'll never forget the look on Grandma's face - not one of anger or disappointment, but of wisdom. She knelt down beside me as I cried over the shards of broken glass. "Why are you crying, my dear?" she asked gently. "The mirror is not gone. It is simply...changed."

She helped me gather the pieces carefully, wrapping them in a cloth. Over the next few weeks, she spent hours each day meticulously gluing the shards back together. When she was done, the mirror looked like a crazy abstract stained glass window, with cracks zig-zagging across its surface.

"There, you see?" she said, smiling at our masterpiece. "It's more beautiful than ever before. The cracks are a part of its story now, a map of all its broken places that have been rejoined. Those cracks make it unique."

Grandma kept that glued-together mirror for the rest of her days. And every time I look at the world's cracked reflection now, I think of her lesson. Yes, the world is broken in many ways - but that means there is immense potential for discovering new beauty in the shards, if we have the patience and resilience to remake it into something better.

You don't change the world by giving up or giving in to cynicism. You change it by seeing the cracks as an opportunity, not the end. By helping one person at a time. By being kind to your neighbor, and encouraging your community to do the same.

About a year ago, I decided to start volunteering at the local soup kitchen one day a week. I'll never forget the first time I served food to the long line of people, seeing the grateful smile on an elderly woman's face as she took the tray of hot stew from my hands. In that fleeting moment, I could see her humanity, her struggle, and her inherent worth as a person - not just another person experiencing homelessness and food insecurity. The smallest act of service was a reminder that even in a broken world, we can start re-assembling the shattered pieces through compassion.

Little by little, these acts of service and sacrifice can merge the fragments into something new, something more resilient than it was before. Whenever the weight of the world's suffering seems too much, I try to focus on making one piece of the mirror a little less broken, one person at a time.

My friend Ali started a neighborhood watch program in her community when crime became a major issue. She didn't stop there, though - she worked to connect young people who had gotten mixed up with gangs or drugs to counseling resources. Over the past few years, she has helped create a community support network that has given so many a second chance.

My co-worker Marcus started tutoring refugee children in English and math, knowing that education is the key to building a new life of opportunity in a new country, free from persecution.

These people aren't heroes, just ordinary folks who decided to stop waiting around for the world to fix itself. In their own way, they have become skilled craftspeople, carefully glueing together the shards of our shattered societies, creating something more resilient and beautiful in the process.

The cracks in the world's mirror will never fully disappear. There will always be a new hazard, a new injustice to face. But if we all commit to doing our part to address those shattered places with love and service, piece by piece, the masterpiece will only become more striking over time.

When times seem darkest, I imagine myself as a child again, sitting next to Grandma Rose as she patiently reassembles that broken mirror. I hear her words of wisdom echoing through the years: "These cracks are a part of its story now...These cracks make you unique." These cracks are part of a larger whole. I hear my grandmother's soothing voice, reminding me that I can always restart my day....

There's nothing I feel for in this day that could make up for the time life has spent wasting me away.

There's a door right next to me that I don't feel like walking through, just to try and fail at fixing a world that few set out to do. So few it becomes an impossibility; a sacred mural of hope only an artist can try to seek until their little clouds rain over their work, reminding us daily that we are weak. But without their colourful sounds of hope and imaginings of what its like to have peace, the vast majority of the crowd mentality will wither so completely, 'till money becomes the only thing reminding the earth of the toxic litterings that was once humanity. And that time they spent striving for the very green-coloured garbage they created and not the hearts of the Smiles hoping the world can become a better place, is such a waste.

Until then, I'd rather sit here behind this door and write out my hopes to someone out there who's actually awake.

What it takes,

What it takes.

What it takes!

WHAT IT TAKES!!!

Everything wants to take from you. Rob you of your riches and rewards.

Cover the face of your work with their traps and contracts

and rip your dreams right -w-r-i-t-e- out of your head.

What they take from you is your all. All the days you spent slaving for the takers, when all you want is to be a giver, to give to those who haven't yet learnt how to take back their stolen lives from these greed-filled takers who rake every drop of sweat from your bones and leave you to pay the price of your medication and casts.

Watch each bill leave your fingers as, you--now made cripple--hobble back to your desk to feed dreams out your pen to give back to the thieves who break souls to no end, so take, TAKE it all away.

Because at the end of the day,

The dreamers and believers

Will find a freakin' way.

Dear Dick,

I hope this letter finds you in a state of literary grace and grammatical correctness. It is with a heavy heart and a dictionary of synonyms that I tender my resignation from my position as Chief Wordsmith Extraordinaire, effective immediately.

Please understand that this decision was not reached lightly. It’s just that after spending countless hours crafting metaphors, similes, and puns, I’ve come to the conclusion that my true calling lies in the lucrative world of competitive Scrabble. I feel that my talents are better suited to arranging tiles on a board than rearranging words in a document.

I will fondly remember the days spent debating the Oxford comma, arguing over the pronunciation of “gif,” and trying to sneak “onomatopoeia” into every memo. However, my ambitions now lie beyond the confines of this office, where the only punctuation I’ll be worrying about is whether or not the triple word score was worth sacrificing all my vowels.

I assure you, this decision is not a reflection of the stimulating workplace environment or the copious amounts of coffee provided. It’s simply that I’ve grown tired of searching for the perfect synonym for “exhausted” and yearn for a challenge that involves more than just battling writer’s block.

I appreciate the opportunities for growth and creativity that this position has afforded me, and I will always cherish the memories of our team’s literary shenanigans. Please know that I leave with the utmost respect for you and the entire team, and I wish everyone continued success in all their future endeavors.

Thank you for your understanding, and may the pen forever be mightier than the sword (unless we’re playing Scrabble).

Yours literarily,

Mamba