Hey there trouble, haven't seen You in a while,

Thought You might have left our town.

For a moment I was scared,

But now You're back, and I am saved.

It might be hard to understand,

But when You're near me – I feel blessed.

So could You please just stay some more?

It pains me much to see You go.

Well, it's okay, I'll see You later anyway,

I know the paths You walk each day,

Along these routes I'll leave my clues,

Reminding You that You're my muse.

Across the river, see me standing

A silhouette of someone, crooked shape

I stand on ashes, guilt within me burning

A faceless husk forever carrying shame

The name I bear is a reminder

Of all the pain I sowed and reaped

And just like memories I wish were long forgotten

The fire always walks with me

I wish I could share with the world what I smell,

The soft scent of sunshine-taste tea,

Sweet aroma of freshly-baked pie,

Petrichor's fragrance outside.

But the fate played its joke,

And despite my surroundings,

They now lack any scents,

After fire's devouring kiss.

April 2023. On the website dedicated to readers and writers called 'theprose.com', a user named 'batmaninwuhan' posted a continuation of their "random topics" challenges, in which users can participate by writing a piece in any form or genre on the topics provided in the challenge. At first regarded as a simple internet writing challenge, users participated as usual, sharing their works with the rest of the community.

However, several days later things have taken turns for the strange. A user under the nickname of [▇▇▇▇▇] was reported missing by their family members on their social media accounts (including 'theprose.com') 4 days after the challenge was posted. No connection was made at the time of the disappearance, until three more disappearances were reported a week later. The other victims, just like the first, were members of 'theprose.com' community and have participated in the challenge.

Questions and concerns have arose in the community. Some users who participated in the challenge have started massively deleting their posts - some even accounts - out of fear of disappearing next. Others thought it was just a highly elaborate, well-crafted and well-executed stunt, and that all the police reports were also fabricated, just to trick as many users as possible.

What was certainly clear is that all the disappeared users' works were on two topics: topic 11 and topic 12, themes of which have been lost due to the deletion of the challenge by the administration of 'theprose.com'. All attempts to access the original post were unsuccessful, as it couldn't be viewed even through the Wayback Machine.

As of today, the original poster, 'batmaninwuhan', have not been active on 'theprose.com', nor have they left their digital footprint elsewhere ever since the accident.

The disappeared users were never found.

As I lay, waiting for the inevitable, too powerless to display the dread I feel, I remember the two simple truths that were once said by two wise men.

I look up to the people around me, and with the last bit of strength I have left, I pass unto them these simple truths.

"Be excellent to each other...

And...

Party on, dudes..."

If someone told me that giving a lift to an old hermit and a farmer boy would result in several near-death experiences, shoot-outs with the government, falling in love with a princess, getting frozen and sold to my employer, and overthrowing the government with a bunch of furry midgets - calling them crazy would be the understatement of a millennium.

But here I am, standing in a village of said midgets, holding the woman I love (who also happens to be a princess), watching the fireworks in the sky as everyone is celebrating the victory over the fascist regime - victory that took many decades and way too many lives to achieve.

Victory which wouldn't have happened if, years ago, an old hermit and a farmer boy hadn't walked into a bar and asked to give them a lift.

It was quite late when I arrived back home. Well, if you could call a shabby shared apartment "home". Clicking the door open, I sighed with relief - none of my flatmates were awake, which meant I didn't have to deal with any human social games. I hung my coat on the hanger, took my shoes of and then I saw it.

Standing in a glass on a table of our common room, a bouquet of red flowers. A note read:

"We're very sorry for your loss. Our thoughts and prayers are with you."

And a second note nearby, in a different handwriting:

"Someone left those by our door. I put them in here so they don't die. - Viv."

I just stood there for a bit, eyes closed, concentrating on my breathing. Then, I took the flowers from a glass and threw them in the trash. Maybe it was somewhat harsh of me, but I couldn't care less at the moment.

I'm sick of flowers, I'm sick of all those "thoughts" and all those so-called "prayers" and I especially don't need them from two people who would've been still torturing me had I not escaped from their grasp.

I poured myself a glass of fresh water, drank it, gathered myself and headed for my room with one thought.

When I die and join her, I am begging you:

Please don't send us flowers.