I grew up wishing that people’s darkness lived outside of them. I wanted to see behind the smiles and blank faces, because who wouldn’t? Who wouldn’t want to know how rotten a person’s insides could be? It’s like spoiled fruit. If you could see the insides, you don’t have to bite to know if it’s gone bad.

Even then, sweet things-people-can be dangerous.

Ma used to fret over my health. I was quiet, and a little skinny for my age, so Ma went out of her way to make sure her little girl was all right. Did I eat my broccoli? Did I make new friends at school? Was there anything troubling me?

I loved her, although she could be bothersome at times, but I suppose it came from raising me as a single mother. She only had me. And I only had her. I think she recognized that and taught me the value of love. “Love everyone you meet, dear,” she used to tell me, “because love is a precious thing.” I knew she was referring to her parents that died in a plane crash, and the father I had never met (despite her not ever saying so). So I believed her.

But when the bullying started, and I came home angry that the girls at school who had been so nice would fire insults at me like it was nothing, Ma thought it wasn’t their fault. “Dear, think about why they said that. They’re hurting just as much as you are,” she would say, hugging me. “Be nice to them. Eventually, they will too.”

It happened during the regular side show. Some poor freshman was pushed against the lockers by a towering senior-Mike. A crowd has gathered to watch, so I had to peek over tall people’s heads. The spectacle gave us a momentary high from the dreary school routine, even if it was brief as it was insignificant.

But there it was. The miracle. A lone storm cloud, hovering over Mike. It shrank, and grew, shrank and grew, like a pulsing heart. There was a cloud over the boy too, but it was small and pouring rain that turned into the nerd’s tears. It was nothing like I’ve seen before. Transfixed, I watched as Mike’s insults fueled his thundercloud and tore the nerd’s esteem into shreds.

I couldn’t see his cloud for the rest of the day.

I decided to investigate this deeper. Between walks on rainy days and studying my classmates’ social media posts, I gleaned new information-not only about what the clouds meant but the people around me. White clouds were happy, rainy clouds were sad, and almost everyone weren’t feeling what they seemed to be.

Now I saw what Ma meant: in class, grey clouds hung over the group of girls like wilting flowers. When they got the chance to snitch on others, however, the clouds swelled like balloons on ecstasy.

I am their sun, I thought. They didn’t want to believe it, perhaps they didn’t realize it, but their lives revolved around my suffering. Around me. That gave me a brief moment of elation, but it was pushed back with a darker realization.

I was the sun, but they were the black holes.

This only became more apparent as years passed and I honed my gift, all while maturing into a young woman. Sad clouds helped no one. They were only the start of a vicious, unforgiving chain-like reaction. Sorrow, anger and darkness were the same thing in this respect: They were infectious, and I had to find a way to protect myself.

Sometimes it was far from simple. Like Ma, for instance. I don’t know what drove me to stay with her day after day after day at the hospital. Her grey, almost non-existent cloud would lighten up when she saw me, like the sun had appeared behind it. She would hold my face in her wrinkled hands and whisper, “My darling,” and I would kiss her forehead before leaving for the night. The visits sapped all that I had, but I kept coming back, if only to see Ma a little happier than she was before.

After her passing, something inside me disappeared. My fascination in others’ sadness, my drug, vanished. It left me floating, untethered to the world. I started to disconnect myself from others. Avoid relationships. Hope that the four walls of my apartment would keep me safe from...from whatever was out there. The people? The unknown? Perhaps they were the same thing. The more I used my ability, the more I understood that this was the harsh reality. This was the only way to save myself. And nobody could see it until it was too late.

Now, as I sit by my bedroom window, I watch city life unfold in the morning haze. Despite the sunny day the weather has predicted, there’s more rainy clouds than ever hanging over people’s heads. Birds sing to each other, their chirps somewhat muffled by the thick glass. I’m happy, I think to myself. Happy as could be.

I smile at my translucent reflection. It’s a shame I can’t see my own cloud.

#ability #emotions #girl #mother #special #cloud

It was loud. Too loud.

Not only that, but the colours were jarring, and wrong. Like someone had cranked up the saturation, rendering the subway and its commuters to be lost in a mass of unpleasant hues.

Everything except for the little girl, it seemed.

She blinked a few times, looking around from the safety of the sidelines. A plethora of platforms and rail lines levitated above and below her, connected only by escalators and stairs. Subway trains sped past, occasionally stopping to load before screeching away. Everywhere the little girl looked, streams of people bustled about, eager to catch the next train that would take them to anywhere in the world.

That was the rumour, at least. But the little girl had learned that rumours could take her to the most interesting places, and this was no exception.

Weaving through the crowd, she came to a digital subway map. It made little sense to her; the colourful lines that sprawled over each other were nothing like what she'd imagined the outside world would be. White dots along the subway routes were labelled with the names of near and far away places.

So different. So different from the small, suffocating orphanage she'd run away from.

She turned around, and after a moment of hesitation, mustered the courage to tug a woman's sleeve. "Excuse me ma'am, can you--"

The woman jerked her arm away and rushed past.

The little girl bit her lip. She made eye contact with a man carrying a briefcase. "Hello, I'm trying--"

"Sorry miss, I'm trying to get somewhere too." He gave her a strange look before disappearing around the corner.

Maybe it was a mistake to hope for something that sounded too good to be true. And sure, the subway was much like walking into another world, but somehow she had envisioned the people to be less...cold.

A small part of her yearned for the familiarity of the orphanage. It hadn't made her feel loved, no. The rooms were too cramped and the caretaker was too cold for love. But until now, her life had always been simple. Quiet. And very dull.

It didn't make sense, to mull over the life she was so close to escaping. But she suspected that being contradictory was not uncommon--at least, not here.

Something green caught her eye. Not the neon shade that matched the peculiar fashion statement adored by everyone else here, but a natural, forest green. The girl turned to see an odd little man standing near a set of stairs.

She looked around again before walking up to him. "Hello," she ventured.

He tipped his bowler hat. His crinkled eyes met her inquisitive ones. "A pleasure to meet you, young miss."

He looked like a leprechaun, she thought. The green hat, matching suit and pants, and his pointy-looking shoes only supported that idea. 

Something nagged at the back of her mind. She couldn't place her finger on why, but she felt that she should know the strange man.

"You're not from here, are you?" he asked. "If you don't mind me asking," he said quickly.

She looked down at her worn, donated clothes from the orphanage, then back to the leprechaun man, then at the bright, colourful outfits of everyone else. She shifted her feet, but refused to let her embarrassment show.

"Where are we?" she asked.

The man chuckled. "Everywhere and nowhere, in a manner of speaking. I can't figure it out either. But all we need to know is that this place, it'll take you to wherever your heart desires."

"And where is that for you?"

He smiled wistfully. "Oh, somewhere nice and pleasant. It's so hard finding exactly what you're looking for these days. Right now, my wife and I are thinking of Florida."

The city, or place, or whatever it was held little meaning to the girl. It was the word "wife" that caught her attention.

As if on cue, an elderly woman stepped up to them and looped her arm through her husband's. "That's right," she said with a smile. To her husband, she asked, "Who's this?"

He shrugged, then glanced at his gold watch. "About time we head off, honey. Don't want to miss our train." They turned to leave.

"Wait!"

The little girl ran and blocked their way. "So I really can go anywhere from here, right?"

The leprechaun man furrowed his brows. "Well, yes--"

"Are you sure?" she pressed. Adults had the tendency to agree with anything a child said, especially when they wanted them to get out of their way.

"Very, young miss. We've used this station several times."

"Then how do I go home?"

The couple looked at each other. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand," said the man.

"Home is wherever you want it to be, dear," said the woman.

The girl frowned. "But...my parents! They're probably waiting for me. I want to find them too..."

"Your parents aren't with you?" asked the woman, as if she had just realized that. "Why would you run away?"

"I didn't, I'm looking for them--"

"If they weren't with you before, I can't imagine them waiting for you now," the leprechaun man said firmly. He shook his head. "Apologies miss, but we need to catch our train."

The girl could only watch as the couple bustled off. In no time they were swallowed up by the crowd.

And slowly, she began to understand.

Balling her fists in resolve, she once again located the subway map. Her finger traced over a curvy green line, and she read outloud the names of the stops. "Cadmen County, Traverse Hill, Mount Pleasant...."

Where had the couple come from? And why did they want to leave? Perhaps she was assuming things. After all, not much differentiated them. They were all looking for something. They all wanted to move forward. Even now, despite what had happened, she still had something to do.

She needed to move on, she thought. Nothing would change otherwise.

Her finger lingered on a particular stop, then traced it back to where she currently was. Station EN8, apparently.

She ran around a bit, using a mixture of observations and asking people to find what she was looking for. After finally locating the correct platform, her ears picked up the rumbling of the nearby traincar. Just in time.

As the traincar eased to a stop, the girl realized that once upon a time, the couple could have been her parents. Or her guardians. People that could've given her a home. And maybe, they both would've had what they wanted for so long.

But she knew she couldn't think like that. Because if there was one thing the orphanage had taught her, it was that there was no point in wondering what could've been. She had to focus on the now.

Focus on putting one battered shoe in front of the other. Focus on whatever lies ahead of her, and not behind.

She stepped into the traincar and sat. As a pleasant female voice announced the name of the next destination, the girl let out a breath, closed her eyes, and listened.

It was quiet, she noticed.

#subway #girl #metaphor #magical #rush #reality #orphan

How long have I been here?

Long, I think. Very long. Long enough that I'm starting to forget what happened.

Or maybe the rain, or the cold ground, or the sun that refuses to rise is erasing my memory and sense of time. Lying at the end of an dark alley doesn't help, either. I don't usually complain. Most of the time, I can absorb the stuff people throw at me like a sponge. But I guess a lot of things have changed since that moment.

How long have I been here? I stare at a puddle, the gentle drizzle making ripples across its surface. One, two, three, four...

Eleven. Somewhere, a bell tower chimes eleven times.

It was his fault.

I didn't see this coming. During the days and weeks and months leading up to it, everything seemed normal. He was a normal guy doing normal things. He volunteered at the local hospital, hung out with his friends, and even made it into the school swim team—something he had always dreamed of.

And then there were the not-so-good times. The nights that his parents fought and argued. The days where his friends would avoid talking with him. And the crying. Lots of crying.

I used to comfort him. Whenever he needed someone to understand, someone to be with, I was there.

And yet he left me. Why?

I try to tell myself that the answer is simple. In a busy city in a busy world, no one has the time to worry about others. Society moves at its own pace, and whether I decide to move on or get left behind is my problem.

A man's sudden laughter startles me. It takes me a few moments to realize it must be coming from the alleyway opening. I can't see him, partly because I don't want to, and partly because despite the opening it's still somehow pitch-dark here. Instead, I focus on the sounds of footsteps sloshing by in the rain, the traffic noise and the hum of the city as life goes on.

It seems so far away. Life, I mean. When was the last time I did something normal? Taking walks around the city at night, diving into a pool and competing against my teammates...It's all gone now.

But was that even my life? Or was that his life? Or both?

My head hurts, and this uncomfortable position isn't helping, but moving takes more effort than it's worth. Don't overthink it, I tell myself. We both knew he was always the one in control, anyway. His decisions and his thoughts mattered, while mine were less significant. That's just how it was.

He used to love sketching. Both of us did, actually. He would pick the scenery, perhaps a park or a piece of urban sprawl, and we'd sit under a tree. I'd make the skeletons, the rough base, then he'd fill in with the finer details. Sometimes he drew people. A little girl feeding a bird. A man reading the morning newspaper with his legs crossed. Normal people doing normal things. Though he added other details too. Stuff that didn't make sense, like having the bird's shadow in the shape of a vulture, or giving the man milky white eyes that were half hidden beneath his fedora.

I wonder what he would think of this scene. A boy lying on the ground in a dark alley, isolated from the rest of the world. Perhaps he would focus on the rain, and the way it seems to touch everything but me. Or maybe he'd shade most of my face in a way that looks like I'm crying.

If it were up to me, I would draw what I see in front of me. No symbolism, no artistic alterations. Just stark reality. Unlike him, I don't need to hide from the facts.

I once told him that. He said I was heartless.

But can I really be blamed? All I did was look out for him. I made sure that he'd avoid the wrong people so he wouldn't get hurt. I reminded him to put himself before others. I did the things that he was too afraid to do, like acknowledge the truth that nobody really liked him.

Maybe that was what made him snap. The truth.

Thinking hurts. Everything hurts.

But am I wrong to complain? Does it make me foolish to still care about him? Does it make me selfish to think about what I've been through, and not him?

I wish somebody would answer me. It's all so silent.

My vision blurs, and tears begin to slide sideways down my face. At least, I think they're my tears and not his, because I'm not sure of anything anymore. They reach the ground and join the raindrops that have begun to fall faster, harder.

Now that he's gone, there's nothing to do but lie here and wait. Soon, somebody will find me—or not. For some reason I keep forgetting that people don't care about each other. Maybe they thought the gunshot wouldn't be worth checking out.

I stare at the slick, crimson liquid that's spilling from my head and pooling onto the ground. A pistol sits a few feet away from my hand. His pistol.

I remember now. I remember, so vividly the moment he put the gun to our head and ended our life without so much as an explanation, an apology, a goodbye. I remember crying for help before he tightened our vocal cords and made us blend into the night. As his soul faded away, I remember the feeling of warmth being steadily drained from me, like the world was glad to let us go. Just like he was glad to leave me behind.

I wonder if he knew.

I wonder if he planned this.

I wonder if he abandoned me, his body, so I would know what it feels like to be alone.

#alone #abandoned #rain #death #emotion

It's my hands I see first. Sculpted like ice, like clay, its creases permanent. Then I look up. My neck cracks, but molds into the image, bricks, light competing with the stars, black hoods. I feel the scattered remains of trees scream to me, ask to be sprouted again. One stands magnificent over its fellow residents. A great tree. I feel a magnet in my chest, pulling me towards it.

I stumble through the obliterating numbness. There's a dull shout, but I focus my vision ahead. To the leaves and the veins so intricately woven from bark to branch. A fence folds in around it, scraped against the rough texture of its limbs. I latch my fingers to it, prick away at the wiring. My breaths are one with the tree. I feel its gasp for relief, watch its leaves stretch to sunlight.

Something travels up my nose and melts my lungs. I see it. Like the old steamboats, but strapping out of the roof of a long rectangular house with thousands of windows. I feel the tree groan with me, begging relief of the smoke, of the equivalent to fire, being burned alive. It's up my sleeves and arms. I can't snuff it out.

I must be on an invaded planet. We must be at war. But the young couple on a nearby bench, a brother of the great tree, with their faces intimate, prove otherwise. A foreign city, somewhere I haven't seen. I must have been transported.

But the sign. Tranchestor Avenue. I recognize it and my lips tingle, recognizing a feeling of another set against them. I met someone here. Bright blue eyes. There was a house, and for each tree chopped another one was planted. We were the town freaks, those who saw the beauty of the forest. But I don't see a forest. I see a tree.

I can't remember her name, but I remember blue eyes, like the sky on a clear day. If I could ring a name familiar, I would grant its beauty to the tree instead, for she could not still live in a place such as this. But an image, her stomach rounded, overwhelms me. I stumble from a flashing light, from a large yellow car with a capped man inside, and latch back onto the tree bark. I wrap my arms around it. I feel as if it is all that's now left of the great forest, where our cabin once laid. But I can't explain it.

Her stomach. Swelled. A child. Blue eyes.

Something sniffs. This is different from the engines going down the black pavement, or the fumes out of each house, or the buzz of fake lights. I recognize it as something my own face might do. The sound of humanity. The last remains of what I heard out of myself or her when she suddenly wasn't there anymore. When there was blackness.

Another sniff. On the other side of the tree. Could it be...

I circle to the other end, thinking that perhaps she might still be here. Waiting by the tree. Or even with another man, wrinkled but beautifully aged, happy to live on without me. That is how I would see it. A happy life.

But it is not her. A young lad is kneeled before the great tree. His eyes are closed, face is familiar, but I know I haven't seen it. Just as the tree. My heart stumbles at plastered brick beside the tree's roots. Something is carved inside.

In Remembrance of Frank and Margarate Tale, 1917-1952.

Then another stone to its side, connected by a bronze formation of a robe:

And their daughter, Mary Tale, 1982

Mary. The name we had agreed on.

I stare at the rope, a bronze symbol with a slight noose. 1952. Impossible. That was the year I left her. 1952, when the world became blackness. I remember her, strawberry curls, the oceanic eyes. Her years ahead. Her rounded stomach with spring and life inside. Thirty-five. She was thirty-five as was I, school lovers to embark on a world's great journey.

Wait by the tree, I had said.

My eyes are dry. I turn back to the sniffer and step closer. The boy is much too young to be a lover, young as a mourner who knows not his grief. Too much shine in his eyes to be in some preserved state like myself. But I recognize pride in his deep frown, and I know he has planted the great tree.

Then I see an ancient rope in his hand. He flinches and stares at me, and I see the blue eyes of the sky.

The desert is silent, as if it too is holding its breath.

A whisper of the wind, the unknowing twitter of a cactus wren, cloaked in the darkness.

There is no panic. That was reserved for the days before, as they crept along like the reality that consumed our minds. Now, there is only an hour left. This is the time for reflection.

They called us doomsdayers, as we rattled along the highway in overloaded and dusty pickup trucks, as we bought as many cases of bottled water as we could carry. They said that we were stupid, that it isn’t real. It’s just time passing, they said, that time will continue on forever.

But lying on our backs, pebbles digging into our skin, we stare at the inky sky, knowing this isn’t true.

Hopefully it will be painless, as time unravels itself and our bodies. That we will drift away, not be jolted as every atom rearranges and then desintegrates.

We are a family, some of us related by blood, others not. But there’s a reason we drove for eight hours. We wanted to die together.

Unfathomable philosophical thoughts morph into casual ponderings, in this numb time of in-between.

‘I wonder if there is a heaven...’

‘Do you think we have souls?’

‘Do I even exist?’

We find comfort in them, their current lack of meaning.

There’s so little time left. There are confessions. Of family secrets, of loves told too late. We’re about to lose everything. We want to lose as much of it as we can on our own terms.

The hastily bought ‘survival gear’ will mean nothing, but at least we tried. Tried to save ourselves, tricked ourselves into denying the inevitable.

Ten seconds left. We wish there were more, but we need to stop running. To welcome the end.

10.

9.

8.

7.

6.

5.

4.

3.

2.

And then...

1.

We are all still here.

Somehow being spared is more bitter than succumbing to the instability of the minutes, seconds, hours, ticking into infinity.

`

Well, there are an infinite number of universes, and the Me that i am is mundane by that standard. I am always a piece of shit, a hack, writing awful poetry, and laughable prose. I don’t even have the mental ability to bring myself to write something without a prompt. What a loser. What an ultra dimensional equivalent to a worm. The only difference between al us MEs is that we were cut off at different points from some main branch of a loser-ME and since then we have grown ourselves anew out of the trauma.

Now what sets me apart from non-MEs is a whole, vast expanse of failures, fakeries, and flatulence of my on creation. It is not that I don’t try to be a real human being, It’s just, that it just doesn’t work. Sooner or later , reality or a cursery examination of what i do, blows the cover.

Rejoice, my friends instead of puke, for it is better to look at the bright side; at least you are not a ME.

You're told that everyone is different

it's okay to be different

but if everyone is different

wouldn't that mean

that everyone is the same?

you not so different

you're more than that

like some sort of

uncommon difference

there's different

and then

there's you.

You are

the uncommon difference

stop hurting yourself

it's gonna be okay

But is it really?

You're all alone

Will you benefit from this?

is it like a class

a lesson to be learned

maybe

but you don't know

you can't see your future

is this going to end happily

or just end

just like that

you're dead

no one knows

because

you're not different

you're

The Uncommon Difference

An icy expanse of concrete against your cheek. The grating drone of a staticky radio. Distant whispers in spanish, clipped.

You force your eyes open. There are bees in your head- no, not bees. Wasps and yellow jackets, zooming around and injecting their barbed stingers into your skull. You know that you drank too much, but you're not sure when.

You raise your head, sit up. Your body feels like it's moving through liquid.

There are three walls here. The fourth border is not solid, so it isn't one.

But you can't exactly walk out.

The fourth wall comes in intermittent stripes. Metal poles.

You're in a jail cell.

You don't know why, can't know. It must be hidden in the black space, the lack of memories. On the edges of the black space, you see yourself leaving the hotel room. The lovely, safe, hotel room.

If your memory is telling the truth, that was two days ago.

The guard is sitting on a stool, with sleepy eyes and a droopy mustache. You get to your feet, rattle the bars. The reamain upright, challenging you, mocking you.

A frog climbs out of your throat. "Why am I here?" You shake the bars more, fervently, but now in a struggle for attention.

His eyes meet yours, confused. Then a dull light bulb lights up behind his eyes, shatters.

" Asesinato."

He then returns to his daydreams, to his offhanded oblivion.

You have no idea what he said. Along with your memory, your spanish phrasebook is somewhere, tumbling into the unknown. You should have learned spanish before your trip. But instead you limped down here, knowing only english, on a crutch made of twigs.

You think of reasons you could be here, rely on your own twisted creativity. But nothing emerges. Those who commit crimes do it to fill holes in their lives. You have none. You don't need money. You have friends. Your hole had been filled a long time ago, with an extra shovelful of dirt on top.

You try again.

"I don't understand. What am I in here for?"

More annoyed, this time. "Asesinato."

Even repetition doesn't bring any meaning, doesn't bring it out of the dark. After a stilted pause, you speak a stock phrase, the only one you remember: "No hablo espanol."

He understands. He gets off the stool, and hurries down a hallway.

Your throat is filled with sand. The headache is still buzzing, and the buzzing has intensified. With anticipation.

He returns, with another man in tow. He is younger, with a sort of constant anxiety radiating off of him. Yet when he sees you, the anxiety melts off, replaced with disgust.

"What do you want to know?" he spits, lip curled.

"Why I'm here. I can't remember anything for the past two days. And all the guard kept telling me was 'asesinato'." Somehow, not even knowing the meaning, the word seems toxic on your tongue.

The man's eyes are on fire, stoked with anger. He acts as if he knows you. Despises you.

"Well, let me translate. 'Asesinato', my friend, means 'murder'."