Here is the thing and I know it's true

people are people, just like me and you

we come here and write while looking forward to

your likes and reposts and when they don't come

it's like tissue being ripped through

by this time everyone is aware that our brains release dopamine

when our shit that we write is liked or perhaps there's a share

All I am saying is that hitting like is not even hard

even if you feel like what you read was not worth your regard

What's hard is being the writer who feels like their writing is trash

that type of feeling is what causes decisions which can be rash

like the one my good friend made last Monday

she committed suicide and every day since has been less than a funday.

I have to fucking do a wake and funeral on Tuesday.

I was looking for a writing challenge, but I found an advertisement for a taxi service in London! Interesting place to advertise, and I have to admit that I will remember the Croydon name should I ever find myself in London....

So how does one win this challenge? Is this a writing challenge at all? Is this a pay to win challenge, like booking a taxi will bring about victory? Would riding in one of these taxis be like playing the classic arcade game Crazy Taxi? Because if I am going to consider these services in my next (first) trip to London, I am hoping for some Offspring and Bad Religion blasting out of the the Croydon taxi speakers..... that would be radically radical!

Now I need to go play some Crazy Taxi while I wait to see who wins this challenge..... personally I think batmaninwuhan deserves it :-)

I push open the bathroom door, still a little dazed. “Sister Bertha was just out there…” I start to say, then stop. What else could I say? She told me to come in here and help? That doesn’t sound true.

But somehow it is.

Pearl’s still crouched next to Henry, whose legs are drawn into his chest, his head resting on his knees. “Crap, she is?” Pearl asks, looking up at me. She stands.

I shake my head. “She’s gone now. Back to the chapel with Katherine.”

Pearl blows out a sigh of relief, then glances past me. “I’m going to get a bottle of water. Stay here. Just talk to him, ok?”

She’s about to step past me, and I suddenly realize how foolish I am, being here. How am I supposed to help? What am I supposed to do? I grab Pearl’s forearm, stopping her. “What do I talk–”

She puts a hand over mine and flashes a small smile. “Have him talk about one thing. Anything. Other than…” she tilts her head at the door. “Her.”

I pull my hand back slowly and nod.

A moment later, I sit next to Henry on the bathroom floor. Which, to be honest, is probably disgusting. I try not to look, just make a mental note to wash this skirt before wearing it again.

Henry’s breathing is rapid and sharp, and he flinches when I say his name.

“Uh, Henry, it’s me. Um.” I look around the bathroom, but find no inspiration. The walls are bland and dingy, the mirrors are scraped and cloudy. I look back at Henry.

“Where is that from?” I ask, pointing at his wrist. A silver chained bracelet hangs from it, plain and charmless. I’ve never noticed him wearing it before, but then again, why would I have?

He takes a few beats to look down at his wrist. He stares at it as if it’s not a part of his body, as if he’s never seen a wrist before. “Jackson gave it to me.”

I’m not sure if this is helping, but I continue. “Oh, cool. When was that?”

He touches the bracelet with his other hand, spinning the chain left and right along his skin. “It was a month ago, just about. It’s his, but he told me that since I liked it, it’s mine.”

I can barely imagine it, someone liking you enough to give you their things. “That’s nice of him. So, you like bracelets?”

Henry laughs a little, and I wonder if I’ve ever heard him laugh before. “Not usually. But I thought it made him look badass. That made me like it.” I smile and watch him fiddle with the bracelet some more.

After a beat, he continues. “It’s cold. Metal. But it was warm when he put it on my wrist, because he’d been wearing it.” From the distance in his voice, it sounds like he’s recalling a memory.

“Was he wearing other bracelets, too?”

Henry breathes out deeply, thinking. “No, just the one. I remember because that made me more surprised, that he’d give it to me. His one bracelet.”

The bathroom door swings open then, and we both jump, but it’s just Pearl with a plastic water bottle in her hand. She hands it to Henry.

None of us return to the school service, and no one interrupts us. Henry focuses on the bracelet Jackson gave him, and his breathing returns to normal. Pearl tells me later that focusing on an object helps, that it grounds him.

I’m just glad when he’s standing again and feeling better.

. . .

The next day, everything returns to normal, for the most part. I still feel like Sister Bertha’s watching me, but now I know she is, and I’m not sure that’s any better. I keep scouring the halls for her, expecting her to pop out and laugh and point and tell the whole school about yesterday.

Now, of course that wouldn’t ever happen. But.

Katherine doesn’t look at me, or Pearl, or Henry, or even Andrew. The hallways run rampant with rumors that Katherine and Andrew have broken up, that Andrew is dating Flora. I hear these rumors mostly from Maggie, as you might expect.

Somewhat surprisingly, no one talks about Henry. I guess Katherine hasn’t said anything. I wonder how long she's know that he's gay. I wonder a lot of things about her, now.

Henry ducks his head but smiles at me when I pass him in the hall, and I smile back. Funnily, Kelly does the same thing.

.

“No, I didn’t finish the history homework, I’ve been practicing for the talent assembly!” Maggie and Mary Kate are fighting again, or something. Mary Kate dumped Charles Lee at the beginning of this week, and he’s been moping about school, but she seems to have forgotten about him.

I glance over at the history worksheet Maggie’s working on now. It’s on the Civil War, because, of course it is. I swear eighty percent of our history lessons are on the Civil War.

Mary Kate sets down her pudding cup and licks chocolate off her lip. “Look, the dates are all right here,” she says, pointing at the textbook spread in front of them. “Do you really need to practice that much?”

Maggie sits up and squares her shoulders. “Yeah. It’s a scene from a play; I need to learn my lines.”

As if on cue–maybe it is on cue–Erica starts muttering lines. Abbey claps her hands. “Oh, I’m so excited to see you guys act it out!”

Rachel shakes her head. “It’s going to be miserable,” she says into her planner. “I can’t believe I agreed.”

Becca holds up a hand. “Is Charles still helping us? You know, since he and Mary Kate…”

Mary Kate shoots her a glare, and Maggie sighs and shuts her textbook. “Listen. We can practice this weekend.”

“No you can’t!” Abbey interjects grinning, and I accidentally catch her eye. She doesn’t look away until I give her a confused smile back.

Erica and Becca giggle about something, and Mary Kate sulks behind one of her graphic novels. I eat my cafeteria pizza slowly, observing.

“It’s my sister’s birthday, remember?” Abbey says, louder this time.

Maggie looks up. “Oh, darn it. It is, isn’t it? I completely forgot.”

“I reminded you, like, ten times this week,” Abbey says with a little laugh. It’s true, she had mentioned it. But no one had been listening at the time.

Becca turns to me. “Wait, Trinity doesn’t even know your sister.” I shrug, because it’s true, but I’m not sure if that matters.

Abbey’s eyes light up, and she begins to chatter excitedly. “She’s in college now, but she’s super cool. She still comes home, when my parents aren’t around, which is, like, all the time. And she’s got cool music and cool friends, too.”

Rachel shakes her head. “I don’t think I can come. Last year was crazy, and I’m not doing that again. I have to study, also.” She punctuates her statement will a long sip from her water bottle protein shake.

Maggie chuckles. “Casey knows how to throw a party, I’ll give her that.”

“Oh, but you’ll all come? You said you would!” Abbey pleads. She’s looking at me again. I look at Maggie.

With a nod, Maggie replies, “Oh, of course. I’ll be there. Mary Kate?” Mary Kate rolls her eyes and sucks on her pudding spoon, but agrees in the end. “Trinity?”

I laugh a little. “I don’t know if I should go to a party…” I say tentatively.

“It’ll be fun,” Abbey says.

“It was fun last year!” Becca adds.

“Oh. Well. Ok, then.”

At the time, I didn’t know what I was signing myself up for.

.

.

.

(first part: https://theprose.com/post/432343/trinity)

.

(previous part: https://theprose.com/post/458624/trinity-40)

(next part: https://theprose.com/post/459929/trinity-42)

Sophia is becoming very fond of traingles. And who isnt? A person who cant find the simple joys in geometric shapes os sad indeed. She makes triangles with all tjings. Fingers, building blocks. She takes the small plastic farm animals and arranges them in lines, and forms with them triangles. But the cutest one, is when she uses her feet. She places heel against heel, and demands that i complete the shape with my foot.

She loves cellphones. Pictures and movies. The fact that we make so many videos of her just makes it more exciting for her. She demands to see herdelf 'see guaiguai long time ago' she asks, and when i relent on condition that it will be only obe video of her, then she agrees 'one'i say 'and no more!' She concludes. Somehow we always watch more than one. Its magic.

I like to make an emphasis, saying 'not at all' . we are teaching her the subject of strangers. Its very ambiguous, when you think about it. Not every stranger is bad, but we can't be sure who is bad. We try and explain, and simulate enticments that strangers might use . she takes it to extremes, we go through all the toys and she declares 'he's not a stranger' . crocodile is a stranger, so is the lobster. Tiger and lion are not a stranger. 'Not at all'.

Pineapple is one of the best things about spring. Sometines around april. it gets so plentiful and cheap, and street selkers just sell them , peeled and on a stick, which i've often devoured shamelessly. A week ago, i took my girl to the fruit shop, as the conclysion of a morning walky. Strawberries and kiwi was what we were looking for, but the house special was small pinapples. Every year, it seems, pinapple season is coming sooner. Without hesitation i bought a pack, and we went home. She ate a half of these wobderful yellow fruit and loojed so cute as she tried to understand that numb feeling on the tongue, when you eat too much... She still asked for more.

Kuaidi, is the general word in chinese we use for deliveries. Most paxkages are not delivered, directly to home, as the community office doesnt let them through the gate. (Food deliveries are permitted). To pick up packages you go to the delivery office of the respective company. The one we go to is a favorite of sophia. She likes to see tjem work, as they take the number and match it with their cellphobes, then give the package. All the while everyone loons at my girl, telling her how pretty she is. Oh and they have a cat that occasionally shows itself, peeking into the main room .

The nee favorite game my girl has envolves play acting as a kuaidi lady. I am given all the puzzle boxes and all the books. As she checks the number and hands me them. When i tell her its too much and i cant carry any more, she looks puzzled, 'what are you seriously going to tell me you cant carry more? Its just another ten boxes!' Her eyes say. Be she forgives my ineptitude and allows me to put SOME of the boxes on a chair.

It hardly ever snows in wuhan. Only one or two days every few years. Last time we had snow was during the corona lockdown. And i remember holding my baby girl next to the window, as we observed the blizzard.

Yesterday it snowed. I woke my girl up early, took her out with boots and gloves. The snow fell but the ground was to warm and it melted. To salvage what we could i ran out, and stole as much snow as i can from the parked cars, are brought it over. We made a small snowman, which my girl pronounced as Olaf. I hate snow, as my fingers just seize in pain from the cold. My girl ebjoyed the morning festivitjes, and even more so, enjoyed stompung on the snow with her boots.

dear earthlings!, our lasers are pointed not at you but at your nickel-iron m9lten core, which is about 15 thousand kilometers deep. We intended to extract this metal for ourselves . the lasers will vaporize all that will come in its way, skicing the planet ever so gently in two. Be not alarmed by the oozing of massive amounts of magma that will come out. We are doing this with great care and precise planning to avert any danger to our staff. All of croydon will benefit from this overflow of cheap, molten readily available metal, for which to cast our hopes at launching the great fleet of taxis we have envisioned. All (within the london area) will know of our nickel, is it rolls along streets. As we drill, we invite our frinds to peer down at the glowing, gasseus core, just watch your step, be sure to avoid any outbursts of discrage, as temperature may rise to 5000°C. But with reasonable precautions, there is absutely no reason why we can't mine the core OR the mantel, while still enjoying a flourishing cultured life upon the crust. For those of you who wish to book rides between crumbling tectonic plates, we guarentee that our taxi services are second to none when it comes to safety, speed and confort, as befitting the basic rights of all who call Croydon their home.

Dusk started to fill the room. It was quiet. It hadn't been this quiet in many years. The surrounding mahogany walls made it feel darker than it was. I was alone. I could finally breathe in the sound of nothing. No kids running a muck, no significant other calling my name and no animal scurrying about. No staff, no phone calls and no appliances running. I picked up my sweaty glass of bourbon and listened to the melting ice cubes clink against the glass. It was almost empty. I reached forward, grabbing the full bottle sliding it towards me. The dragging sound of the thick glass searing a deep scuff into the wood would have normally sent me into a freefall. But now, it felt good. I pushed and pulled it a bit harder to deepen the wound. Steadying my barely full glass, I recklessly began to pour. Sprits of bourbon splashed down on the wood, surely causing more damage. I took a big swig and slammed my glass down on the table breeding a fleet of armed droplets.

My breathing paced as I swallowed the vastness of the room. I couldn't believe I'd done it. Accomplished all this. The arched floor to ceiling windows stole the show. They gave a birds eye view of the never ending manicured lawn. Their solid gold hinges diverted the last flashes of daylight. I watched as small bursts of yellow light blazed against the walls. I hadn't noticed how magical it had looked before.

Placing my hands on the table, I pushed back to stand up, causing the chair to buckle back and hit the ground. I picked up my glass and walked over to the colossal curio cabinet against the far wall. It was full of treasures I've collected from around the world. I creaked open the glass door and chose the the prestige hand painted floral vase I curated from France. Neglintely, I spun it around in my singular hand to get a better look at it. Pretty, I thought as I let it slip from my grasp. It so delicately shattered into unfixable pieces. The tiny chips crunched as I aimlessly walked through them choosing another seat at the table. This time I opted for a better view of the effervescent terrace.

I swigged back the remainder of my drink in its entirety, proceeding to chuck the empty one of kind crystal against the wall. Dark filled the room and the imploding buzz of fractured glass surged through me inducing a brief moment of happiness. It was quiet funny, I thought as my belly stirred with laughter. How had I so quickly forgotten what that felt like?

Have you ever fantasized about having the whole world, but being too daft to notice?

Well duh, polyarmory makes total sense. I mean sure having a sword is great and all, but if that's all you rely on you're probably an idiot. It's best to cross train, maybe with some maces or morning stars or something longer and just as lethal. Otherwise you could fall into complacency and get taken out by some fancy newcomer with a pistola. Having a full arsenal just seems like good killing sense.

....oh, wait.

Mitch woke, finding himself in a waiting room chair. Next to him were his allies whom included Rick, and mages Essie and Cerissa.

"It's been a while since we've been in a new story, has that Roses311Sublime guy finally started the new arc?"

"Sorry Mitch, but no." Cerissa answered sadly. "From what I understand, Roses wants to do two more stories in the Hugh vs Leftover plotline that we spun off from before resuming our true quests (shameless self promotion: https://theprose.com/book/3184/the-ultimate-hero-network-a-short-story-collection). It would appear that we are in another filler story."

"Filler again?" Rick groaned. "Roses needs to be reminded that this story isn't an anime!"

"True Rick, but we all know that Roses is a big anime fan." Essie replied reassuringly. "And besides, filler isn't a bad thing necessarily. You told me that you like some of those Naruto filler episodes."

"True, and no story can be all bad if you're in it Essie." Rick responded, not caring about being subtle about his feelings for Essie. This was only a filler story anyway. It could potentially not even be mentioned in the main canon in the long run.

"Now we figure out where we are once again." Cerissa said in an attempt to move the story forward. "At least it's not a kitchen this time."

"Oh yeah, I remember that!" Rick said excitedly. "So this story is connected with that one at least (https://theprose.com/post/441372/adventures-of-the-pirate-crew-how-did-we-get-in-this-kitchen-pen-to-the-paper-one-shot)!"

"They're all connected Rick." Mitch grinned. "Just some stories are more important than others."

"We're getting off topic guys." Cerissa said firmly, but with a kind tone all the same. "Last I remember from our last appearance in November, we were leaving Mirk's celebration of life to head back to Mitch's home to settle in, and train for our future confrontations with Petunia and Glicko. Does anyone recall if we ever made it there?"

"Definitely have no memory of that, since that hasn't been written yet. Hence, filler tale!" Rick moaned.

"It's ok Rick. Like Essie said, maybe this will be a filler tale with a Naruto quality to it." Cerissa replied. "Getting back on task, we appear to be in a waiting room of some sort. We need to find out what kind of room, and it's significance."

"Looks like a veterinarian office." Mitch chimed in. "I wonder if Roses is writing this while waiting in a veterinarian's office with a pet."

"Awwww, I hope his pet is ok!" Essie exclaimed with concern.

"It could just be a routine visit." Rick reassured his crush. "Maybe immunizations or something."

"I wonder what kind of pet it is." Cerissa pondered. "Maybe a dog, or a kitten?"

"Maybe a parrot?" Mitch mused. "I hope not though. Despite my Pirate persona from transforming, I haven't had good parrot encounters."

"So a veterinarian office." Essie interjected, now taking over Cerissa's role of getting everyone back on task. "I wonder where this story is going to go, since Roses is coming up with this on the fly."

"I'm a little worried that his turn will be coming up soon." Rick added. "That could cause the story to end."

"Yachi!" A voice called out over the intercom, as everything began to fade.

"Sounds like Roses got called, so time's up." Rick said sheepishly. "We at least learned that Roses has a pet named Yachi. I wonder if he named his pet after the Haikyu!! character."

"Too bad we didn't see any action this time." Mitch lamented. "Oh well, I'm sure we will be back soon enough, even if it is for another silly filler entry."

"Well, for what it's worth, it is always nice being with you all, even if nothing noteworthy happened today." Cerissa smiled. "See you all in a future adventure!"

The Pirate and his crew will return.... I promise! Their previous adventures can be read here: https://theprose.com/book/3137/new-adventurers-enter-the-pirate-crew

I believe human overpopulation is a very real danger, not only to our planet, but also to the mental and physical health of those who are a part of large families, living in developing countries and experiencing material deprivation at its peak. I live in Pakistan so I can tell you first-hand that the living conditions of majority of the people here are pitiful. Firstly, people living in large families have no privacy or peace due to which studying, let alone living becomes unbearable. The poor go largely uneducated and uninformed about topics like sex, contraception and family planning, firstly because these topics are still considered taboos in our society which leads to overpopulation. Secondly, the men who are fully aware of condoms don't bother using them because their pleasure is their main priority, not what they are putting their women and children through and instead insist women to go on birth control pills which have been known to have severe side effects including depression and mood swings which brings me to my third point. Since people are constantly being financially exploited by the government, they can't afford education which leads to less knowledge, information and wisdom about such topics and they blindly keep on reproducing as if their life depends on it, which it does in a way. Poor couples see the production of children as the production of their own personal workforce which they can then use to increase their income and improve their lifestyle. However, due to their attitudes towards life, such as present time orientation, fatalism and immediate gratification, they tend to spend the money faster rather than save up for the future, that is to say if they believe in once. Abortion is another controversial topic and is largely seen in a negative light due to which women feel pressured into giving birth and carrying their babies to term, even though it is their body and their right to do with it as they please but our men as usual always need to have a say in every matter concerning women. I honestly find this need to control and police women's bodies very concerning and often find myself wondering why nothing is ever enough for these men. Like... Get a life?

As for our planet we know how much it is suffering due to human overpopulation. Human overpopulation is causing pollution of all sorts which is damaging our ozone layer, our oil, coal and gas reserves are quickly depleting and since trees are being cut down to make homes for people, there is a loss in the production of fresh oxygen. Honestly, I think we might suffocate to death if things keep going on as they are.

Hopefully, that proves to be an exaggeration. We can always switch to natural, infinite resources like wind, air, water and solar power to produce energy however my one and only prayer is that the government of Pakistan comes to its senses soon so that it can start investing in the education sector of the country and raise awareness about topics like human overpopulation so that we all can live better lives.

Perhaps it was summer. Perhaps it was spring. But the same miasma of stinking sewage stench sauntered in here. The Suakin Island Reformatory, ah the irony of it, was neither jail nor prison. It was a place where sanity was purloined. It was the netherworld of eternal damnation. A building designed especially for those who got no bail and received no parole.

A thousand men, young, old, pickpockets, peddlers, poisoners, assassins, all incarcerated for life in solitary confinement, caged in separate boxes placed one above the other like a mucky beehive. Each cell was a hollow cube, barely four feet high; can't sit straight, can't sleep right. 115 concrete blocks, I had counted and counted and counted over again, ran around me, only to be broken by the thick metal door which had a little square with evenly placed iron bars, shut over by a wooden roll down through which they supplied two loaves of dry bread and stale water twice a day. And that too was cut off every time there was a mourning in the constabulary. A lavatory pan sat by the end of every cell, with no water supply. It didn’t matter if you hadn’t come here as a criminal, but if you go out, you sure will be one.

How many years I have been here, I did not know. How many men had died in this cell, I did not know. Standing on my knees, I clasped my hands together, praying to God, beseeching him to take my life. Sometimes I wished for these taciturn walls varnished with schadenfreude, to eat me up. Sometimes I would hold my breath and tighten the grasp on my throat, trying in vain to escape from this agony. Alone. Famished. Alive.

I lay there scratching the ground, with nothing left but my twisted spine and crooked body. Footfalls of cap-toe shoes approached. I put my hands over my ears, wringing them and hit my head on the floor. Someone had died. I pulled my hair and screamed as the sounds came closer. One day they'll come for me too, I thought, but why not today, oh why not now? The footsteps came to a momentary halt as they stopped by my cell.

I gasped, walking on my knees, inching forward to the tiny square. Jangling keys danced through the other side of the door. They only opened your door twice—once you're dead, or worse, for physical torture. The key made its way in, sliding through the door, making a total of five audible clicks. A final note of heavy clunk like a Timneh parrot rolling its tongue and mimicking the sound of a trigger on an empty gun resounded and the door was pushed open.

"Please," I cried, "I beg of you, please don't hurt me." Having lived in the darkness for many long years I couldn't open my eyes. I put my arms over my eyes, trying to block the rays of light that stampeded on me.

"Stand up, old chap," he said, hitting the ground with his truncheon. I moved my arms slightly, my palms still stretching forward in an attempt to obstruct the light. I could fathom he was a young cop, buzz cut, clean shaved, clothed in a perfectly pressed dark blue uniform. When I first came in they were in khakis. God knows when they changed it. I thrust my hands on the floor, standing on my knees and slowly placing my shins forward. As I stood up, my head hit straight on the roof and I fell on my knees again.

"Come on old chap, wake up. You’re being released! Your boy has come to pick you up," he said in a directive tone and walked into the cell, tapping my shoulder with his truncheon. This wasn’t real, I was very sure about it, but the pain in my knees argued the obverse.

"I have no son," I said, staring into his silhouette face. "I have no kids."

"Oh really?" he bent down, removing my handcuffs. “Then consider yourself lucky!”

"Water," I gasped, falling on the ground. My eyelids fluttered pushing me again into the pitch black void. He slapped my face thrice, grabbed me by the collar and shook me altogether. Muffled voices and fast-moving footsteps tried to wake me up, but in vain. The darkness could not be shaken off. And there was the pain, the pain in my bones. When they lifted me up, it ran through my whole body. My feet failed. I couldn't rear up. I couldn't move, speak, or open my eyes.

It could have been a few hours, or maybe more. When I tried to open my eyes I saw flashes of images. I could make out a burly man in his mid-forties standing in a distance talking to the young cop I first confronted.

"He was telling me he had no kids," he said to him, his eyes focused on mine.

"Ah, he's been here for a whole twenty three years. What do you expect him to remember? Did you try asking him his name? He would have probably told you he was never born!"

Chuckles followed as I turned my head, trying to decipher the place I was in. A car. A classic Chevy Kingswood.

"You ready for home, sir?" a voice asked, almost scaring the wits out of me. A friendly young man with short blonde hair, neatly gelled to give it a smooth look asked me, his head turned towards my direction, hands steady on the steering wheel. I did not know what to say. I did not know who he was. But for some reason, his face seemed vaguely familiar. I shut my eyes tight, trying to escape from this phantasmagoria. This will end soon. And I'll wake up in my hollow cube again. Scratching the metal door, counting the concrete bricks, casting about for bread crumbs, I'll be there again. Alone. Famished. And perhaps, alive.

#alone #weeklysnippets