On any other day, Emma Sheldon would be rushing out the door, but one look outside gave her pause. A thick fog covered the parking lot, obscuring everything else from view. It was eerie, haunting, the perfect cover for creeps and predators. On more than one occasion, she had been catcalled and honked at by adult men back when she had been underage. Even her creepy old neighbor, Mr. Klossner had eyed her, damn near abducted her one time, but she didn't want to think about that.

She rummaged through her purse for her keys. They clinked and clanked together against all of her keychains as she sought and grabbed ahold of her pepper spray. She pocketed it in her light Autumn jacket, digging both of her hands into her pockets. Her shoulders tensed as she broke into a stiff stride, passing through the automatic doors.

The cold air felt refreshing against her warm face. Although she had been working at this Best Buy since the beginning of summer, she still found herself getting flustered by her managers and customers. Granted, she was fresh out of high school and this was her very first job. That didn't make it any less embarrassing.

Emma had broken out into a nervous sweat and now her shirt clung uncomfortably to her armpits. She couldn't wait to go home, wash off all of this flith, and change into some comfortable clothes.

With a watchful eye, she navigated throught the parking lot, wary of cars and strangers alike. She reached the sidewalk on the other side and then crossed the wide stretch of street towards the bus stop where a few people were already gathered.

There were two women. One looked around her age. Tall, slim, pretty. She had long, dark hair and wore light makeup. She held and scrolled through her bedazzled phone with bright blue nails. The other was short, stout, middle-aged. She had short, curly dark hair and wore heavy makeup. Both were in uniforms, just like her, but she couldn't tell where they worked. Their jackets covered their shirts.

Then, there was the elderly man beside them. He was short, but big. Was that her neighbor, Mr. Klossner? She felt a jolt of panic and averted her gaze. What was he doing here? He hardly left his house.

The last time she saw him was back in middle school. He had been waiting for his granddaughter, her classmate Marianne, at the bus stop on the corner of her block, the same way he did when they were in grade school. From Emma's seat on the bus, he'd be the first person she spotted among the parents and guardians. He stood in front of the crowd. He wasn't tall. He was one of the shortest grown-ups there, but he was big, stocky. He had big, hairy arms and a big, beer gut.

Whenever Emma made her way off the bus, she'd meet his eye and he'd stare back at her with blank, blue eyes. That cold, dead look never failed in making her uncomfortable. Just thinking about it gave her the creeps.

As she had stepped off the bus and onto the grass, she'd scrunch her nose at the strong smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him. She'd scurry onto the sidewalk, past him and towards her mom, who'd take her by the hand and lead her back home. All the while, she felt his eyes on her.

Was he really here right now? Emma snuck a peek at him to see him looking back at her. She startled, but she was quick to recover when she didn't see those cold, dead blue eyes staring back at her. This elderly man's eyes were warm, hazel. They creased at the corners as he gave her a friendly smile. It wasn't Mr. Klossner, after all. Her shoulders sagged in relief. She managed a small smile in return.

If she was still on the floor and he was a customer, Emma would've given him her best customer service smile, asked him how he was doing, and if there was anything she could help him with, despite feeling less than capable. But she wasn't. She was done for the day. She had a headache. She was tired, hungry. She just wanted to go home.

The bus turned onto the street and pulled over. She stood back as the two women and elderly man approached the door, allowing them to board first before she quickly followed after them.

A tall guy seated in the front rose to his feet so that the elderly man could sit down. The elderly man thanked the guy as he lowered himself down onto the seat. The guy himself squeezed through the cluster of people in the front, making his way to the back. Emma paid her toll and did the same, murmuring "excuse me" a few times before she found a spot by the back door. She held onto a yellow pole to keep herself steady so that she didn't bump into anybody.

There wasn't really a need to do so, not when the bus moved at a snail's pace, caught in rush hour traffic. She noticed an empty Snapple bottle rolling back and forth underneath the seats. Every time it rolled into a corner or wall, it made a sharp, loud clank, which made her cringe. She grew anxious, fearing that it might break with enough force and shatter at everyone's feet. It was a hazard in plain sight. No one seemed the least bit concerned about it, too busy talking to their friends, listening to music, or texting on their phones.

Emma wished she remembered her own headphones so that she could listen to her Spotify, drown out all of the chatter and that sharp, loud clank.

As she gazed out of the window, her mind drifted back to a foggy day, just like this one, back when she was in grade school.

Marianne was absent that day, but Mr. Klossner still showed up at the bus stop.

Emma's mom was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was in the bathroom or something. Whatever. It wasn't like her house was that far away. It was just across the street. She could get home by herself.

She did her best to ignore those cold, dead eyes and the strong smell of smoke that hit her when she stepped off the bus. She was about to walk the short distance home when he lunged forward and snatched her hand.

"Come on, sweetheart." He urged, gently. His voice was deep, gravelly. "Your mom told me to take you home."

It happened so fast. He took her off guard. Weird as it was, she was just a child at the time. She was too naive. She took everything at face value. She figured that this was just the way Mr. Klossner was.

She remembered the leathery feel of his hand and just how strong his grip was. She couldn't pull away, even if she wanted to. She had yet to find her voice so she didn't even think to scream, not until years later. He took long strides and she struggled to keep up as he pulled her across the steet.

Their neighborhood had semi-detached houses. He lived in the second house, right door. She lived in the fourth, left door.

Mom emerged from the house, hurried down the stoop, and jogged over to them. "Henry," she addressed him, slightly winded. She was tall and skinny, but she carried a lot of weight in her stomach. Mom was subconscious about it, but she hid it well underneath her black top and jeans. "What are you doing with Emma?"

"Emma?" Mr. Klossner echoed, confused. He squinted at her, then plucked a pair of glasses from his breast pocket, sliding them onto his face. His eyes widened and he jerked his hand away. "Oh!" He exclaimed once he realized. "Emma, it IS you." He turned to address Mom. "I must apologize. I should've put these on sooner." He tapped the bridge of his glasses with a self-deprecating chuckle. "My eyes don't work like they used to. Looks like I mistook Emma here for my granddaughter, Marianne. Without any glasses on, they look alike. They're about the same size and they both have long, blonde hair and blue eyes. They're such beautiful girls."

Emma didn't like how Mr. Glossner grinned at her, then. She hid behind her mom's leg.

Mr. Glossner chuckled, amused. "Timid, is she?"

"Yeah." Mom agreed, goodnaturedly. She always saw the best in people, even when they were waving red flags in her face. She laid a hand on Emma's shoulder. "She's like this with everyone."

"Marianne is the same way," he replied.

"Speaking of," Mom segued, looking around. "Where is Marianne?"

"She wasn't in school today," Emma piped up.

"That's right!" Mr. Klossner exclaimed, as if he just remembered. "She was out sick today. Poor thing is in bed with a fever. Silly me." He gave his forehead a light smack. "My mind must be going if I can't remember that much."

Mom frowned. "I hope not," she sympathsized.

"Yeah, me too," he responded with a worried frown. Just as fast, he mustered a smile. "Well, I better get back to her. It was nice seeing you ladies."

"Nice to see you, too, Henry." Mom returned the sentiment. "Hope Marianne feels better soon."

"Don't you worry now. I'll take good care of her."

With that, Mr. Klossner climbed the steps, fumbled with his keys, and turned it in the lock, opening and disappearing behind the closed door.

Mom made sure he got in okay before she finally took Emma by the hand and led her back home.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, slightly. Stupid anxiety. The last thing she wanted to do was think, obsess about this. It was just one incident. Nothing happened. He didn't do anything to her. He was just a creep. One who used to stare at her all of the time. One who lived rent-free in her head way more than he should.

He wasn't here. He wasn't going to be waiting at her stop, staring at her with those dead, cold blue eyes. He was in his house, all alone, probably drinking all of his sorrows away.

She was okay. Well, she wasn't okay-okay, but she was fine. She was going to be okay.

On the way back, the bus emptied little by little until it was just her and a couple of others. The bus driver took this chance to pick up the bottle and threw it in a trash can at one stop. At this point, she had taken a single seat by the back door. It didn't feel nearly as claustrophobic and she was glad she didn't have to hear that clanking noise again. She could breathe a bit easier.

It felt like forever before the bus finally reached her stop. Just as she thought, Mr. Klossner wasn't there. She sighed in relief.

She pushed open the back doors and stepped onto the sidewalk, dragging her feet towards her block. As she turned the corner, she saw the flashing red lights and cop car in the distance. Was that by her house?

Emma quickened her step. There were more neighbors closer to the scene. Some were on their stoop. Others stood in front of their driveway. Her tall, big, muscly dad was one such person. Dad was across the street, speaking with their neighbor, his close friend Tony, who looked small beside him. He appeared to be engrossed in a serious conversation. Emma didn't have it in her to interrupt.

"He was such a quiet man," she heard one of the neighbors say. "I thought he was just shy, reserved. He never came out of his house. I knew he had issues, but nothing like this..."

Emma looked both ways before crossing the street, spotting her mom looking outside through the screen door window. When she reached the other side, Emma followed her gaze and saw him. His back was to her, but Emma knew it was him. Mr. Klossner. He was handcuffed. A police officer was detaining him, pushing his white head of hair down as he ducked and settled into the back of the squad car.

This didn't surprise her. Emma knew he was a creep. She didn't know to what extent, though. Not until her parents broke the news to her later that evening.

Turned out Tony was friends with Mr. Klossner's son, Marianne's dad, who filled him in on what happened. Tony relayed what was told to him to Dad.

That night, Emma laid wide awake underneath the covers, staring at the ceiling. She couldn't believe it. She was in shock. All of this time, Mr. Klossner had been molesting, raping his own granddaughter.

He only got caught because Marianne returned home that morning with a black eye and swollen cheek. It took some prodding, but her parents managed to get an answer out of her. Marianne broke down and told them about all of the abuse she suffered at the hands of her own grandfather. Mr. Klossner had threatened her into silence, told her that he'd kill her if she spoke up. He isolated her, kept her for days, even weeks at a time. He had convinced her that she was nothing but a burden to her parents, that nobody would care about or love her as much as he did.

Both of her parents worked. One of them could drop her off at school, but they couldn't pick her up or watch her in the afternoon. Sometimes they worked overtime so they couldn't get to her until later in the evening. Mr. Klossner had offered to watch and take care of her. He fooled her parents into thinking that they were close. Even as she got older, Marianne still went to go see him.

Emma felt sick. She turned onto her side and curled up into a ball, hugging her stomach.

She remembered seeing Marianne in school. Like her, Marianne was always alone, separated from the crowd. She'd sit by herself at lunch and outside during recess. Even at a distance, Emma felt a kinship with her. Emma would feel the urge to approach her and talk to her sometimes. But Emma had no idea what to say. Just walk up to her, say hi, how are you? It seemed so random, so weird to do that out of nowhere when they had been in the same class for so long. Emma had been so stuck in her head back then. She still was at times. While she struggled with her own anxiety and insecurities, Marianne had suffered in silence all by herself.

Emma couldn't help but wonder. If she had mustered up the courage, would Emma have helped Marianne feel any less alone? Would Emma have been able to be a friend to her, someone she could lean on and confide in? Maybe Emma would've been able to help her break free from the abuse much sooner.

Maybe that was arrogant of her. She had only been a child herself. What could she have possibly done? She didn't do anything when Mr. Klossner had taken her by the hand and dragged her off. If Mom hadn't shown up when she did, Emma doubted he would've taken her home. Mr. Klossner had looked at her so often, he could've very well been targetting her. If Mom hadn't shown up, Emma could've become his victim, too.

Her stomach churned and she covered her mouth as tears stung her eyes.

These thoughts spun around and around in her head all night long and into the early hours of the morning.

The reality of the situation, the fact that it happened so close to home, made her that much more afraid of the world.

“Mommy… Fred’s not swimming anymore.”

Shit. I bet that fish finally kicked the bucket.

I follow my 4-year-old son into his bedroom and confirm my suspicion: That fish was indeed dead.

I looked at my son and thought this was a good opportunity to teach him about life and death and love and loss. I did my best to relate to him that it was okay to feel sad, but to remember that his beloved pet had a very good life. I told him that saying goodbye to a pet was just something we all have to do eventually and it feels really bad.

His blue eyes looked up at me with curiosity. As I spoke, I could see his little features pondering something deeply. He was fidgeting, trying his best to remain patient and to not interrupt. ‘Practicing manners’, as we often worked on together lately.

“Do you have a question, honey?” I asked him gently, allowing him the opportunity to speak whatever was on his young heart.

In a very matter-of-fact manner, he asked, “Can I flush him?”

I was sitting on a park bench. This book I had been looking forward to reading had developed an unfortunate pacing issue. However, I insisted on giving it one more chance before relinquishing it to the library drop box.

A friendly-looking dog, off-leash, came trodding up to me. She dropped to her belly and sniffed with great interest at something under the bench. I looked down and saw a piece of sandwich someone had dropped. The dog noisily licked her lips and inched closer.

Suddenly, a male voice firmly called, “Sadie. Leave it.”

I looked up and the man smiled at me. Upon hearing his command, the dog rose and immediately went to the man’s side, irresistible object now forgotten. Together, they continued their walk through the park.

I gazed down at the book in my lap, pondering the wonders of Sadie the Good Girl. Here I am, figuratively leashed, a rather dimwitted animal in comparison. I strain hard against my restraints, stubbornly insisting on getting my own stupid animal way. Rebellious. Frustrated.

How I wish I could master that command: ‘Leave it’. If only I could abandon the pursuit of things clearly not meant for me, without so much as a look back.

As I returned the book that afternoon, I also decided I could stand to be a lot more like Sadie.

It is not the rain.

It is not a deep well, or

anything else dark or dank.

It is not ash and flame.

It is green spring with unacknowledged birdsong,

applause for someone staring into space,

flawless sentences misconstrued,

love that doesn’t count.

It is habitual coffee, untasted,

a once-beloved book, unremembered,

a birthday text, unanswered,

perpetually waiting,

untrusted and feared.

I shaved my legs for this?

-

Mad dash. No underwear. One sock.

-

"Mommy's still sleeping on the floor."

I don’t want to be a woman or a man.

I want to be me.

I collect Hot Wheels and comic books,

and was made fun of because only “boys like those”

which wasn’t true.

I was a girl.

I liked them.

I collect make-up.

books.

I wouldn’t want to be a man.

the unrealistic toxic traits they are judged for.

Money.

Power.

Physique.

Happy.

That’s what I want to be.

i don’t want to be a different gender, but i also don’t want to continue being my current gender (more like the gender i was assigned, i’m still closeted). i want to be just...me, i guess. i don’t want to be a girl or a boy. just me. i want to be treated fairly regardless of my gender. i want to be able to live my life the way i want to regardless of my gender. i want to be given the same opportunities as everybody else regardless of my gender. but most of all, i want to be able love myself regardless of my gender.

i’m AFAB (assigned female at birth), and most people, or i guess, all people assume that i’m a girl, and i don’t blame then. i present feminine because masculine looks and outfits just don’t fit me. i’d love to present masculine, but it just doesn’t look good on me, so i just stick with presenting feminine. and because of that, it makes sense that i get called “lady”, “ma’am”, “miss”, and have people use she/her pronouns on me. but that doesn’t mean i’m ok with it. i’m non-binary and use they/them pronouns, so hearing things like that being used on me makes me dysphoric and overall, just awful.

i used to think that i wanted to be a boy then. if i didn’t want to be a girl, then a boy must be it. but after a lot of thinking and crying, i realized that i didn’t want to be a boy. i didn’t want to be either. i don’t want a gender. i wanted to be me, just a person. i guess that’s why the term non-binary just felt right. because it was me, it was who i am. me. i’m me, regardless of what my gender is or what i choose to identify as, and i want the world to be ok with that.

of course, the world won’t be. not the whole world, just some. people will tell me that my pronouns aren’t “gramatically correct” and that being non-binary isn’t a real thing. but there will also be people supporting me no matter what, validating me and making sure that i never feel ashamed of who i am, and i’m glad that there’s people in my life like that. i hope everybody gets the chance to meet people like that. those people care about and love me for who i am, regardless of my gender, and i hope to get to that point some day.

like the title says, gender is stupid. it’s a social construct that does more harm than good. i'm not sure if it even does any good. who cares if men want to wear dresses or paint their nails? doesn’t make them any less of a man. if women want to wear suits and look masculine and not dainty at all, let them be, they’re still women. at the end of the day, you have to ask yourself:

“are they hurting me, others, or theirselves?”

if the answer is no, then move on. it’s their life, let them live it. if the answer is yes, it’s probably not because of what they’re wearing. if it is, you’re either dramatic, or their beautiful and stunning looks are killing you /half-joking (this a dialogue tag for those who don’t know, usually looks like -> /hj).

that was a rant and a little off topic, but still needs to be said. stop dictating other people’s lives.

so i guess what i’m trying to say is, gender just doesn’t do it for me. i don’t want to be the gender i was assigned as, and i also don’t want to be a differnt gender. why should i have to be put into this little box and have it define me for the rest of my life? that's not who i am or who i want to be. i’m me, a person. not a girl or a boy, me. i’m me, and that’s good enough for me.

Kudos to this challenge. This is pay it forward month afterall.

Some links and great sites below for poetry, lyrics, and more.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine

Www.songbay.com

(Sell your lyrics, other people buy them)

Www.listverse.com

You can get paid $100 for each article you submit, this is also a very cool site with many interesting categories. Top 10 type thing.

www.americansongwriter.com

Memberships, Contests, 4 critiques a year, Magazine each month, and much more.

I may post another comment when i get on my computer. I have so many more. Feel free to comment on this to notify and remind me if there is no follow up.