And there I was suddenly,

staring at her pale, dead blue eyes.

“This is it, isn’t it?”

I asked her, but with no reply;

only a trembling in her lips.

Hysteria begins to overwhelm me –

I felt the cold, weight of that silver .45 press against my temple.

Here it comes;

she will finally be the finality of me.

Maybe this torture will cease now.

But what a fool I am! Ha!

She will never have mercy on me!

She will never pull that trigger for a coward she is!

I watch her gaze as it haunts my vision;

piercing into me as if to center that knife deep into my heart.

I see her pity for me,

so repulsively beautiful,

as it drips from her face.

“What are you waiting for?!” I screamed at her.

I hated her,

Oh, how I hated the woman who was a curse to my life!

A curse to life;

to humanity!

And I cannot live in a time where she wanders;

I cannot be attached to her anymore –

to her fears, to her dreams,

to her irrationality.

Her insanity is a parasite!

Oh, how she’s contagious!

Rip me from her, I plead!

And as that last droplet of sweat descends from my forehead,

tingling my skin in its warm mass,

I last her speak;

those haunting words that will imprint onto my soul -

“She is me.”

And that click of the silver marches quickly

as I fall so unforgivingly before that mirror.

Nobody says it. Every new person I bump into in the chaotic, colorful atmospheres in which I circulate ignores it. Or avoids it.

But I can see it in their eyes anyway. The thought ricochets from one person’s amused eyes to the next. To me, it bounces off the walls and echoes a million times, silently. Perhaps it burrows deeper, I don’t know.

When I was little my mother used to take my face in her hands and say, “Whatever you may lack in height, ma p’tit, you make up for in spirit.” Even as a small child I had that fierce, competitive recklessness that I still possess today.

I always ensure that the second thing people notice about me--after my stature--is something quite different. That I am not somebody to be messed with.

Because I always win. Whatever I have to do, I do it. Gambling isn’t about taking only chances you know you can make. It’s about taking ALL the chances. And making them.

Tiny Maria de Vries can finally have control over something.

From the way I casually entered the Paresse de Luxe and paid the entrance fee (insisting that I was, in fact, old enough), no one would guess that I have never been there before.

Tonight is the night I up my game. I’m dressed accordingly--a little black dress and a shy, demure expression. It’s starkly opposite to the loud clothes and attitude of most of the inmates of this club, and in contrast to the noisy ease and brightly-coloured clothes I usually wear. In short, my appearance is misleading.

The interior is brightly, colorfully lit. Jazzy music is blared and the lounges scattered around are littered with cushions. The floor is dark gray tile and the round poker tables are surrounded by semi-circular booths which have smooth, fake leather seats.

I sauntered over to a table of six. I slid into a seat, eyes averted, but rather than overdo the part, after a minute I looked up and glanced around the table at my opponents.

Across from me were the only other two females at the table- two girls in tight blouses, with cigarettes balanced between garishly painted fingernails. Their thick eyeliner and short, sleek haircuts accentuated the differences between us.

The other occupants of the table included a middle-aged, large and rather seedy English gentleman with a tumbler of port, a gray-haired, lean Italian with a weary face and jaded eyes, and a young man to my left who couldn’t possibly be more than nineteen.

The round was dealt and the game began. While the young one may have silk neckties, he didn’t have the motivation I had at his age. He dropped out and ordered a drink.

A few minutes later I guessed that a high bid by one of the girls across from me was a rather weak attempt at a bluff and raised her. She glanced nervously over her cigarette at the others, but when they all folded she turned her sleek head and stared at me with her bold black eyes. She goes all in.

I laughed inwardly. She’s much larger than me and obviously thinks I’m not brave enough to challenge her. I delay for a minute, head down, toppling over my stack of chips and then rebuilding it. My frowning concentration must have fooled the table quite well, because the girl in the tight blouse across from me puffed from her cigarette and relaxed her elbows onto the table.

Finally I lifted my head up, and with a childish air of defiance slid my pile into the center. Glancing around the table I saw raised eyebrows, but the girl’s face fell.

Le grande flip—I smiled quietly and gathered the chips, moving on to the next table. My hand wasn’t great, but it beat my opponent’s pair of threes. I could feel her glaring insolently at my back.

I’m older than you, I thought.

The next game took longer, but I endured. And I got my reward—triumphantly I moved on to the next table and allowed myself to order my favorite drink, a pineapple juice. At this table there were higher stakes and more competitive players.

One of them I noticed in particular.

He sat across from me, and even if his pile of chips wasn’t quite as large as some of the others, he is no one to be messed with. In fact, I could see in his face that he plays like I do. All the chances. Accepting each new win, but barely glancing at it before moving on to the next. Greedy for opportunity.

I also had an uncanny suspicion that he saw right through my little act….and furtively studying him, I wondered if all that I can see of him is also only a mask….

He had a noticeable face and dark, tousled hair. He didn’t have the reckless all-or-nothing air that so many gamblers do, and he twirled a cigarette between his shapely fingers but never lighted it.

The game began. Carefully I examined my cards, but dread settled in the bottom of my stomach. Why did I have to have such terrible cards? On this round? For some reason this round felt significant. I raised my eyes from my hand and found him watching me from across the table.

My face is impenetrable, I told myself.

Did he……?

It was my turn. No need to look at my cards again, they were imprinted in my mind. Gosh, they’re terrible.

Did I dare? He’s the person I was worried about….for once in my life, I was scared to take a chance. I thought that if I tried to bluff my way through, he’d check it, and I didn’t want to lose everything! I remembered what it felt like to have no more chances. The grief of a gambler.

But I’ve never been good at quitting--I’m a fighter. So I hung in there, paying minimum, until finally it was down to me and him. He won, but I folded with enough to make the top two, and thankfully two people could move on.

I think he was surprised behind that mask of indifference. Why do I care about what he thinks? I shook my shoulders. If I wanted to win I needed to have no inhibitions, no restrictions….certainly no confining ‘charm’ cast on me. But the game was over, and I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. After all, I had another chance.

I pushed my empty glass away from me and stood up. It wasn’t over yet, no, not by a long shot.

Half an hour passed slowly. I had played no one at this table before, and there was a particularly vocal person this time, a youngish man sitting to my left with light, curly hair and a handsome, open face. Quietly I called bid after bid, and he muttered something quite audible and ordered another drink.

As the game progressed and the stakes rose, I began to sweat internally. The young man to my left might be rather intoxicated, but he knew his game, and seemed to have excellent cards. I got more and more nervous, breathing quickly and edgily tapping the seat with my fingertips. I was his biggest threat now.

“Look at her,” he jeered, the words rather slurred. “She looks like a li-ittle child. But she can play poker.” I didn’t respond. He took another sip of his beverage.

I raised his bid again. Quite annoyed but apparently undaunted, he raised mine. I raised it. More frustrated than thinking clearly, he went all-in.

I took a deep breath and did likewise.

This was it. If I won, I had another chance. If I lost, I was done for the night. We flipped.

I gasped audibly with relief. I had only just beaten him, a three-of-a-kind to a two-pair. But he was angry. Half drunk, he lunged for the pile of chips and was forcibly extricated from the table by two waiters. He left calling out jeering insults intermingled with curses.

I ignored him and placidly continued clearing the chips before moving on. But internally I was shaky--that had been way too close.

Only one more game to go before the head table. For me, the whole night felt as if it were leading up to that moment when I could finally be there. So I finished the game as if I had come to the club a million times and done this very thing-- I was getting so comfortable, so used to the atmosphere that I had almost forgotten that it was my first night here. Only my heart raced as I finally took my place at the head table.

But he was there too.

There was no one else at the table yet, all the others were either temporarily up at the bar or still playing other games. He looked up when I slid into my seat but then kept his eyes thoughtfully on the table. After a minute he took the now lighted cigarette out of his mouth and spoke.

“I know you cheat.” He spoke the four words quietly, as a statement. I squirmed inside but outside I was rigidly still.

“I know you do.” I didn’t speak defensively, but calmly as he had, as if we were exchanging a sort of mutual confidence. A silent moment passed, rich and yet strangely still with thoughts. He smoked, staring at a fixed point on the table as I drew idly on it with my finger.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth, an amused smile spreading across his face. “How do you live with it?”

After a moment I said slowly, “It’s all a game, isn’t it? Everyone can--influence--if they don’t get caught. So, it’s fair play.”

“Is that how you see everything?” he asked. “As a game?”

“No!” I said, almost sharply. “Just poker.” But even so I wondered--was it all a game to me? Would I take chances--not staking shiny plastic chips but lives? Fortunes?

Life is a scarier game. I can’t control my opportunities.

“Fair play,” I repeated slowly, “Within the game.”

“Then let’s see your game,” he said smoothly…., “Maria.”

I stared at him numbly. So he did remember. But there was no more time for words as the other players began to take their seats.

The cards were dealt. I looked at mine. They’re okay, not great. I could work with them, but I avoided looking across the table.

The game progressed……and by the turn card, I knew I was not okay. At all.

He had good cards. I knew it.

I started to panic. What if I was wrong? What if to me life wasn’t a game…….but the game was life?

I glanced up at the tiny chandelier above the table and watched the tiny flickers of flame waver and shimmer. The cards were lying there so perfectly under them, and a thin cord held the fragile structure up. A wild thought flashed through my mind. Would the sharp edge of an expertly flicked card be enough to bring it down? I remembered all the times my uncle had thrown cards and sliced through cucumbers as if they were made of butter…..Calculating, I weighed the card in my hand, curling my fingers around the edge and mentally flicking my wrist. I glanced around the table.

All the players but him were, miraculously, preoccupied.

Suddenly I knew I would do anything to avoid being hopeless. Chanceless. Useless. Small. The word echoed through my head, a whisper as thin and harsh as an icy, biting wind.

Fair play within the game. What counted as within the game? I looked across the table. He was watching me, that same hint of amusement in his eyes but something else too….something dangerous….

I lifted my arm and sharply flicked my wrist.

The crash and shatter of glass rang throughout the large room.

This is MY game.

The above quotation relates to my experiences in real life because I have discovered how influential and powerful loving one another is. This is a 'new command' not only for people in the first century but also for us today, because whatever people say, loving each other over ourselves doesn't often come naturally. That's why it is life-changing.

We all love ourselves. No matter how much we self-deprecate, we value ourselves and our talents, our wants, and our potential. We live in our own self-interest and we really don't like to step out of what benefits us to benefit others, and if someone hits you, you hit them back. We all like our 'eggs' ME-side-up.

So why would someone do something that hurts them to help someone else? Having this kind of love is confusing to some people. They can't understand why anyone would step out of their way and do something for someone else. There are plenty of reasons that might be less obvious-- seemingly showing love for someone but just doing it to get the praise or admiration of others. Visiting a refugee camp and posting pics on your Instagram! But why would somebody show love to another person when it doesn't seem to benefit them? What's the point?

Self-sacrificial love instead of self-interest is life-changing because it is powerful. The kind of love that never hits back, that pushes itself down, that steps out of itself for someone else. This is a new command that is opposite to the one already wired into our systems, and so the person who can follow it needs greater strength to use it. I challenge you to do something for another person-- something that says "you-side-up".

“No, no, dad! Just keep it straight up! Now you point it to the target like you’re holding a pistol. Just hold it straight up, yeah, like that. Now look at the screen, look at the screen. Ok. Can you see the target? Make sure it’s somewhere in the middle of the screen. Now press the power and volume buttons together. On the right-hand side. The two top buttons. Right. Are you pressing them both?”

The old man sighed, despair in his eyes. “I’ll never get the hang of this,” he said.

“That’s because you moved your phone, don’t move it. Here.”

His son impatiently took the phone from his hand. “Here you go, target in the middle, press buttons, piece of cake!”

The targeted plastic cup shot from the table like an arrow and landed on the windowsill.

“Now you,” the son said, and placed the cup back on the table.

*

The old man had been a wizard all his life. And quite successful too.

With his cloak, staff, wand, and spells he had saved the world from peril more than once.

Then one day, a parcel was delivered to his door. He even had to sign for it.

When he unwrapped the sturdy carboard box, it contained a shiny cell phone together with a brightly coloured folder with screaming letters:

HERE IT IS, YOUR OWN BRANDNEW PHONE!

There was also a letter, and he recognized the letterhead of UWA, the United Wizard Association.

Ah, now he remembered, the last UWA meeting, almost a year ago.

There, the Board announced that every member of UWA would receive a cell phone.

He thought they had just forgotten about it.

The letter read:

As announced during the meeting of 14th March, we are sending you your personal cell phone.

To make your phone operable for wizardly work, you must download the special WIZZ-app from the app-store.

This app will be upgraded regularly, so that eventually the device will function as a full replacement of staffs, wands, and spells.

Private use of the phone is permitted if this will not interfere with work.

Having no clue what it all meant, he placed the box with the phone on the table.

*

“Cool! Wow, cool!” His son rushed to the table without even taking his coat off.

He carefully took the phone from the box as if it were a breakable artifact. “This year’s model, wow!”

“It’s for work,” the old man said despondently. “It needs an app with double p so I have to find an app-store somewhere.”

*

Unlike most wizards, Geodefrith had not remained single. His wife Mildred (Millie as everyone called her) passed a few years earlier, and he loved their son Fernando as the living memory of her.

And for himself, of course, although he could be a pain sometimes; but a friendly pain.

*

With the aid of Fernando, the new phone was in working order within an hour.

Geodefrith’s head was still spinning and buzzing with terms like SIM-codes, fingerprint-recognition, downloads, upgrades, data.

Before he knew it the app (with double p) had been installed, and Fernando told him his profile was complete.

“You see, dad, it’s hardly brain surgery. Now all you’ve left to do is enter your spells.”

Geodefrith started. “My spells? But those are secret, private. They’re all in here!” he said, tapping his forehead.

“But they’re required if you want the app to work,” Fernando answered, “just sit down and enter your spells, I won’t look, ok?”

It had taken Geodefrith years and years to memorize all the spells he needed.

He sat down on the couch with the phone on his lap. His fingers slowly and unstably typed in the first spell.

After a minute, he threw the phone aside and sighed: “This is not working. Forget it!”

Fernando looked up from his own cell phone, laughing. “What’s not working, dad? How many spells have you put in?”

Geodefrith raised his arms in despair. “None! I keep getting invalid input, make sure the spelling is correct; remember, some spells may be case sensitive.”

“I don’t know how you spell all those spells exactly. They’re in my head. When I need them, I just cast them.”

Fernando said: “But there must be a way to know the spelling of your spells, right?”

“Of course, they’re all in the Secret Book,” Geodefrith exclaimed, “haven’t needed it for years. It’s going to take me weeks to enter them all.”

To make a long story short, defying all rules of secrecy and privacy, it took Fernando a little over forty-five minutes to copy all Geodefrith’s spells from the Secret Book into the phone.

In awe, Geodefrith watched his son’s fingers race over the shiny screen.

*

“Now you,” Fernando said.

Geodefrith held the phone as straight as possible, and his shaking fingers fumbled to find the two buttons on the right.

When he pressed them, the plastic cup shot against the living room window.

“I got it!” he cheered, “incredible! I still can’t get over it that the phone knows exactly what spell to use!”

Fernando smiled. “That’s why they call it a smart phone, dad.”

*

Spells came in variations, of different magnitudes.

There were spells that were hardly more than a simple magical trick, such as moving objects, or making things disappear.

Or, a bit harder, spells that could move a wizard from one place to another in a flash, sometimes miles away.

Then there were those to fend off danger, such as a sudden thunderstorm, a flood or an avalanche.

Some spells could be used to protect against de spells of others, especially members of the Dark Order of Wizards (DOW), a group with a questionable reputation that split off from the UWA centuries ago.

Regularly, there were encounters between members of both groups, sometimes leading to serious clashes.

Never, however, could these spells be used to kill or destroy. Even in the fiercest fights between opponents, spells were to be used only to defend, to annoy or fatigue the other.

Both sides adhered to this unwritten rule; wizards died, naturally, but never by the hand of another wizard.

The deepest spells did have the power to destroy or kill. In rare cases, where imminent peril was extremely profound and potentially lethal, a wizard might use such a special spell.

From the beginnings of wizardry, any wizard qualified as such, had every spell at his disposal.

But during the leadership of Frankfrith the Glorious, who acted as chairman of the UWA for more than six centuries, the Rule of Limitations was introduced.

Randomly, wizards might lose their “licence to kill”, or any other spell, for that matter.

*

By a small margin, Frankfrith had been elected as the 19th Chairman of the United Wizard Association.

But he soon managed to extend his power by placing his most avid supporters on key positions in the organization.

He appointed Glowfrith as treasurer, and Pensefrith as Scribe, a kind of personal secretary. Ilbreth, nicknamed the weasel became Deputy Scribe, taking care of “daily matters”.

Frankfrith’s rule was characterized by modernization, which, as most wizards agreed, was in fact Pensefrith’s idea.

The old communication system between the board of UWA and individual wizards, by using heralds to deliver messages in person, was abandoned and replaced by periodical letters signed by Frankfrith.

*

Nine decades after Frankfrith was elected, at the annual UWA meeting, he was surprisingly flanked by two large figures, who were introduced as Ironfrith the Unwaveringand Bullfrith the Wielder, both members of DOW.

Frankfrith had hired them as private security agents, to protect him from an “increasing number of serious threats by certain groups.”

It was from that time on that the periodical letters from the Board were signed Frankfrith the Great, and later even Frankfrith the Glorious.

*

A few weeks after Geodefrith had received his new phone, there was the annual UWA meeting.

All members gathered in a large hall.

Beverages were served before the meeting, and Geodefrith sensed a lot of tension, mostly having to do with the new phones.

After Frankfrith had opened the meeting and hammered away the approval of last year’s minutes, Donfrith the meak, the gentlest person that ever roamed the earth, raised his hand.

“Ah, a question,” Frankfrith said, “please, go!”

Donfrith’s crackling voice sounded through the hall.

“About these phones, Frankfrith, are they really necessary?”

Frankfrith looked down with a kind smile.

“I am afraid they are, Donfrith. There’s just no other way.”

Then Donfrith said: “But what was wrong with staffs and wands and spells? They always worked well, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with staffs?” someone shouted from the other end of the hall. The figure of Bosefrith had risen, and he spoke with a booming voice: “It’s all about control! He uses those phones to track us everywhere!”

Soon almost everybody was screaming and shouting, until all voices joined together in a chant: No phones, no phones, no phones!

Then there was a tremendous bang that stopped the turmoil immediately.

Bullfrith’s fist had landed on the table with such great force that it almost split in two.

His huge shadow loomed over the hall.

Geodefrith was sure he saw flames and smoke coming from Bullfrith’s maw when his thundering voice echoed: “Enough!!”

*

This is to inform you that the introduction of cell phones has been a great success.

The latest upgrade of the WIZZ-app makes the next step possible.

The Board is proud to announce that from May 1st, all staffs and wands will be deactivated, and spoken spells will be rendered ineffective.

Representatives of the Board will be collecting your staffs and wands.

During the coming months you will receive notification of the exact date of collection.

Your collaboration is appreciated.

On behalf of the Board

Frankfrith the Glorious

Geodefrith put the letter aside.

Although, with the help and support of Fernando, he had mastered most of the features of his phone, he still liked to wander about occasionally with staff and wand, leaving his phone at home.

Casting spells the old-fashioned way felt great!

That was all going to end soon.

“A good thing,” Fernando said.

*

It had been an easy day. The world seemed to be in a pleasant Spring mood.

Geodefrith’s horse was trotting home and the old wizard smiled broadly.

He was looking forward to a quiet dinner, a fine wine, and a good read.

He sighed, complacently, until he spotted a silhouette on top of a hill.

Oh, bother, he thought, there goes a quiet evening!

He had immediately recognized Wellfrith the Gloomy, who came galloping down, waving and shouting: “Heya there, Geodefrith the Silly, old stoop!”

True enough, of all the dark wizards one could encounter, Wellfrith was probably one of the least bothersome, but he was such a show-off.

“Good eve, Wellfrith,” Geodefrith said, “wishing you a good journey!”

“Not so fast,” Wellfrith replied, “let’s not forget our good manners, you ancient creap!”

“Oh, come on, Wellfrith, let’s forget it,” Geodefrith pleaded, “I just want to go home.”

Wellfrith looked at him with scorn. “You lamentable fossil! You know what the code says: we have to exchange some spells.”

Geodefrith sighed. “Ah, well, you can have it your way!”

He took his phone out of his pocket, waiting for Wellfrith to produce a wand or staff but, much to his surprise, Wellfrith held up a phone as well.

“Take this!” the dark wizard yelled.

Wellfrith pushed his phone in Geodefrith’s direction, but nothing happened.

Then Geodefrith aimed his phone, target in the middle, nervously pressing the buttons on the side.

Wellfrith was thrown off his balance and landed on one knee.

“Well, I never!” he grunted as he got up. “You treacherous old fart!”

He aimed his phone at Geodefrith, but suddenly raised his hand.

“Hold on,” he called, “gotta take this!”

He put his phone at his ear and started talking, turning his back on Geodefrith.

After a minute or two, Geodefrith heard Wellfrith say: “Ok, let’s talk again later, I’m in the middle of something now!”

But before they could exchange any further spells, another call came in.

After the third, and twenty minutes later, Geodefrith sighed and said: “Come on, Wellfrith, may I go home now?”

Wellfrith looked at him and shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, why not,” he said, “stupid phones!”

Geodefrith smiled and said: “I couldn’t agree more.”

Wellfrith replied: “I’d give my right arm for a good old-fashioned sturdy staff!”

*

“It’s all Ironfrith’s doing,” Wellfrith said as the two old wizards joined part of their journey. “Ever since he’s associated himself with your Frankfrith.”

Geodefrith answered: “It’s Pensefrith, really. He’s behind it all. It ought to be stopped!”

Wellfrith stroked his beard.

“You know, there might be a way,” he said.

“We could call for a popular vote. I know a big majority of DOW members want staffs and wands back. All we have to do is to send a message to all DOW and UWA group members; it's the only thing these phones are good for!”

And so, it happened. Text messages were sent to all the group members.

*

There was a rather heavy knock on the door.

Geodefrith got up to open and was surprised to see Bullfrith on his doorstep.

“You are requested to come,” he growled.

“Sorry, got other plans,” Geodefrith answered lightheartedly.

“You are requested to come!” Bullfrith repeated, a bit louder.

“And I still have other plans!” Geodefrith replied.

With his big paw, Bullfrith grabbed him by the shoulder and forcefully pulled him away from the door.

“Hey, take it easy,” Geodefrith squeaked.

Bullfrith dragged him along for some fifty yards, where Frankfrith sat waiting in a four-wheeled cart.

Geodefrith was pushed into it.

“What’s going on, Frankfrith,” he said while getting up.

The cart rattled along the cobblestone path.

Frankfrith looked at him affably.

“Now that was not a very smart thing to do, was it?” he said.

“What wasn’t?” Geodefrith asked, annoyed, brushing the dust from his cloak.

“Well, my dear Geodefrith, if you are to commit high treason, it’s not smart to do it all out in the open.”

“What do you mean, high treason, what are you talking about?”

Frankfrith calmly stroked his beard.

“You must understand, my dear old friend, that the Board cannot overlook individual, disgruntled wizards who undermine board decisions that were taken unanimously.”

“Not undermining; I was just asking the others to vote for or against using cell phones, that’s all.”

Frankfrith answered: “We’ll see,” and kept quiet the rest of the way.

*

Geodefrith was escorted into a room where Pensefrith, Glowfrith, Ironfrith and Ilbreth were seated at elevated tables.

On the floor below, there was a single chair.

Bullfrith pushed Geodefrith in the chair, and he and Frankfrith joined the others.

Frankfrith mildly looked down on him, and said: “It is the Board’s decision, Geodefrith, that it would be in your best interest to, erm, enjoy a few weeks, months of rest. All expenses paid, of course!”

Geodefrith looked up angrily.

“So you’re sending me away!”

“Believe me, we only want what’s best for you,” Frankfrith answered.

*

The resort was comfortable, but he never felt at home.

There were no other wizards, as far as he could see.

Most of the guests were older people, shuffling about with or without a walker.

He spent most of his time in his room.

He had his cell phone, but only very basic spells were left available to him.

Sometimes, some of the guests had visitors: families, children, grandchildren.

No visitors ever came for Geodefrith; it was decided that would be too stressful for him.

He sent messages to Fernando, complaining about his situation, but only received encouraging text messages back, wishing him speedy recovery.

He thought he was being censored.

*

Once a week, a nurse came by, a sweet young lady, who would sit with him, asking about his wellbeing.

She gained his trust and he felt comfortable enough to pour out his heart to her.

How he was kept there against his will and wished to go home to his son.

She promised to find out more, and she became an ally in his quest for rehabilitation.

He looked forward to her visits, the both of them plotting to find a way to reveal the truth.

Then one day, she was not there, but instead two male nurses grabbed him and put a needle in his arm.

*

When he woke up, two older men, dressed in white, stood at his bed.

The first one said cheerfully: “Welcome, sir! Welcome to the world!”

The other man added: “You have been asleep for quite a while, but the operation went very well!”

With shiny eyes, Geodefrith said: “Thank you, doctors!”

The first doctor said: “You will be going home to the resort in about two weeks. You’ll be happy there!”

“There are absolutely no signs of rejection,” the other said. “The chip is nicely embedded.”

Geodefrith smiled at them. “Thank you, doctors,” he said again.

*

Geodefrith sat comfortably in a chair in the recreation room of the resort.

There was the liveliness of children running about.

A lady came in holding hands with a little boy who held a toy car in his other hand.

“There’s the gentleman,” she pointed, “there’s the gentleman who can move things. Ask him if he can do it.”

Geodefrith smiled at the boy.

“Just put your toy on the table,” he said.

Then he took out his phone, aimed it at the toy, and simultaneously pressed two buttons on the side.

The toy moved.

The boy screeched and jumped up and down.

“One more time!” he screamed, excited.

Geodefrith laughed. He was a happy man.

And oh!

Hear the thunderous bombs

As they descend upon our land!

Falling fantastically in rhythm,

Like giant fists upon a synthesizer.

Perfectly in tune

With a solemn way to perish this day.

I hear them cry!

Oh, gather the school children about!

Let us not misstep

Along these trails towards the bunker not far ahead.

But we can hear them,

Trotting;

Marching about the schoolyard

In search of civilians.

And we must quiet the children –

Silence their panicked cries;

Soothe their little wails as they just follow us in confusion.

“Shh….”,

I calmly hum to the little crowd of toddlers.

“We mustn’t say a word,

Not a step too loud.

Now dry those tears

And soften those cries –

Hold it in like medicine.”

And that burning lump that lodges itself awkwardly in my throat,

Tastes bitter and sour as I bite my tongue

In a wayward attempt to not scream.

Holding my breath,

Barely breathing through my nose,

The sour numbness makes my mouth water.

The instinct to run amok in an irrational daze

Plays violently with my sensibility.

But I must hold on tight to those little ones’ hands,

For we are almost there –

I can see the doors to our safety just right up ahead!

“I believe we will make, dear children!”,

I sang out to them.

But alas –

A brightness flashed before our eyes like we had never seen before.

I watched as the ground rumbled,

As it ascended like a tidal wave,

For a mere solid second,

Only to swallow us up.

And into the ground we have fallen.

Fallen.

I know that I love you

But you don’t make my heart soar

It makes me wonder if there should be more

Or if it’s supposed to be this

Comfortable

Familiar

Safe

?

The only time it’s felt real is when it hurt

I cannot help myself of not liking this word

Demon, for me is how I live in this world.

There was a time I red a book, and this book said,

what if Lucifer was uncomprehend by God?

Then an injustice was done, and an innocent was thrown away.

The world feels like a judgmental thought,

The world is like a fear cult,

don't play different or they might kill your heart.

Then you seek for heaven, so you go back to the right path,

so that vanished demon can heal the soul.

But a demon cannot live in heaven,

so the demon has to suffer in hell.

Or also...

There is a show called Disenchanted where a character named Luci (Lucifer) the personal demon of the Princess Bean; it always leads her to make bad decisions that challenge the princess's environment. But in the end, a demon like him finds unconditional friendship. Although, the most remarkable thing about the character is his sarcastic, carefree and daring personality. So the username is inspired in his nature (a demon) and his story.

I made a vow few years ago to fall in love with me

To tell that girl stuck in time to let herself be free

That it's okay to be herself and care not for others

That she does not need to hide and cry under her covers

That no matter how she looks like she is beautiful inside and out

That she needs not the company of those who lurk in the shadows of doubt

I’d stand in front of the mirror and hug the living daylight out of her

I’d shout her name and make sure she knows I am her

I’ll tell her each day that she matters

When she laughs and cries and during her endless chatters

I’ll show her the future that she was afraid of

Imprint in her being the real meaning of love

I’d read her verses of villains and heroes

Tales of knights, witches, demons and pharaohs

I’d build a castle of wool for her on top of a hill

Let her run and scream and never stay still

I’d give her books, plenty to submerge her head in

To learn that words are not mere weapons with which to kill

I’d let shout all the words she hid inside

Let her know that does not need to hide

My gift would be to become her comfort

To arm her with enough love to be her support

So that one day when she is all alone

She’ll know fully well she was enough love shown

Mounted on the wall

A bright glare catches my eye

It reflects the light

From the setting sun

My pride and glory

What can I say?

What is mounted beneath

Shriveled and dead

Bears mute testament

To a victory, hard fought

But finally won

Another time...

A past life...

I give a toast

And raising my glass,

"Here's to Lorena!"

And,

A sharp kitchen knife.