mango wrote:

“Ha! You look ridiculous!” Vi pointed in Kabbu’s direction, who was wearing a costume that looked similar to herself.

“Ha! You look ridiculous!” Vi doubled over, giggling, one finger shakily pointed in Kabbu’s direction. Kabbu currently wore a costume that looked much like Vi’s.

mango wrote:

Vi always had that playful, spunky, almost innocent energy.

mango wrote:

Although she was the most annoying creature on the planet, something was fun about her.

mango wrote:

Maybe it was that we did enjoy that childish energy. Or perhaps we just enjoyed poking fun at her until she went into a fit of rage.

Kabbu’s face became an ever so slightly red tint at Vi’s comment. “I personally don’t think it looks that bad. Right, Leif?” He looks up in our direction, waiting for our reassurance. “Oh, don’t bother. I’m only told to wear it for a few hours… it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.”

mango wrote:

Kabbu had always been the one to ground us. Keep us, and that annoying little bee, on track. Although he had a generally tough and serious looking exterior, he seemed to bewas filled to the brim with kindness, to the point where even if he gave all of Bugaria some, he’d still have more to give. It almost worried us, how gentle of a soul he was.

mango wrote:

“Oh, Kabbu. Don’t listen to her. She can’t be saying anything when she’ll have to wear a Blue Bug Ranger costume herself.”

That was us. Likely the most isolated out of the three. We were the last one welcomed into the team. Being that we somehow continued living despite being from moons past, a generation long gone, and with newly discovered ice magic, we were practically a walking anomaly the entire adventure, one that would’ve almost been better if we had left unquestioned. The conclusion to our questions were eventually answered, and we found out together the hard truth that we weren’t who we previously thought we were. We were some living zombie, controlled by intelligent cordyceps. We had continued living on even through our existential crisis.

Us: the last one welcomed onto the team. Living despite coming from moons past, an origin that perhaps should have gone unquestioned. Our questions were eventually answered, though. We weren’t who we thought we were. We weren’t alive as we’d thought, but undead.

mango wrote:

Vi’s eyes went wide, antennae straightening out. “I would’ve hoped you would’ve forgotten about that-”

“Come on, Vi, it won’t be that bad.” Kabbu had a clotheshanger in his hand, a set of blue wings with yellow accents in the form of some sort of cloak hung upon it, a complimentary fluffy neckscarf sitting on his other hand.

mango wrote:

Vi bolted further away from us the moment she saw it, and just moments later, the camera recording them dropped onto the ground, only Vi's squeals and the sky being recorded.


An alarm rang on our Termapad, pausing the video of our former comrades, shouting at us with a cartoon-ish photo of an ant.

mango wrote:

“Your grocery order is ready for pickup!” The sound, though we had grown used to it, made us nearly drop the device. That’s just wonderful. Another day having to leave our pit of misery and have to show our face… maybe even socialize if we were unlucky enough.


The shade our house provided was no more. Sure, we weren’t going to be out for any longer than a few minutes, but simply stepping outside made us long to return home.

The journey to the store felt rather long, treacherous in some ways. Every bug staring at us felt nearly as painful as a wasp striking us with their spear. Every step was another second off of our seemingly neverending life that could’ve been for anything else. Generations have seen us walk down this path, and we personally couldn’t wait until our face is only seen by the future generations in a history book. Though Vi and Kabbu (or… at least Kabbu) would’ve probably been devastated over the fact that we would even THINK such a thing. Our internal lamenting over our everlasting “life” came to a halt as we entered the shop. The enthusiastic shopkeeper approached us with a bag as per usual.

“Hey, Leif! Good to see ya! For a moment I thought you weren’t gonna get your order.”

“Mhm…” Whenever they would make small talk with us, we’d always try to avoid encouraging them to continue.

“I packed you some extra mushrooms too. Y’know, your favourite!” They seemed quite pleased with themself for doing this simple gesture.

“That’s very kind of you, but we’d best be leaving now.” We pulled out our sack of spare berries, grabbing the necessary amount for the exchange.

The shopkeeper laughed. “Oh, Leif. You know you don’t have to pay. You’re Bugaria’s-”

“We insist.” Our berry-covered hand was in front of their face, and by the shopkeeper’s change in expression, we were being harsh with our insistence, perhaps almost threatening.

They made a light, nervous laugh-like sound. “O- ok…” They cautiously took the berries from our hand. We proceeded to turn around and leave, desiring to lie in bed for the remainder of the day and play Mite Knight rather than engage in any goodbyes.


Once we returned, we played maybe 10 minutes of Mite Knight before someone stood at our doorframe. A strange creature, seemingly a sentient jumping spider, with antennae. Fake antennae, likely made from old wire and some sort of headband. The fellow seemed excited to meet us.

“We don’t sign autographs.” We looked back down at our game after examining her for a fair amount of time. “If you are here to give gifts of any sort, keep it, and give it to anyone else.” We motioned towards the unopened boxes of past gifts we had received.

mango wrote:

“Oh… I’m not here for any of that.” The spider sounded young and innocent, though in a way, spunky and playful. We waited for her to continue, though she didn’t say a word.

mango wrote:

“So… what are you here for?” We prompted her. Although we weren’t a fan of conversation, we felt we needed to get a straight answer before kicking the young spider out.

“Well, the name’s Dart. And, it’s just…” The spider dashed towards us, sliding down onto her 4 knees in front of our bed. “I am SO inspired by your work!” her 4 arms went out to reach us before pulling 2 of them away.

A little startled, and unsure how to react, we decided to play dumb. “…what work?”

She froze, expression stagnant except for some mild twitching. “I- uh… come on… you’re… you’re Leif, right?” She seemed desperate for us to say yes. We stupidly decided to stop the charade quickly.

mango wrote:

“Yes… we are…”

Dart bounced around. “Oh my goodness- I can’t believe I’m speaking to a Hero of Legend!” She started dancing around the disaster of a house. She managed to stop herself, a little ashamed of what she had done.

mango wrote:

“What would you know about what we did?” We unpaused our game. “Besides, after our greatest accomplishments, we’ve remained hidden here. We don’t think you’d be as interested in us as you’d like to believe.”

“Uh, because you’re in the history books!” Out of a pouch she carried around her waist, she pulled out a book titled “Bugaria: A Complete History, Volume IV - The Explorers’ Way to Victory”,” very quickly turning to a page with an image of us and the remainder of Team Snakemouth covering a majority of it. “I noticed you were in town, and just HAD to ask questions. Was exploring hard? How are you still here? Were Vi and Kabbu as cool as they said they were? Could you perhaps tea-”

“We’ll have to ask you to stop there.,” wWe state, instinctively creating a ball out of ice thanks to our magic.

mango wrote:

“Huh-? But… why-?” Dart backed away, ever so slightly off-put by our accidental threat.

“Because we don’t feel like it.” Our voice was harsh, and was even beginning to scare her off.

“Please-”

“No.” A wall of ice formed between the two of us upon saying that. It wasn’t entirely intentional, although it felt nice being separated from her in the moment. We could hear faint shrieks and cries as she supposedly ran out of our house. While the wall made us relieved, that relief melted away along with it. We had scared a literal child away with our powers. We shut someone out who was simply curious. It felt petty. All for what? So we didn’t have to face the many experiences we had in the past? No, it was more than that. It was to block out the possibility of making another mortal friend. We had lost family, we had lost friends who were practically found family to us. Perhaps we were doing this to reduce the likelihood of facing that kind of loss again. We had always been subconsciously doing that since the beginning of Vi and Kabbu’s eternal slumber all those moons ago.

mango wrote:

Sure, loss did hurt, but we were beginning to realize that wallowing in that loss instead of moving on was no less painful.

mango wrote:

We gave this sudden discovery time to process, which eventually led to a decision we’d never expect to make. We stood up and left the house, the darkening sky feeling mildly more comfortable than the piercingly saturated blue it was earlier.

We found Dart laying on a bench outside of an inn. She appeared to be asleep, or near sleeping. Both because we were ashamed of what had happened earlier, and that she wasn’t sleeping in the most comfortable of places, we tapped her awake. She jolted upwards, antennae falling off of her face, an entire 8 eyes staring up at us. A moment later, 6 of those eyes closed, leaving the two in the centre of her face wide open. She adjusted the headband with her fake antennae so they fit perfectly on her head.

“You plan on sleeping out here?” Wwe asked.

She nodded.

“You do know there’s an inn right behind you.”

“Of course I do. You think I’m rich?” She folded 2 of her arms.

“No. Though it’s only 3 berries to stay the night.”

“Well, la-dee-da, Mister Retired Explorer.”

The area went silent for a brief moment as we tried to formulate some kind of response. “…Wwe have a bunk bed,” we finally stated.

Her eyes widened. “As in… you’d let me stay the night…?”

“We suppose, if that’s the only alternative to sleeping on a bench.”

She jumped up, circling around us, waiting for us to lead her to our home.


Upon returning, she leapt onto the typically unused top bunk of the bed. She wrapped herself in the previously untouched leaves, taking in the warmth and comfort. She glanced around the room as we sat down on the bottom bunk, just about ready to fall asleep. Before we could consider doing so, Dart sat up.

“Hey… Leif…” her voice was quiet, kind of soft as well.

“Yeah?”

“Y’know… I always wanted to be an explorer like you.”

Our only response was a nod. We didn’t let the conversation continue on. We heard her shuffle around, and sure enough she was asleep shortly after.


We woke up to the sounds of rustling. Upon looking around our small house, it appeared that Dart was packing up her few things before presumably leaving.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Dart exclaimed, turning to face us. “I was just about to go.”

We had stayed up late the night before, thinking about everything she had said the day before, especially about her wanting to become an explorer. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

A dejected sigh came out of her. “Not really. No job, nobody that supports me or that I need to support. Just that bench in the Kingdom’s plaza, and my book, more as a metaphorical place.” She made a sad laugh, one arm touching her pouch with the book in it.

“Then, we don’t see why you can’t stay.”

Dart turned around, likely not believing what she had heard. She stood there as if she expected us to repeat ourselves.
“We’ve decided we’d like to mentor you.”

Dart ran to us, wrapping two of her arms around us, the other two eventually holding on to us as well. “That… that would be a dream come true.”

indigo---- wrote:

He and I are no strangers. No, we are far from it.

Yet somehow I have managed to walk away from him time and time again.
Your gaze falls to mine as I entangle my fingers with yours, one hand graceful, one calloused. We don’t have to do this, you say, and for a moment I am convinced. But still I shake my head no and tell you we must press on. In the corner of my eye, I see Death, looming there. His eyes meet mine, but I shake my head no. Not yet, I say silently, with my eyes, my heart, my everything. Please just wait.

But Death is not patient. He does not wait. He has no time to wait. Death shakes his head at me. It’s time. It’s time. It’s always time, because he and I have stargazed together, and watched the tides rise and fall. We have climbed mighty hills and explored great forests until we have been benighted. Only then does Death turn away, promising me, Not today, nor tonight. But perhaps tomorrow.

Death has repeated that over and over again, yet nothing has happened until now.
You look over your shoulder to where Death is, but you cannot see him. You give me a strange look, as if to ask me what I’m looking at, but seem to decide that if this is our last time together, it wouldn’t be prudent to ask such trivial questions.
Death turns from me- from us- but only for a moment, and I know that is all I will have.
I tell you I love you, that we have to do this, because the government forced a contract and pen into our unwilling hands and made us sign up for the CAP program. And you shake your head in resignation, as if we could somehow take it back.
You say that the government is scared, and I know that you’re right. They’re scared of what we can do, of what we are, of who we are to each other. So I tell you, at least our story will still be told after we are gone.
You look skeptical, so I point to the stars above us. Each one, I say, tells a story, is a story, holds a story of one person or a hundred inside of it. And ours will become one of them.
Being the pessimist that you are, you tell me that the government will take our story away from us. Being the optimist that I am, I tell you what my father told me, that a story can never be stolen, because it is in our hearts. And that once we have long departed, our story will be in the stars.
It started out small. My father had wanted to see me live past ten years, but he never did. So instead he left me with a story. A story of the stars and their stories. How the stars hold tales of brave warriors and cowardly mice, of sailors and their ships, and prophets and their prophecies.
Death looks at me- at us- impatiently. It’s time. His eyes glint with a sort of sorrow unknown to me, and I feel those eyes, sharp like obsidian, boring into me. Into us. And I know that we cannot stall any longer.
It’s time.

I don’t want it to be time, not yet. So instead, I stare at the tall, white building in front of us. Promising, promising, promising of things that aren’t real.

I don’t want to go. It would mean leaving the stars behind. It would mean leaving you behind, even though you’re technically coming with me.
You squeeze my hand and promise that everything will be alright, even though it won’t be. Then you walk- more like drag- me towards the entrance of the building that looms over us, casting us in a shadow and blocking out the sun.
Better to get it over with, you tell me. I almost agree with you, but I can’t, because I’m too busy stealing one last look at the stars.
The hundreds- no, thousands- of them twinkle against the navy of the sky, and I can almost swear one of them winks at me, as if to reassure me that they are still there and will always be. And soon, my story will join them up there.

Death is behind me- behind us- and guiding us silently through the clear double doors and towards the receptionist. She looks extremely bored as she checks us in, then tells us to wait in the waiting room. As we sit down on the uncomfortable plastic chairs provided, Death smiles. It’s one of satisfaction, of no longer having to wait. It’s time.
We wait for what feels like forever. You twiddle your thumbs and anxiously bite your nails- a bad habit I’ve come to love about you- until I have to pry your hands away and hold them in mine. One pale hand, the other a deep bronze.
Doors open with the whir of gears, and a nurse- maybe he’s a doctor- calls our names. Not separately. Together. And together we stand up and follow him in, bodies stiff, arms swinging awkwardly by our sides.
I glance over my shoulder. Death is there, but he doesn’t look me in the eye.
The building’s walls are bare and white, which provide no comfort. You shiver slightly, because the AC is blasting and it’s freezing, and I reach for your hand in a silent offer, and you gratefully take it.
I suppose that’s helpful in our last moments together.
We reach the room- the final one we will be in- and the nurse leaves us there, promising that the officials and doctor will come soon. It isn’t very reassuring. The TV inside gives us outdated news- tax rises, inflation, and the development of the CAP program.
The CAP program. The Control of Adult Population. It was only initiated a few years ago, and most people wanted to avoid it. So the government decided that if there were no volunteers, they would just make people do it.
You reach for the remote and turn off the TV with a flick, and the bright colors and sounds abruptly turn to black. You turn to me, eyes brimming with unshed tears, and say, I don’t want to do this. Please. There must be some way to turn back time.
I shake my head. There isn’t, I tell you. We’re not that advanced yet. The CAP program is just the first step towards even more.
You sigh and turn away, and I already long for the stars and their ever-present company. Their absence leaves an ache in my chest, a hole in my heart that cannot be filled. How am I supposed to read the stars? Read the stories that are worth a thousand words if I walk hand in hand with Death? If I am stuck inside of the CAP building, and will never come out?
The door creaks and a man with a white coat and weathered smile lines around his eyes walks in, clutching a clipboard like it’s his last resort. But he’s not smiling today, and if anything, he’s the opposite. He introduces himself and starts reading through what must be a mandatory speech about the CAP program and its importance. The man talks more about how our contribution to the CAP program is important to the study of human anatomy and population control within the country, and ends by thanking us. Thanking us. For what? For doing something we never really wanted to do?
The doctor gestures for us to sit in two cushy chairs, and as we do, they immediately recline until we’re laying flat on our backs, staring up at the ceiling- and the tons of equipment now surrounding us. Blindly, I reach for your hand, longing to feel your warm presence once more. You squeeze my hand, and I imagine our fingers intertwined. One hand small, the other big. I don’t want to let go. Not ever.
As I squeeze my eyes shut, I picture the stars. Already my memory of them is fading, and I feel a pang as I realize I will never see them again. I will never recount the stories of warriors and cowards, of ships and prophecies, that my father told me.
And I realize that that’s okay.
That maybe one day, just maybe, I’ll get to see them again. But in a different way.
I squeeze your hand one last time, a final goodbye, a final thank you for everything, a final I love you. Then the doctor tells us that we must let go, and although I do not want to, I drop your hand. So much more calloused, more bronze, more large than mine.

For the last time, I think about the stars, and their thousand-word stories.
Death appears again, and his gaze meets mine. It’s time. He looks as if he almost is bracing me to beg and plead again, and say, Please, not yet. Just another day. Just one more day of us walking hand in hand.
But instead, I look him in the eye. I’m ready.
—

wow i did it!

thank you so much to:
• good kid and their song “bubbly” for inspiring this whole thing
• eva for critiquing!!

and if you're curious, here's some alternate title ideas i considered!
• bubbly (after the song)
• sorry, i'm not a psychologist (after that one line about psychologists)
• pari blue's slow and inevitable demise (it felt like it downplayed anxiety so i didn't use it)
• another evening in between what i believe and what i know (after a lyric from bubbly)

Everything in her room seemed to be made of glass, shimmering and fragile. I sat down on the bed as though to prove I could.

I looked around the room, searching for details to remind myself of all the ways my friend had moved on. And feeling a surge of joy every time I saw something familiar. The medal, of course, surrounded by a plethora of other awards, most of them also for archery—ones I hadn’t watched her win. A college flyer advertising a psychology program in Central City. Pictures of new friends, faces I didn’t recognize. A polaroid of us, years ago, with Greta and Anita and Traya, looking for all the world like a group of normal teenage girls, out at the mall in their casual clothes.

“The story I am about to tell you is one you have heard many times, but they are all wrong. My version is the truth,” The mother told her little girl. “The version you are told is one of handsome princes come to save you and terrible witches come to curse you. Mine is different.”

“But I like the princes! The witches are scary, though. I don’t want to meet a witch. But maybe if I do, a prince will come save me!” The child said with stars in eyes.

“Hmm. Well, hush, I’m going to start," said the mother, tucking the child into bed and blowing out the candle.

“Once upon a time, there was a husband and a wife who lived in a cottage. They weren’t wealthy, but they got by. Until the wife got pregnant. When she got pregnant, she longed and longed for one thing, and one thing only.”

“Not really. You’ll understand better when you’re older. Now hush. We’ll never finish the story if you keep interrupting. Now, the thing the wife longed for wasn’t anything too special or hard to get. It was rapunzel, a simple herb that could be grown in any garden. So her husband offered to grow some for her, but his wife snapped that growing it themselves would take too long.

“Well, I’m glad you think so, darling. Naturally, the couple didn’t want to give up their daughter, but they loved each other and were fearful of the curse, and they hadn’t even met the girl yet, so they decided it was better to give up someone they barely knew then the one person they loved. So they agreed, and the terms were set.”

“They really gave up their daughter? Just like that?” The child asked, scorn in her voice even though she was only seven.

“Yes, and what a terrible thing for anyone to do. But they were never going to love the girl anyway, as they’d wanted a boy and didn’t have any use for a girl.

So when the girl was born three months later, the old woman showed up at the doorstep in case they decided to cheat, which they definitely would have. Scared cowards they were, they handed over the baby girl without hesitation. In her head, the witch was screaming at them, ‘Don’t you have any love in your heart? Beg on your knees for me to spare her, show me you have kindness in you, and maybe I’ll give her to you!’ But they didn’t do any of that. They simply gave the old woman the child and slammed the door, hoping she’d never bother them again.”

“You’ll see. Anyways, one morning Rapunzel was singing, and she felt a sharp, painful tug on her braid.

The boy tugged and pulled and wasn’t gentle at all, and when he finally reached the top of the tower and released his grip on her braid, she let out a deep breath of relief and immediately kicked the boy in the shins.

“‘I am Prince Florian of Lyrica! I have come to save you from the witch who’s keeping you captive and take you to my palace to marry you!’ he told her, ignoring the fact that she’d kicked him, then looked at Rapunzel like he expected her to faint or swoon or kiss him or something. But . . .

The old woman still wasn’t back, so there was no one to stop the king’s guards from barging in (they took the stairs this time, thank goodness) and taking her away.

She fought back, of course, but they wore iron armor, so no matter how many of their shins she kicked, she couldn’t overpower all twelve of them.”

Rapunzel just wanted to return to her tower and the happy life she’d led there.

But there was nothing to be done: she married him and became a princess.

“Daisy! You mustn't think such thoughts!” The mother frowned at her child, even though she secretly agreed.

“‘I’m staying for good this time. Let’s pack our things and go someplace far, far way from here.’ Rapunzel said as they embraced. And so they did.”
i think it should be “far, far away” also, if you want to add more dramaticness to the “And so they did.” then you can add a paragraph break, though that (and everything else in this critique really) is optional!

“So the story does have a happy ending!” The child said.

“Because my mother, Rapunzel, told me before she died.” Astrid said, hugging Daisy tight.

only the sky

Some said he was a madman. Some said he was a genius. To him, he was merely a prisoner, locked away on the isle of Crete, haunted by his own creations, fated to never again see the sky and stars. But still he survived, clinging to a thread in a hazy void made of wings.

Daedalus was not a stranger to hopelessness and apathy; many nights he had spent locked away in his room had been consumed by it, only waning with the morning sun. In his youth he had believed that he would never yield to such a fate, but now he had grown accustomed to them and embraced the feelings like old friends; but the sudden hope, the sudden idea, was electrifying. He had long resigned himself to the idea that he would never leave Crete, but perhaps the gods had blessed him with one more chance.

The wings were not a foolproof plan—Daedalus knew that. The wax that secured the feathers could easily melt in the beating sun, but it was a risk he was willing to take, if not for him, then for his son. They would leave at sunrise the next morning, but neither father nor son slept well that night for excitement or for apprehension.

“You must not fly too high, Icarus, or your wings will melt and you will fall,” Daedalus told his son the next morning. “Don’t fly too low, or the ocean spray will weigh down your wings. Fly where I fly and you will be safe.” Icarus agreed, but his father was still nervous that his eagerness would cloud his judgement. Still, the pair took off into the morning sky.

Icarus stuck close to him for a short while, but the elation of flying compelled him to fly just a little higher, just a bit more, until he was doing loops and soaring far up in the sky. Daedalus’s warnings did not reach him, and soon his wings began to drip hot wax. Feathers began to float down to sea but he did not notice them any more than his father’s shouts. One by one, the feathers fell, and inch by inch, so did Icarus until he saw the ocean reaching out for him.


***


Even when he fell, he was laughing, not because he was unafraid, but because he had flown. His wings, though melted, were as light as a butterfly’s and he felt as if not even Death herself could catch him. He could only hope that whatever afterlife came next was as beautiful as the sky he had long dreamed of.

Icarus had been falling only a moment ago. He had seen the deep blue ocean swallow him up and watched the sun go dark, so why did he feel as though he should open his eyes? Was he in Asphodel? His limbs were heavy and even just lifting his eyelids felt like a great effort but he forced himself to anyway.

But was the Underworld really this beautiful?

He was in a cavern filled with brilliant colors. Gemstones studded the stone walls, and blue and purple moss draped down from outcrops where streams of crystal water cascaded down elegantly in waterfalls. He had never seen something quite so exquisite in the land of Gaia. Icarus suddenly remembered that he still needed to breathe. Or did he, if he was dead?

He stood up shakily, eyes still wide with wonder. If he was really dead, he would have no qualms with spending eternity in this heaven.

“Do not be afraid, Icarus, son of Daedalus. You have nothing to fear here.” a voice echoed around him.

The voice was something Icarus was certain he would never be able to describe properly: it was so soft and smooth, like silver threads. It was a delicate beauty, like a stained glass window waiting for a stone to be thrown. He glanced around quickly, trying to locate the noise.

“Do not be afraid, Icarus,” the voice repeated. “Only the sky can reach you here.”

Name: Kylie —
Case Title: I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m—
Date and Hour of Death: 17/07/25, sometime between 05:00 and 13:00
Date and Hour of Autopsy: 19/07/25, 15:36
Pathologist: Christina —

When I peel back layers
of skin I imagine onions to make it easier, I breathe
deep and place the scent of death as fish washing up
on the shore, a pristine blue coming to meet the sand in
that eternal, purposeful cycle. And I am looking,
at those bruises dotting the stomach, and having long
ago set the abdomen to match antiquated arches I saw
when I was young, in Rome, I’m not sure that if there is anything
actually wrong or if I am just rewriting something so it doesn’t have to be.

See, the blooming red is beautiful.

Set forever. And
I still mourn the sight of those arches, the inlay washed
white from eternity and the act of being perceived,
mainly because I will never see them again.

Is it bad
that I keep seeing them in that which will not last? In
the pallor of skin that’s not supposed to be that pale,
the same the arches are not supposed to be that eroded,
During this scene, the narrator seems to be feeling guilty and maybe doubtful?
and I already know the reason for another mourner in
world out there somewhere I already know and it’s
right there on her skin it’s obvious I don’t know why
anyone had to make it obvious. That we don’t last when
it’s so much more beautiful when we do, even roughshod,
even sun reflecting off unnatural white where the waves
meet the sky.

how does the viewpoint of the speaker come across?

how do you as the reader feel about it ethically/morally, and does the poem lead you any particular way?

We met in the hush between sirens,
the sky is dull, drained of grace.

I had come look for peace,

We meet in the hush between sirens,
the sky is dull, drained of grace.

or

We met in the hush between sirens,
the sky was dull, drained of grace.

I had come look for peace,

I had come for peace,
or
I had come in search for peace,
or even just: would work
I had come looking for peace,

He was the kind who kept his hands full,
Repair water filters with scavenged parts,
mending the gate near where we got rations,
tinkering with the radio in hopes of it working.

We came back.
A day each week,
to the same place.

We didn’t live near each other,
But after the first time,
We came back:
A day each week,
to the same place.

We talked about songs we half-remembered,
friends that went separate ways,
and a brown dog he’d left behind in the
evacuation.

but instead we saw drones blinked overhead,

but instead we saw drones blinking overhead,

Just passed a shared mug of bitter tea,
warming our hands in the old teachers lounge,
Letting the silence settle between us,
like it was sacred.

Just passed a shared mug of bitter tea,
warming our hands in the old teachers lounge,
letting the silence settle between us,
Like it was sacred.
Holy and fragile, like glass unshattered.

Sometimes, I’d whisper silly dreams.
“Maybe some day, everything will be okay.”
“Maybe some day, the world will be kind again.”

The hope would keep me going.
or
Meaningless hope.
or
The night eat up my words whole.

One day,
in a old classroom,
he turned to me with dirt on his cheeks
and ash in his hair,
And said quietly
“I used to think love was safety,
But maybe it’s what keeps you brave
When nothing’s safe.”

I didn’t know how to answer,
So I kept the words like a stone in my pocket,
heavy and grounding.

I think that stuck with me.
The idea that something small and unsure
could still be safe
because it was invisible to the outside.

Then came the long week.
The militia came for him.
They didn’t say where he was going.
No word, no sign, no promise.

I told myself I didn’t care.
But when he came back,
mud on his face and carrying fewer words,
I just nodded.
And he nodded back.
And that was enough.

But sometimes,
The world can’t kill
what it never learned how to touch.

Hey Emily! Twas a pleasure critiquing with you!!! I love your piece so SO SO much. It's beautiful, the flow is amazing *chefs kiss*. I truly hope you win the writing comp! There was only the few grammatic errors that ive pointed out. YOU KNOW you've done good when i found THIS LITTLE to critique from ur piece WELL DONEE!!!!!

He and I are no strangers. No, we are far from it. Yet somehow I managed to walk away from him time and time again.

Your gaze falls to mine as I entangle my fingers with yours, one hand graceful, one calloused. We don’t have to do this, you say, and for a moment I am convinced. But still I shake my head no and tell you we must press on.

He does not wait. He has no time to wait. Death shakes his head at me. It’s time. It’s time. It’s always time, because he and I have stargazed together, and watched the tides rise and fall. We have climbed mighty hills and explored great forests until we have been benighted.

Death has repeated that over and over again, yet nothing has happened until now.

I tell you I love you, that we have to do this, because the government forced a contract and pen into our unwilling hands and made us sign up for the CAP program. And you shake your head in resignation, as if we could somehow take it back.

Being the pessimist that you are, you tell me that the government will take our story away from us. Being the optimist that I am, I tell you what my father told me, that a story can never be stolen, because it is in our hearts. And that once we have long departed, our story will be in the stars.

My father had wanted to see me live past ten years, but he never did.

I don’t want to go. It would mean leaving the stars behind. It would mean leaving you behind, even though you’re technically coming with me.

I glance over my shoulder. Death is there, but he doesn’t look me in the eye.

I suppose that's helpful in our last moments together.

So the government decided that if there were no volunteers, they would just make people do it.

You turn to me, eyes brimming with unshed tears, and say, I don’t want to do this. Please. There must be some way to turn back time.

And I realize that that’s okay.

Death appears again, and his gaze meets mine. It’s time. He looks as if he almost is bracing me to beg and plead again, and say, Please, not yet. Just another day. Just one more day of us walking hand in hand.

mabel wrote:

There we were, one last time, lying down in the lush grass that was swaying rhythmically to the wind. It was something Zoey and I did often when we first met as two crazy eight year olds in primary school. We didn’t want to spend our last moments together crying, but what left was there to do? So we listened to each other breathe heavily and enjoyed each other's company. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Staring at the clouds and reminiscing every moment we had shared made it hard not to cry. It doesn’t seem like such a big deal, but it’s hard seeing a friend you love move away.

mabel wrote:

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Zoey weakly smiled, one she couldn’t hold together for longer than a couple seconds. That was the saying both of our moms had always told us when something went wrong. I tried to laugh, but it was really hard to believe it this time.

mabel wrote:

So, when she eventually had to say goodbye and leave, I simply tried my best to hold in the water slowly dripping through the cracks in my eyes.

mabel wrote:

That was two days ago. My eyes didn’t hold it in forever. And I think you can tell. I remember watching her board a plane, setting off to achieve her dream. We live in a small town, so it’s hard to become anything but a farmer or engineer here. I get it, I guess. But even if I decided to visit or move there, she would probably have new friends by then. Speaking of friends, unfortunately, I needed to make some too.

mabel wrote:

It’s been five days since that happened. And it also happens to be the day I start my first year of ninth grade without someone to laugh with while trampling through the halls.

mabel wrote:

I’ve recovered from my tidal grief for the most part at least, so I look presentable — to an extent. Arriving back at my old school for one of my last years there without my best friend felt depressing, to say the least. And I had a feeling it was going to feel like that for a while. I cramped through those familiar hallways, hugging my worn out binder tightly to my chest. The first day did not feel like a breeze. It was an absolute nightmare. Sitting alone in the cafeteria at lunch, stuffing my mouth with what didn’t look like lunch. I could definitely wait for the next day and hoped time would just stop for a bit and only start again once I’d recovered.

mabel wrote:

OI got the opposite of what I’d hoped for,. Ttime wasn’t in the mood and didn’t wait for me. There I was, back again. Most people would come back with a determined mood to make some friends and not look like a loner, but my mind was just playing the same memories of Zoey and Ime and Zoey on repeat. It didn’t seem like I was getting over her any time soon. Sitting on the rusty cafeteria benches, I munched on what sort of looked like a lunch today. Sort of. Maybe these lunches wouldn’t be so bad after all. I doubted anything else would get better. Until I heard a small rustle from beside me. A girl, sitting beside me, on this table in the depressing corner sat under the flickering light that needed fixing. I didn’t recognize her.

“Sorry, can I sit here?” she whispered quietly, catching a small glimpse of me and my faceglancing up at my face before looking back down.
I tried to make out a smile, but it probably looked like a frown instead,

mabel wrote:

“Um, sure.” The girl gave a small smile before starting to twirl a flower in her hair. Must’ve been a nervous habit.
“I’m Abigail,” Abigail looked over, now chewing her nails. Must’ve been another nervous habit. This was my first year of high school, and I was stuck here still struggling to introduce myself. Most people already had friends by now.

mabel wrote:

I blinked hard, swallowing the circumstances I was in. But at least she seemed nice.
“I’m Ivy,” I slightly waved. This whole conversation felt ridiculous, but I was in need of a friend. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I thought.
For the next couple days, we sat in pure silence, the only noise you would consider in our conversation was the bells when they rang that horrible sound, telling us lunch was over. But eventually, Abigail struck up an occasional conversation, like what we were having for lunch or our classes. I was still thinking about Zoey though, often wondering what she was doing in that same moment. But, as weeks passed we started to converse more, found out the same classes we were in and I actually had a partner for science class. It felt sort of nice to have someone to talk to. But I still couldn’t swallow the fact that Zoey was gone.

When I arrived home from school, I’d expected my parents to be all smiles and giggles, asking me how my day was. Just like they had been for the past week. But instead, my mom sat me down. I wasn’t ready for an awkward conversation but there we were I guess.
“Look Ivy, I know the past few weeks have been hard for you,” she looked at me empathetically, eyes softening. I pursed my lips, looking anywhere but her eyes but nodded imperceptibly. “But know that even if you're in high school now, it’s never too late to make some new friends,” she smiled at me, and I felt terribly pressured to look into her eyes.
“Okay…” I started to get up, but she stopped me.
“Remember that even if Zoey’s gone and it’s the end of a portion of your life, the new one can be just as amazing.” I wanted to get myself out of this conversation really badly, but there was nothing I could do. Then, she let my fingers slip out of her grasp and I slowly walked away.
So, for the next few days I thought about what she said to me. “It can be just as amazing,” her voice replayed throughout my head for most of lunch. Maybe everything will be just fine.

Just like that, two years had drifted out my old, half-broken window. I was sipping on my morning matcha — that looked more like a cup of blended broccoli and spinach as my doorbell rang, the squeaking cacophony sound echoing through my house. I plugged my ears before heading towards the door and letting Abigail in.

mabel wrote:

“Hi!!” I hugged her, before heading outside and closing the door behind us. “Let’s go to our backyard.”

mabel wrote:

“Per usual,” Abigail giggled as I looked over at our backyard, verdant grass that looks like it hasn’t been cut in months.
We laid down, collapsing onto our backs and spreading out our arms. It was exactly what Zoey and I used to do, but this wasn’t Zoey, this was Abigail. So I didn’t let Zoey slip my mind’s grasp and instead just remembered all our memories together, and the memories I had yet to make with my new friends. So no, this time I didn’t cry, I didn’t let a tear drop out of my eye. I smiled. Change is something hard to accept, it took me a while. But you think about how there's rain and sunshine or day and night. They’re different. But beautiful in their own way. And this time, everything really is just going to be fine.

This is how it feels to be the music.
I stroke the keys, seductively smooth under my fingertips, arching my wrists before swinging into the piece.
When I play piano, the music is not just a sound for me. It is a feeling, an emotion that crashes over me like a tidal wave, carrying me on a current as I flow towards the end of the song. It is a beautiful kind of serenity, all the more lovely for its fragility.

A month until the recital.
A month before I sit down at a grand piano and play this song for hundreds.
A month to make perfect something that, right now, is full of flaws.

A month until the recital, a month before I sit down at a grand piano and play this song for hundreds.
A month to make perfect something that, right now, is full of flaws.

This is how it feels to shine.

I have never failed at a recital before.
When I say fail, I don’t mean that I’ve never made a minor slip-up or two. Everyone does that; it’s inevitable. But I’ve never made a major mistake – cutting out a chunk of the piece, slamming the wrong chords, floundering and losing my place in the music. My piano teacher takes the time before each recital to walk us through overcoming mistakes during the performance. The important thing, she says, is just to keep going. Don’t go back unless you absolutely must, and never, never stop.

Every year, the pressure ticks up a little. Her favorite way to set up the program is to have the least advanced students perform first, and the most advanced perform last, but most of her students drop out after only a couple years, meaning that the handful of more impressive songs are her little finale to the recital – especially the last one. Every year, I’ve been bumped back closer and closer to the end, but it’s not until this recital that she announces that I am the last performer on the program this year. Not only will my performance wrap up the recital, it’ll reflect on her teaching, as well as my ability to play. If I don’t do well–

I hit the wrong chord, and this time I don’t bother to flip the pages to the start and try again. I crumple like a wilted flower, resting my head against the keys. The resulting clang reflects my mood.

I’m at war with myself. I’m not playing for the crowds anymore. I’m not playing for my teacher. I’m not even playing for my family.
I’m playing for myself

My focus is on my hands, which feel like ice blocks. No matter what I do, I can’t warm them up.

I’m playing for myself. I’m proving to myself that this is a challenge I can overcome. I’m proving to myself that I can do it, as I have time and time again. I’ve never yet met a song I couldn’t conquer.

It’s the day of the recital. My teacher always runs us through a mock-rehearsal before it begins, letting us warm up on the piano we’ll be using, familiarize ourselves with how it feels and sounds.

My focus is on my hands, which feel like ice blocks. No matter what I do, I can’t warm them up.

It’s never sounded like this before, so beautiful and crisp on the perfectly tuned piano. My confidence grows in leaps and bounds as I play. I’ve mastered it. I’ve done it. I’ve proved to myself, once again, that I can–
–and I hit the wrong note–
–and I jerk out of the flow–
–and I lose my place–
–and I freeze.

I failed.
I didn’t fail the crowds. I didn’t fail my teacher. I didn’t fail my family.
I failed myself.

I’m not a mistake. I am the music.

criminal-intent wrote:

“I still can’t believe you came back!” I grinned, shutting the dorm window. I’d decided to fly Cissie back to St. Elias’ myself, wanting more time to catch up. Plus, Cissie said she preferred it to super-speed travel.

Everything in her room seemed to be made of glass, shimmering and fragile. I sat down on the bed as though to prove I could.

Cissie smiled. “Well, that makes two of us.” She loosened the cuff of her hand-guard and slipped it off. “It’s weird, but . . . it was good to be back, for this,” she fixed me with a meaningful look, “one-time-only, friend-in-mortal-danger thing.”

I smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. I wasn’t trying to force her back into it, not anymore, but that didn’t change the way having her back—even temporarily—made me feel. My life and my friend together, overlapping in a way they hadn’t in years. It was exhilarating to see her smile back at me in the midst of a fight, beside me as if we’d never gone different ways to begin with.

In that way, a part of me would always be . . . disappointed. Not in Cissie. No. I knew Cissie had made the right choice for herself. I was only disappointed that it had turned out this way; that this had been the right choice. Disappointed that I wouldn’t get to live alongside my friend the way I’d thought I would.

“Thanks for taking me back,” Cissie said. “I have an exam to study for. AP Bio,” she shuddered—as if I didn’t know she was going to ace that test. Cissie had always been dedicated and studious, as the Olympic medal on her dresser proved without a doubt.

I looked around the room, searching for details to remind myself of all the ways my friend had moved on. And feeling a surge of joy every time I saw something familiar. The medal, of course, surrounded by a plethora of other awards, most of them also for archery—ones I hadn’t watched her win. A college flyer advertising a psychology program in Central City. Pictures of new friends, faces I didn’t recognize. A polaroid of us, years ago, with Greta and Anita and Traya, looking for all the world like a group of normal teenage girls, out at the mall in their casual clothes.

Funnily enough, I had felt normal. When had that stopped? When had I realized I couldn’t do it all, couldn’t hold everything at once? Maybe that realism was healthy. My mom—heck, even Diana—wanted me to think more about my life and what I wanted out of it. But I couldn’t help feeling like realism was attempting to destroy me.

Cissie unstrung her bow and packed it away in the closet next to piles of school uniforms. She folded up her mask and placed it beside the bow.

There was just something about seeing Cissie in her old uniform, however grave the circumstances, that had made me feel both elated and desperately far away from my best friend. Far away from myself. The type of distance you felt in flight, watching something far below. Living, breathing, moving without you. Instead of realizing how small the world was, you realized how insignificant you were. The world didn’t miss one person. I did.

“I honestly have no idea what I’m going to do,” I admitted, resting my hand over the Wonder Woman symbol on my chest, “I mean, apart from—all this.”

Cissie undid her ponytail and looked at me, loose blond hair golden in the sunlight. She kept it shorter than she used to. “You don’t have to know.”

There was a smiling girl on the college flyer she kept on her dresser. Text promised online courses and a variety of electives.

“When I was a kid, all I wanted was to prove myself. And this is how I’ve done that. I’d never give Wonder Girl up. But . . . .” I had no clue where I was going with the sentence. Which seemed fitting, considering.

“You’ve never once been willing to give anything up,” Cissie finished, sitting next to me on the bed, legs criss-cross.

I laughed, leaning back on my hands. My gauntlets reflected sparkling light onto the opposite wall. “Well . . . yeah.”

“We’ve wanted very different things from our lives. But that doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes miss the adrenaline rush of a fight, or sharing a laugh after Kon makes a totally stupid quip at a villain, or the feeling of saving someone’s life.” Cissie smiled, and she looked so much more real than the girl in the flyer. “We both made the right choices for us, though.” She scratched her collarbone where her armor ended. “Hey, what d’you say you help me get out of this costume?”

I nodded and Cissie jumped up from the bed, turning her back to me and pointing to the zipper at the nape of her neck. “Honestly, I don’t know what my mom was thinking designing this. A zipper? Really? It always takes me forever to get into it.”

“At least she didn’t give you a cape. No idea how Tim deals,” I said, unzipping her top. “Surprised I don’t see him run into battle without it more often.”

Cissie pulled the red kevlar top over her head. Underneath, she wore a simple black sports bra. “Hey, maybe a cape would have been warmer at least. I’ve always been jealous of your jacket. It’s cute and practical.”

“Hey, I have a couple spares—y’know, in case of acid, fire, alien goo, Tim’s tracking devices.” I ticked each option off on my fingers. “Et cetera. You can have one if you like.”

Cissie giggled. “I would like that. I’ll have to tell my friends it was a very exclusive merch drop.”

I snorted. “I have no idea how you all handle secret identities on top of everything.”

“It can make the balance a little easier,” Cissie said.

“Balance,” I drew out the word, long and enunciated. “Never been much good at that. As my mom reminds me daily.”

Swapping out her skirt for a pair of leggings, Cissie glanced at me over her shoulder. “Really? You always seemed so . . . comfortable in your own skin. I don’t think there’s a better type of balance than that.”

I blushed, lying back on the bed to stare at the ceiling while I dissected the compliment—and pondered my next words. “I . . . I guess Mom just wishes I were a little more normal. I’m finishing high school soon and I don’t really have any plans after that. Being a superhero doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Cissie said, settling back down beside me in a hoodie and leggings, placing a reassuring hand over mine.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Always before, I’d known what I wanted to do. I’d made a decision and stuck to it, fought for it with everything I had. I was good at that. I wasn’t so good at this. Sitting and waiting for the future to happen, hoping I’d know what to do next.

“How is your mom, by the way?” Cissie asked, giving my hand a squeeze before releasing it.

“Good, I think. She’s happy I’ve been able to stay at the same school for an entire year. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of sophomore year. She’s been trying to get me to apply to colleges, though. I’ve kind of been . . . putting it off. How about your mom?” I asked, turning onto my side to look at her.

“Oh, you know.” Cissie waved a hand. “Disappointed that I’ve mostly quit archery. I still practice, but I don’t do tournaments like she wishes anymore. She hasn’t bothered me about it in a while, though. I think maybe she finally gets it.” Thoughtfully curling a hoodie string around one finger, Cissie stared off into space behind my head. “But I don’t want to get my hopes up. She’s probably just distracted with something. Did I tell you she’s trying to run a social media advertising business?”

“You did,” I said with a grin. “That suits her.”

“I know, right?” Cissie laughed.

For a moment, we sat in silence, still smiling. I studied the quilted pattern of her blanket, tracing the stitches with my finger.

Wearing a pointed look that slightly terrified me, Cissie leaned forward. “Now, don’t think that you can get out of talking about yourself by asking me questions. What do you mean by ‘putting off’ college apps? Do you think you will apply? Is that really what you want?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, staring at the quilt. “I guess I sort of feel like maybe I should. I don’t know.”

Cissie was silent, darn her, waiting for me to say more.

However much I loved being a hero . . . I guess a part of me did wish I was normal, too. I wanted both. You’ve never once been willing to give anything up, she’d said.

“Not that I’d probably get into any,” I said with a forced laugh. “Remember that sophomore year I was telling you about? Gosh, I really don’t know how Mom ever expects me to get into a university with the havoc that wreaked on my GPA.”

“Plenty of people don’t go to college. Or take a gap year.” Her expression was annoyingly inscrutable.

“Mm. Being a superhero doesn’t require a college degree.”

“But you still feel like ‘you should’,” Cissie commented.

How dare she use my words against me. I groaned. “I thought you had a test to study for,” I tried. The kind of deflecting that would only work on Bart. Cissie just glared at me. “Fine, fine. Yes, I . . . I want to apply. I think I’ve maybe ruined my chances. Maybe ruined them a long time ago. Before sophomore year. I wish it wasn’t so much. I wish I didn’t want so much.”

Maybe that had been what had driven mine and Kon’s relationship: wanting to play both sides. Wanting to be normal teenagers in at least one facet of our lives. When we’d finally broken it off, it had been right for us both, but it was still painful, to lose that attempt at normalcy. It made it hard to explain how we felt. He wasn’t my boyfriend anymore.

There wasn’t a word that explained our relationship clearly, drew boundaries and painted a neat picture for others. The love was there, but it was different, inscrutable, something only we understood. Even then, we didn’t understand it in a typical way. It was like we were the only people in the world who knew how to breathe. To us, it was obvious, understood deep down and instinctively. In a way, that made it all the more precious and beautiful. In a way, it made me even more of an outsider.

A superhero is hard enough to understand. But when people see something normal and humanizing, they can at least understand that.

I guess I wasn’t meant to be understood, in this universe at least.

“I’ve never been good at playing both sides,” I said quietly. “I guess I don’t know if there is a me that isn’t Wonder Girl.”

“Given all these revelations about multiverses, I think there’s a good chance she’s out there.”

“Do you think there’s a version of you that’s still a hero?”

Cissie smirked, eyes sparkling. “By my own reasoning, I think I have to say yes.”

I smiled. A timeline where we were still side by side, where I recognized every picture in Cissie’s room . . . maybe that was where that longing feeling came from, of distance and looking down from high up. Somewhere, that timeline was tugging on me.

“Here,” I said, slipping off my jacket. “For you.” A lot of things I wanted to say didn’t come out of my mouth. Don’t forget you were a hero once. Once is more than enough, in this universe and in all the others.

Cissie grinned as she put it on.

1991 words