ugh now i wanna add little tidbits that i skipped over ok im doing it now we're starting with a halloween chapter

ey uh did you delete sum of the chapters?????

wait ya did? i really liked some of the fluff chapters aw dang it, could ya atleast bring back them in like an archive

_Bluestar__ wrote:

ey uh did you delete sum of the chapters?????

i didn't want 'em canon </333
but yeah, i can keep some fluff chapters

they didnt have to be canon!!!!! can i make an archive of all of the chapters in a project comments? specifically te ones that arent canon and are just silli side stories

_Bluestar__ wrote:

they didnt have to be canon!!!!! can i make an archive of all of the chapters in a project comments? specifically te ones that arent canon and are just silli side stories

I'll add a few of 'em back that I wanna be back and have stay ok :3

I was adjusting the sunglasses on Juno’s hat, mostly because they were upside down, and looked at the boy dressed as what I assumed to be Callum from Pokémon X and Y. Makes sense, I suppose. I adjusted the gloves around my wrists, shaking from the weight of it all. I had a love-hate relationship with Halloween. I put the fangs in my mouth.

I was told I would be a pretty woman. That was when I asked Mama if she would love me if I was a woman. I would probably look just like her. I didn’t wanna look like my dad anyway. I asked my Mama if she had any gothic dresses from the time she was allowed to go with friends to festivals and conventions (which is actually how she met my father), and she did. It was a little small on my shoulders, so we adjusted it and let out some fabric. Other than that, it fit like a glove. Much like the white gloves I wore. I think I look pretty in dresses; I wish I could wear them more.

It even had its own mock corset that I asked for help with. I like the pressure it gives on my waist. My hair was even done up pretty, I think I was pretty. Pretty is such a pretty word. Tell you this, I live in a pretty family with a pretty house in a pretty apartment building on a pretty street in a pretty city in a pretty state in a pretty country in a pretty world. Not all can be called ‘pretty’ by the usual person, but if you like it, you can call it pretty, right?

Speaking of pretty, I heard Apollo’s voice, always so calm and collected. “Hi, guys,” Apollo cheered and wave at us. I don’t know what he is. The turtleneck looked slack around him, it looked more like a sweater than what it was supposed to be. It’s spring, he doesn’t need that. “It’s Jojo from Papa’s Pizzeria.”

“Where’th your ribbon?” I pointed out. Apollo rubbed the back of his neck, turning his gaze away. I hadn’t seen him like that before. Maybe he’s feeling a bit more silly than usual. Maybe. I chuckled. I turned his head to me, “Hey, mate, where’th the ribbon?”

Apollo, poor Apollo, flushed, his wide eyes staring me down for a moment before laughing awkwardly and running a hand through his hair to clear his head. “About that… I snuck out by saying I would be at a study session with Mori so if they see me here, I’m deader than King Tut.”

“HEY! You shouldn’t do that,” Juno fussed, “Even though we’ve blatantly condoned it many times, your parents still stink.” He was then trying to fix Apollo’s hair, which the prim boy rejected.

“I just got this fixed again, Juno, I can’t mess it up. I should have tied it,” Apollo said, pushing the most of his hair out his face. It would be cool if he got it dyed. Just like one vibrant blue streak. But no, instead, his hair is a coiled black. I still like the coils. “Just this entire thing has me a bit curious. What even are you?” One of his hands rose to gesture towards me for a moment. I basked in the attention.

“A vampire.” I borne my fabricated fangs in a smile. “I’m going to thuck your blood!!” Oh ew, I had a lisp with these things. I just noticed that. Vampires normally wear something a bit less elegant, yeah? Maybe? I dunno.

“You’re going to what my blood?” Apollo chuckled, suddenly looking brighter than the small LED lights that were held in the pumpkins.

“Thuck… thuck… thuck…? No.” I took the fangs out, huffing. “Suck.” I felt embarrassed. Juno pat my back at my stupidity. I wasn’t that stupid, clearly. Uhm. Maybe I was. I looked pretty stupid.”

“Oh, suck!” Apollo laughed again, taking my face in his hands. “No. That’s not happening.” I figured. I shoved the fangs back in my mouth. “I give you five stars though. Obviously.”

“Stop! Stop, stop, stop!” I pushed him away, trying to compose myself better than the way I was currently going. “Okay, we could go to Little Miss and Mister, but they’re near the edge of town, yeah? Just to check on ‘em and ask if they need help this year?”

“Pardon me, but whom?” Apollo tilted his head. Of course he would use ‘whom’, stupid nerd. It’s also crazy that Apollo didn’t know who Mr. Mystical was, she was a great art teacher. Then I remembered the classes he was in, never in the art district. I guess that’s why he never saw her. He had to know Miss Miserable, though.

“Little Miss Miserable, he’s one of our principals and Mr. Mystical, she’s one of our art teachers,” Juno butted in, I turned to find his smile small, almost cute. “They’re super nice, trust me. Mr. Mystical helps with the art stuff all the time.”

I took the fangs and set them away. I hated the lisp they gave me. “Cool how they let you take that class,” I muttered absentmindedly as I did so, fiddling with the gloves covering my wrists. “Anywho, they do a little thing for the children that come over, it’s an hour walk at most, most kids stop there or go their first just so they can check in. They hold out hot chocolate and king-sized stuff. If you help, you get to make your own little game so the parents can do their Halloween stuff. Juno and I helped last year, and it was one of the best days we had.”

“I-I’ve never babysat before.” Apollo said it like it was a job meant for people of a lower class. I know it isn’t his fault that he talks like that. I narrowed my eyes, and he cleared his throat. “I-I mean I don’t even know what most little kids like. Remember?”

“Yeah, you can say you went to your principal’s house if your parents catch you.” I was already wheeling my bike over and hooked a wagon to the end. “Also, you’re going to have to bike.”

“Why me?” He retracted his words as soon as he looked at my dress and Juno’s blindness. “Okay, yes sir.”

“Don’t call me sir, mate, I’m not that dimwit you have for a father.” I sat on the back of the seat, letting room for Apollo. “I’m a very elegant lady, and I do not respect such heresy.”

“What sort of character is that?” Apollo scoffed, waiting for Juno to scramble into the back wagon we had set up for him. And we were off, zooming down the road. For a moment, I forgot everything.

I saw everything whish by, breath pounding against the back of Apollo’s chest as I held tighter around his neck. The city eventually dwindled to the endless suburbia and even that fell short until it was an assortment of smaller farms with big yards and dogs.

Every command to turn Apollo took immediately like a self-driving car. He was quick with following orders. My heart almost broke, but it was quickly soothed with the tall grass that I stuck my hand over, feeling it tickle the gloves and bugs rushing to climb atop to hitch a ride.

We were too quick for the bugs, which was a shame, as I always liked bugs, big and small. I think they’re fascinating! Juno always said bugs freaked him out, but I dunno why! They’re so adorable! I gripped Apollo tighter when I realized his heart was pounding way quicker for someone going at this pace.

“Hey, what’s up?” I didn’t get an answer. “Apollo?” No answer. “Pollo-pollo?” Naddah. I swallowed a lump in my throat as I focused on his erratic panting. “Pull over.” And he did. He rested against one of the barns and clutched his chest. Oh.

Juno placed a hand on Apollo’s shoulder immediately, feeling the rise and fall and paling with worry. “Apollo, what’s wrong?”

“I-I don’t know. Please. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he struggled to speak out, just barely a whisper as his breath escaped him. We were in the middle of nowhere. “I-what if they find me?! I can’t do this, I can’t. J-Just let me get grounded or something- I didn’t have to go this year, maybe next year? When I’m 18?”

“No, because then your brain won’t know how to rebel!” Juno helped him from the barn, giggling brightly. “You gotta learn discipline from somewhere!”

“I am disciplined.”

Juno clicked his tongue, bird-like voice almost chirping with the motion. “Real discipline. The ability to manage yourself and take care of yourself and hold yourself accountable. Not other people. You wanna do this?”

“Yes, I’d love to. I’m just nerv-”

“Then let’s do it!”

We walked the rest of the way, rolling the bike behind us and up the small hill leading to Mr. Mystical and Little Miss Miserable. We knocked on the door, and Mr. Mystical greeted us with her usual big grin. This grin was much like the one she wore when we entered her art cabinet. “Hi, Juno! Hi, Atlas! It’s so nice to have you back again! Who’s your friend?”

“He’s Apollo Daybreak, he’s being a bad boy, don’t call his parents. Ever.” I laughed at Juno’s introduction. So much so, I didn’t recognize one of my gloves were rolling up. I panicked and straightened it out again.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Apollo. Well, inside, we have uh… What do we have inside, Missy?” Mr. Mystical whipped her head back, looking inside to the children they were currently watching as parents got the Halloween off and laughed about at parties. Of course, they were too nervous for their kids to go out trick-or-treating alone, as these children were at most five years old. At least they seemed to have fun in there. Little Miss was reading something, trying to manage them all by getting them to sleep or take a nap.

“Eh… we have a lot of kids and books and hot chocolate, I think, if these kids didn’t drink it all. King sized candy bars are out there if they are trick-or-treaters, and uh…” Little Miss Miserable looked about his area, unable to find anything more of importance so he just shrugged. He always looked different when he wasn’t behind the principal’s desk.

I saw him in the office often, I hated it as much as Apollo hates anything that his parents don’t approve (even though he eventually learns to like it). He was different than most principals, though. It’s odd with the number of altercations I get into; he always seems to let it slide or understand. I liked that.

“Nice to know, and no, these aren’t trick-or-treaters. Do you remember the kind men that helped us out last year? It’s those two, and they brought their friend.” Mr. Mystical smiled at us again. She always seemed to smile. I’ve never seen her frown, now that I think about it. Every time she frowned it was an exaggerated pout more than it was out of actual sadness.

Little Miss Miserable craned his head and slowly, that anxious little smile turned wider and realer with time. “Oh! Hello, Atlas and Juno. Apollo too? Wow, that wasn’t on my bingo board,” He cheered. “If you could start making more hot chocolate that would be nice, we can take care of the kids since you struggled last time. If one of you could make sure kids only take one bar, it would also be nice.”

I liked it. They both resembled deer, much like I did. Mr. Mystical had doe eyes, as social media calls it, while Miss Miserable had been dubbed with fox eyes. Even then, the fox wasn’t intimidating at all, which is why it attracted the doe. “You’ll take care of the hot chocolate while Juno and I talk to the trick-or-treaters?”

Apollo’s eyes widened for a moment, poor thing. The siren eyes never seemed too phased, even in panic, the eyes never gave anything away. I liked how comfortable he looked to show this much emotion. “Sure. I can help take care of the kids.”

The next three hours were spent trying to decipher if a child had a bar or not. Some returned in different costumes, and we had a little laugh. Sometimes, more like once, a child returned with three different costumes, and we gave him an extra for his efforts. I don’t know the story from Apollo’s perception, but I did ask him about it.

He said he liked it. Yes, the control was nice, but the better part was that Apollo had a sense of importance there. He said he felt like he was supposed to be there rather than just being a stroke of luck for his parents who were ready to give up trying for a boy if he had been a woman. Everything felt nice and collected.

Mr. Mystical had been kind to him like he was her own student (no shocker there!), giving him small tips when informed he had never had to babysit before. When we came back from handing out candy, he was more collected and at home than I had ever seen him.

He was fixing a kid’s costume with Miss Miserable, both were laughing and chatting it up. Apparently, Miss Miserable knew Apollo well, which is hardly a surprise, as he was in literally every advanced class. He was on his way to earn dozens of scholarships, so there’s no reason Little Miss Miserable didn’t know him. How kind of him.

Juno kneeled next to the kid, grinning widely as he always did. “Hey, kiddo!” Immediately the blind man picked up the four-year-old, ruffling his hair. “Hey, thanks for having us, sir and miss. We were honored to help again.”

“Of course,” Mr. Mystical cheered and clasped her hands together. “It was a gas to have you kids here to help. I suppose you need to get going now, don’t you?”

“Yeah. We do, my parents are going to kill me,” Apollo laughed, already heading to the bike to help Juno to the bucket.

I was about to leave too, as I was tuckered out like someone after a good meal. “Wait!” Mr. Mystical stopped me for a moment, gently taking my shoulder. “Atlas, where did you get that dress? It’s so beautiful!”

I said, “my mother made it, or so I’m told.”

Mr. Mystical gasped, holding and gently shaking Little Miss Miserable’s shoulder. He sighed and rolled his fond eyes as Mr. Mystical blabbered on. “She NEEDS to get in touch with me, I would love to learn the technique! Thanks again!”

And we were off, Apollo in the driver’s seat of the bike once more. We dropped him off and walked the rest of the way, giggling and laughing like we normally do after Halloween. The world didn’t seem so big when we did little things for the town.

I think I liked helping people. It’s the best thing that could have been handed to me, the opportunity to help. Especially with Mama’s restaurant and the school events. I smiled thinking about that. Maybe life wasn’t so bad? But I know. I would be in bed once more, unable to get up and unable to bring myself to tell anyone how I feel.

As for now, I giggled with Juno and dropped him off. Then, I went home, not that this town isn’t my home. Not that Juno wasn’t my home. Not that Apollo wasn’t my home. Everywhere was my home. Maybe my home with Mama was more of my home than anywhere else.

When I was little, I went to a sort of school with Red and Xavier. Atlas wasn’t there yet. He was somewhere in Queensland until he moved here when he was thirteen, maybe twelve. Apollo was homeschooled. We were in the first year when we were just doing what little kids do and we were playing. Everything was going smoothly. That was until I fell and hit my head.

At first, I didn’t think anything was wrong until the dark spots started appearing with bright white flashes. Then it throbbed against my skull. I laid there unmoving, and Xavier crouched down and tilted his little head at me. “{}? Are you okay?” The name felt like static in my head when I remembered it. “C’mere, we’ll get a teacher.” I was rested in someone’s arms as Red ran off.

I remember barely being able to hear, everything was a quiet muffle as Red came back with a teacher I didn’t know. The hair tied back with a small clip keeping the hair from her face. I still didn’t remember her face, mostly because the white flashes were increasing in intensity and my vision kept blurring.

Next thing I knew, I was being carried to the nurse’s office, because I struggled to stand. I remember this part well. I was cold when the warm hands cradled me. I remember the quick pitter-pat of the woman’s heart against my ear and the fast-paced click of her heels, which she inevitably took off when she got inside the school, navigating the school barefoot as I bled.

I remember the quiet murmurs of other grade school kids as the fifth years started following the trail of red, knowing it signified suffering of some kind. The woman holding me huffed and snapped at the kids to leave her alone. The stress in her voice made her sound scarier. I guess I even flinched because she held the back of my head a bit closer to her chest. I heard the heartbeat louder.

Then a door open, bell jingled, and I was handed off. The nurse wasn’t equipped to deal with this kind of head injury. It was like a million rocks had dug into my skull and weren’t prying themselves. My vision kept spotting. I remember moving my mouth for a little bit before I was shushed. I don’t remember what I said, but it must have been concerning. I don’t remember crying. I just remember being sleepy and wanting to go to bed and take a nap.

A bright sound resounded come about 10 minutes later, as we were in a sort of city. Sirens blasted and forced cars to make way for the child who was sitting on the edge of life and death. I had a light flashed in my eyes, different from the white flashes I was experiencing, and they realized my pupils weren’t responding like they should. I was taken to the hospital as my parents were alerted.

Three fractures in my skull from those stupid rocks in the playground. I remember my parents being scared for me. My mother held my face at some point, careful of the injuries I had accumulated and just called me her poor {}. Her poor, poor {}. That I wasn’t going to grow to be a {} and marry. I was six.

Words fled my memory as sleep kept tugging at my senses. I was urged to stay away, but I really wanted to sleep. So, I did. I dreamed of the same incident over and over again. It was a nightmare, but somewhat comforting. It was like my brain was trying to put together bits and pieces of what it remembered, and when something didn’t make sense, it restarted the ordeal. It wasn’t until Red recounted the story did I understand.

Apparently, Red accidentally pushed me, I tumbled down and over the slide and landed my head on the rocky ground. He struggled with emotion at that time, so he doesn’t think he even felt guilty, even though while recounting he apologized profusely.

When I woke up, I don’t remember when, I couldn’t see much of anything past the black spots and severe blur in my vision. I was told it would be like that forever. I was clinically blind. I wouldn’t be able to drive, I wouldn’t be able to play sports, I wouldn’t be able to do much with this disability.

When I woke up, my parents started surrounding me, thankful that the world had let their little {} heal. Words were still feeling like static, like I wasn’t hearing them right. I bit my tongue then I was told not to do that. I went with a concussion, and that the amount I bled was good because the bleeding wasn’t internal. I had a wrap around my head, and the light blinded so I wore a blindfold. I still have that blindfold.

It was a soft silk surrounding my sockets. Honestly, it didn’t change anything sort of my vision aspects. The most I could see was general colours and large movements. Even as the worst of the effects died out, I would always be blind.

I was cuddled up in the hospital blanket for a few days until I got the a-okay to rest in my room. Honestly, looking back, I was asleep most the time, so that’s probably why it didn’t hurt as much as it should have. The spot where I fell is still tender though, so people that know about the incident are a bit softer with my head. It wasn’t that bad, at least not really.

When Atlas heard the story, almost nine years later, he was astonished that I had survived that. Learning about the damage, Apollo was also surprised I survived. Doctors were surprised I had survived. I took a lot of head trauma, probably. I don’t remember. I only remember other people’s accounts. I couldn’t rock, I couldn’t move my head much. I wasn’t allowed to do that until at least 3 weeks, and then I had to be careful.

I think my parents realized that my rocking stims had to be mitigated in some way, so they got heaps of fidget toys to find something that helped my need for something to do. I couldn’t sit still for the life of me. That was the time where a bunch of kids thought it was cool to get fidget toys and to hoard them and not leave any for people like me that needed them. But we were lucky enough to get an entire box of sorta-cheap fidget toys. I liked the cube best. There was a side where you could rub your thumb over and it was bumpy. That was cool, and it seemed to soothe my need to rock.

Some kids thought it was fascinating, but I wasn’t allowed to let them borrow it, as it was described as a ‘medical device’, whatever that meant at the time. It wasn’t a medical device; I was just told to tell people it was a medical device while my parents told the teachers the real story. They said I had to stop rocking and this was the only way they could get me to stop. I would fiddle with it whenever I felt the need to.

My leg started bouncing whenever I couldn’t rock. I would fiddle with the cube and my leg would rest itself on its toes, more like the ball of its foot, and it would bounce under desks. I wasn’t really reflecting the posters the classroom had about good listening.

When there was a new student teacher, she wasn’t told the story. She just thought I was weird and attention seeking, even though I was blind. She asked about colours, and I couldn’t tell her what color small things were. I had to hold it close to my face or around the black spots. Even then, I was only half-accurate. “{} needs discipline,” she said when I couldn’t follow the instructions written on the board. “{} is behind in {} classes,” she said when I couldn’t read.

I was underdeveloped. I knew I was always small, but apparently, I would always remain small. Teachers were worried, parents were too, but this was unrelated to the head injury. I just have abysmal genes.

One time I was called into a counselor’s office when I was trying to read the embossing on a book with my fingers. He asked if I struggled to read. I said yes. He asked me to read the embossing on the book for him, and I did. They don’t make many adult books with embossing. But I ran my hands over the book and said aloud the words. I connected the words into sentences before realizing that yes, I could read. I wasn’t illiterate and I was smart enough to use my touch to read. I started learning Braille in my reading classes the next day. I would feel the little bumps on a sign or something and say what I read. The number of times “women” on a restroom sign has been written as “womem” makes me giggle.

I guess it all translates to that unfortunate day where I hit my head on the metal slide then the rocks. It was the unluckiest thing that had happened to me by a long shot, but honestly? I don’t think I could see myself in a life where it hadn’t happened. I think this is just a part of who I am. I’m not going to mope about the fact that I’m blind. Not that I like being blind, it’s a huge struggle, but it’s just a part of life we can’t fix.

Also, I get to sit out of reading aloud in class! That’s a plus!

There was a photographer / videographer under the name of Mr. Butterfly. I don’t think we knew much about him except that he would photograph someone Charlie’s photoshoots and film amazing commercials. No one knew his real name. I think he was under some sort of protection program like Atlas was. But this was a commercial. I was getting powder pounded onto my cheeks as Mr. Butterfly craned his head next to mine in the mirror.

Mr. Butterfly was one to jump onto a better idea when he had the chance. He changed his mind twice before fixating on one idea. For this idea, I was to be poised in the center scene, right in front of the light. My parents gave one little restriction for his ideas, I had to be presented in a humble manner, so I wasn’t to make anything targeted towards adults and adults only. No physical appeal.

He did a great job. I was getting costumed, and he looked at me with a bright smile. “Apollo!” the joyous man cheered, gathering my hair, “Tie your hair back maybe? Your tan will speak for itself.” My hair was tied back, revealing my long neck and the turtleneck covering it. The turtleneck felt thin, but comfortable, professional in a way. I was to wear a bright blue blazer over it, akin to a Ulysses butterfly. It was also the same color of my uniform when I’m Mind. I couldn’t keep myself from smiling. “You like blue?”

“I-I think I look nice in it,” I chuckled, letting the flush on my cheeks become hidden with the foundation. I didn’t tell him about the nights I spent hopping rooftops in a skirt. I didn’t tell him about the time stop ability. I didn’t tell him anything about my secret identity. Just that blue looked good. I loved blue, what can I say? I’m a man of many interests. “I think it’s calming.”

“That’s what 60% of the world says, monarch. I like blue because it tells a tale of sadness, misery, then with light it brings joy and content,” Mr. Butterfly preached. I liked getting these little speeches as I prepared to step on set. It was entertainment for one, and he was always so passionate about things. “You tell a tale of blue,” The man cheered, gripping my shoulders. It made the makeup artists wince as his voice boomed in a bright strum of an electric guitar. “APOLLO! You look like logic incarnate! Thank you for helping me realize! The brains, always so sophisticated, always grand and bold in a way. TURN UP THE LIGHTS!” The light that was supposed to shine behind me became brighter.

Mr. Butterfly stood in front of the light, fanning his arms out to become a shadow of a man I knew. “Apollo, be a dear and tell me if I’m nothing but a silhouette.” I nodded. “Exactly! And the color slowly appears as I walk forward, yes?” I nodded again. “Apollo! My dearest. What I want you to do is keep your hands in your pockets and slowly walk forward while the light blares behind you. Flash a smile, then pull the cologne.”

“Yes, sir.” I shoved the cologne in my pocket. “I have one question though; how do you want me to smile? Would I do a smirk? My normal smile? A practiced one?”

“I want the ghost of a smile, just barely there. I want you to look like you’re finding something funny on your phone but make it pretty. Then I want you to spray the camera, which is where we’ll display all the stuff we add in post.” He adjusted my shoulders, smiling warmly.

I think this was different than my tailor. Mr. Butterfly was nicer, I think. He knew what he wanted and was just a bit bad at getting his ideas through. He stumbled over his words, laughed often at himself, but he made it easy to talk to him. I felt like I could say anything, and he would say it like it’s poetry. My tailor… not so much.

“A part of this will be on a magazine cover if your parents are willing. If it turns out well. Honestly, I think it should be your opinion. Do you want this?” I liked that he looked to me, right in the eye, and asked it. He didn’t just assume.

I shook my head. “No, not really, sir,” I said, fiddling with my fingers. “I hardly wanted this commercial. I think someone else would have been a better fit.”

“I think otherwise. You’re beautiful, Apollo, lingering the line between an elegant caretaker and a sturdy pillar. You are the brightness of the sun, but the cold of the moon, they couldn’t have asked for someone better. I mean this in an artistic sense… if it wasn’t clear.” It was loud and clear. I stifled a laugh, and he automatically got playfully defensive. “I’m saying it’s true! You’re perfect for this idea.”

“Yes, sir.” I stood up and the lights adjusted to my presence. “Wait- I’m missing the shoes.” I stumbled back and slipped on the heeled boots. The slacks covered the most of it, but for some reason, I felt a bit lighter. I went back in front of the mock sun behind me.

Mr. Butterfly stood behind the camera, squinting at the scene. He started ordering. “Brighten the back light just a bit.” And they followed his command. “Apollo, shoulders back.” I rolled my shoulders back. “Everyone, lights, camera, and action.” The movie clapper slammed, making a sharp click.

I strutted forward. For a moment, everything in my head streamlined into one basic thing. I smiled and pulled the cologne out and sprayed. It was a bad take. I did it again. Another bad take, my smile was a bit off. We did this entire ordeal another five times. On the fifth time, the videographer was stunned. Immediately after the commercial was done, he ran up and took my hands, grinning ear to ear. “Starling! That was utterly perfect!”

I smiled back at him. I can’t wait until Juno and Atlas watch it. It would be so weird seeing myself on television. I was never a good actor, but apparently, it worked like that.

About a month later, just after another mission as Mind, we sat around Atlas’ phone when he yelped ‘WAS THAT APOLLO?!’. December 13th, I remember the date. We saw the face of a man we once knew strut to the camera, flash a smile and spray the camera. The cologne was then displayed with a fancy cursive font. The amber mist was right behind the advertisement, likely the color of the scent.

I looked to Atlas, seeing his face warm. Why are cologne commercials always his cup of tea? I see him scrolling through social media and as soon as it’s a cologne commercial he pauses to see what the hell’s up. Honestly, cologne commercials stunk.

They always had nonsense going on, usually men chatting about with women, or having women all over them, or just being manly. It feels like cologne commercials are an entirely different piece of media that stem from commercials. There would be normal commercials, and then cologne commercials.

“The ad played like- three times now, mate.” I alerted Atlas. He quickly shoved his phone in his pocket and mumbled under his breath an apology. I chuckled at him.

When I was little, Mama wasn’t treated the best. At least that’s what I remember. Hearing her story made me shudder. I was an accident in Mama’s eyes. I’ll say it with my chest because I was probably the happiest accident. I started as a curse, but as I grew, I became one of the greatest young men Mama had seen.

See, my dad wasn’t really my dad. I had one dad, then another, then she kinda quit until she found one more, then they broke up. She kinda stopped trying after that. I don’t mind not having a dad. Hell, no dad’s better than a bad dad, but we had to leave state when things got too bad. We took our old last name back because my bio dad forced Mama to take his. I liked Venison more than {}, so I was happy to hear that I take after Mama’s side now.

I’m elated that I get to have a mom like Mama. I can’t believe someone like her exists. But she does. I have her resilience, she says, if I had my father’s, I likely wouldn’t be here. That’s sad, but then I think that I’ll just be better the next day, so I hurry up.

I work at Mama’s restaurant. Just across the street from our apartment building. The revenue’s comes in pretty good given the fact that it’s a small independent business. I suppose that’s what makes the world go ‘round.

She sat me down when she got the third behavioral report this past two weeks. I lied to her when I said the past few were the last. I kept them hidden from her. “Another? Atlas, I know this is affecting you as much as it’s affecting me.” She placed a hand on my shoulder, gently rubbing the bruise I had recently received. “You’re lucky that Miss Miserable’s a saint and you aren’t expelled. I can’t afford a charter school’s tuition.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I nodded. My knuckles were still bleeding. Day deserved it. That teacher deserved it. I couldn’t just go to class like that and submit to a man who knows nothing about me. That kid, I don’t remember the name, deserved it. No one has that sort of right to talk to me like that. No one has that right to touch me like that. That KID DESERVED IT. I deserved it. “I understand.”

“You don’t look like you understand.” She took my hands in hers, her face dropping to a solemn stare just out of my periphery. I had my head down, looking to our connection. Mama’s pristine hands to my pummeled. The sleeves were high up on my wrists too. “You also got into these altercations at the headspace,” she said, sifting through each paper before tapping one. “You almost killed a man.”

I was taken out when I realized his nose was pouring with his eyes. I was told to be picked up. I wanted to say something, but I didn’t. What was there to say? My hands shook in hers. My vision turned blurry with tears. “M-Mama, I don’t know what to do. I’m under a load of stress, I can’t do a single thing right, I feel like a possession more than I am a person and- and- I can’t do anything. This weight on my shoulders makes me feel like my namesake and everything’s crumbling down…”

“Atlas. Is there something you need to tell me?” Mama tilted my chin upward, pushing away the largest tear on my cheek like we did each time we ran. This time would be different. At least, that’s what she promised. “I can tell you’re not telling me something.”

I bit my tongue. I couldn’t tell her anything. But I could. I should tell her. I could tell her anything I needed to. She was my mother, after all, Mama. I didn’t know her as anything other than Mama. To me, Mama was her name, her title, but not the limit of what she could do. She was everything and nothing much like how I am. All matter formed and combined to make me. Then I manipulate the matter myself.

I opened my mouth to speak, barely getting a sound out before snapping my jaw shut again. What if this was a trick? I looked up to Mama again, her amber eyes and large pupils, like she loved the child she had made. I swallowed back my fright.

“I-I’m Soul…”

Mama didn’t move. She didn’t suddenly burst from the scene talking about how noble it was of me. She didn’t talk about pride. She didn’t talk about danger. She just sat on the couch with me, her eyebrows slightly furrowed and the silence long enough to be a marathon. “Is this true?”

“Yes, Mama,” I nodded. I was pulled into her arms as close as possible. She wasn’t crying, but it seemed like it affected her.

She pecked my forehead; her lips were warmer than the sun. She ran a hand through my messy curls, twirling one around her finger. She just stared at her son, quietly making sense of it all. “I’m so proud of you.”

WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MONKEY?
I don't know, one day it just happened…
I walk into my room and hear Lush Life by Zara Larsson playing…

“But I wont be done when morning comes doing it all night all summer gonna spend it like no other it was a crush.. But that thing went bust so I gave it up ooo… No cheeks, no bluff, I'm just better off without them cuffs, went low went high still waters run dry gotta get back in the mood, went low went high what matters is now getting right back in the mood… I live day my day as if it was the last I live my day as if there was no past doing it all night all summer, gonna spend it like no other! Yeah ima dance my heart out until the dawn…”

HellomehE wrote:

WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MONKEY?
I don't know, one day it just happened…
I walk into my room and hear Lush Life by Zara Larsson playing…

nice to know </3

mr-mystxcal wrote:

HellomehE wrote:

WHAT HAPPENED TO MY MONKEY?
I don't know, one day it just happened…
I walk into my room and hear Lush Life by Zara Larsson playing…

nice to know </3

oh i got caught

“In the world, there are two kinds of people. There are the people-people and the not-people-people. Both these kinds of people are real people, but one feels a bit disconnected. One stands awkwardly behind while their other two people-people friends chat about other people-people friends.

I guess I never really thought of it this way until now. I can safely put into buckets of who people are and I can make a choice of whether to be their friend or not based on these buckets. If they’re loud, inconsiderate or rash, I just don’t interact. I found this easy for me to keep up with. I’ve also realized one was easier to make friends with. I shove my hand in my pockets to scour for not-people-people like me, as hard as it is.

My blind cane taps on the ground each time, alerting people of my unaware presence. My foolish, unaware presence attracts many people. Some people-people, some not-people-people always get curious as to why I’m out on the street. I don’t answer.

Instead, I keep my head down and let the world slip me by. Five minutes pass and everything I had once thought about and fretted over disappears. It’s just me and the sidewalk, the misspelled signs, the lack of care and decency. Because not all people care like people-people do, nor are people apathetic like not-people-people. Sometimes we get a third branch of power-people.

Power-people are as they seem, but they aren’t kind nor hollow. They’re full of life, but they don’t use that life to help others. Instead, they help themselves. You commonly see this in your fingertips, but it could also be felt in vibrations or where you walk. They don’t do much, but when they do, it’s always a big thing. I suppose they’re important, maybe not as important as they say they are.

So yes, I’m in the back behind my friends hearing them chitter and chatter like a murder of crows. One might flap its wings and the other responds. Then they’re in flight, leaving me behind. I can only stand there and listen as the crows make plans somewhere else and don’t include me. Though, I’ve never said I wanted to go.

So yes, I’m the one at stake of the power-people. Slowly, my rights are getting taken, one by one in country after country. I’m not supposed to exist. I’m not supposed to be here, but I am, and it gets worse each day with how little I want to submit to this new rule.

Deep down, we all understand that everyone, people-people, not-people-people, power-people, poor people, rich people, kind people, mean people, transgender people, cisgender people, straight people, gay people, black, white, Asian, pretty, ugly, are just people. You shouldn’t narrow yourself down to a descriptor, because maybe you might slip into that role unintentionally. Take it from me, will you?”

I memorized that entire speech. I don’t know how, but I did. I wrote it after all, and I had a text to speech software to say it, and I said it, and then everything worked out in the end. I said it word for word. Now, there I stand in front of a podium I had earned.

“Thank you,” I finished. I moved backstage, away from the auditorium. Just a second later, two sets of arms wrapped around me. One was tighter than a cobra’s restriction, the other felt like a meagre suggestion. The two people-people surrounding me smiled and giggled. Well, one did, the other just said she was stunned repeatedly. I was pretty stunned too.

Apollo tilted my chin towards her, wiping a tear that fell. “You were shaking,” She calmly said. “I noticed your breathing rates; they were higher than what they normally were. Did you struggle to breathe on stage? Should I check the oxygen index with some equipment in the science lab?”

“No, no. I just pulled an Apollo, I should be fine,” I laughed, slightly breathless from the anxiety I experienced speaking for the school. “It’s just disability pride month. It happens every single year.” But it was a big deal for me.

“You didn’t just ‘pull an Apollo’ you looked like you were about to faint.” Atlas turned my head towards him this time. He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead then gave a small hum. “You know, you should be more careful.”

I was always told that. I huffed. I watched as a second speaker came in, one from the speech club, and started talking in generic terms. I hated that they let someone do that. I hated it. My fists clenched and my leg started bouncing again. I couldn’t stop picking at my uniform.

The two were quiet. Too quiet. I was probably being my not-people-person again. I hated that. I hated not being able to talk. Why was I crying? I stood up and ran down the halls. I was blinded to my surroundings and ran smack dab into a wall. My nose hurt and my head pounded from the sudden force and pressure. I held the back of my head as I stumbled into the neutral bathroom.

The faucet started running. The continuous flow of water into the drain took its hold. The tears were obfuscated with the sounds. I could breathe for once in my stupid life. I ran my hand under the freezing cold water, feeling it file through my fingertips.

I stared at the blurred and spotted image of what I assumed to be me in the mirror. She looked horrible. I bit down on the insult. I hated that. I hated that, I hated that so much. I deserve to be human as much as anyone else. Everything would be better if I was happy with myself. Everything would be so much better.

“Juno!”

Apollo found herself looking at me from the mirror. I saw little patches of her tan skin, but the rest was too hazed to make out. She didn’t say much, but she was always eloquent, as my teacher says. “Are you alright?” I shook my head. “Do you want to talk about it?” I shook my head again. “Alright.” She let it go so easily. I felt horrible for not talking to her.

She didn’t touch me. I hated it when people touched me. It felt like she knew what she was doing, even though I clearly didn’t know. I just kept my hand under the freezing water. It warmed up. Apollo was gently turning on the hot water. This continued until it was about the same temperature as the rest of my body. “You shouldn’t keep your hand under cold water like that. It feels better that way and helps with the flashes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Apollo soothed. Her thumb brushed the back of my hand under the water, the soft thumbs were finally developing callouses. “I mean, you talked about one of your insecurities in front of hundreds of people. Takes a brave man to do that.” My heart warmed at the praise.

“You should know, right? I-I’m doing a good job, right? At this entire thing? Sometimes I still kinda see or hear her. She talks stupid,” I muttered under my breath. Her voice stained mine like wine would a carpet. “But y’think I’m doing a good?”

“Yeah. You’re doing a good. I still see him sometimes too.” I remember Apollo’s entire gist before she told us. I nodded quietly. “How do you not see her?”

“I just… don’t. You kinda start to realize you’re who you say you are, and your past self isn’t someone that defines you. Woman or man, if you look on the past, it will only hurt you. So, you gotta look forward!”

“Take your advice, Juno.” And she left…

I was ten when I read The Giving Tree at the library. My parents were gone, I was supposed to be studying with a few friends, as I was starting normal school that year, and I was to garter a social life so I wouldn’t be scared among the other kids. I was still scared of them. Instead, I hid in the corner and opened a book that looked interesting. I was also interested in botany at that time.

I nestled into one of the beanbags and the reading was simple and short. I was doing much more advanced reading in my homeschool. I kept reading it though. I don’t know why I kept reading it, but I did. I suppose I just wanted a reason to stay away from most of the other kids. The pictures of the little boy and tree were nice.

Then the boy grew to be a man and kept taking from the tree. I remember the tears welling up behind my eyes. I didn’t know why back then. I thought I was just scared. I kept reading the book in hopes everything would be okay. The tears only got worse. The tree was happy.

She was always happy, despite someone depleting her of her resources until she was no one. She didn’t deal with her past traumas and instead decided to be the tree the man needed her to be. She gave and gave and expected nothing back. She loved and cared and laughed and waited so patiently for people that didn’t love her back. They just thought of her as some resource while she loved them.

Something about that stuck with me and I couldn’t stop crying in those beanbag chairs. It was one of the first times I ever let myself cry. I kept reading for some unknown reason. I was transfixed on the feeling of the paper between my fingers, the hard cover meant for children, the tree with two hearts engraved.

Her apples went, her branches went, her trunk went, only leaving a stump of what had been once been a beautiful tree. I couldn’t see past my tears by the time I shut the book and held it to my chest. I still have that book to this day, as I asked my parents if I could buy it with the tears streaming down my face. I’m sure they pitied me.

I read The Giving Tree so much later than many kids would. Juno said his class went over it in first year, Atlas said his mom read it to him when he was four. I was ten. I think if I read it earlier, I would have thought it was just another book that I had to analyze and not care much about. Just the pretense of not needing to think about it much probably made me cry.

I read it again. And again. I could likely recite the book with how many times I’ve read it and looked over its pictures. And the boy was happy. The tree was happy. She loved the little boy, and the little boy loved her. Until he didn’t. Until the boy saw the tree for what it could give while the tree didn’t ask for anything in return.

It would be foolish for the tree to ask for anything. What possibly could the tree want? She has everything a tree wants. She has food from the nutrients in the soil and the sun in the sky, she has water from the rain, and she could bear fruit and reproduce. She could disperse pollen and reproduce. What more could she need?

So, the tree was left without the little boy. Then the boy grew up and demanded money. She had none, so she gave the boy her ability to reproduce. The boy was happy he had money, and the tree was happy because the boy was. Then her arms went, as the boy needed to build a house and living. Then she became nothing but a stump.

Even then the boy used her. The boy didn’t care if the tree was hurting because she had everything she needed by technicality. Even though, she would die soon. She had tried but failed. She would likely die before the boy.

The tree was tired of everything, I think. I think she would do her best before burning out. Then the boy would ask for more, and she would then get up and do more. Even through her carvings that are now permanent scars. Then her scars will be gone, not healed, but cut down to build a boat.

Then the boy would be merry and sail wherever he wanted. The tree would stay there waiting patiently for that same bit of love it had received when the boy was only a boy. The tree was only a tree. She was nothing more. She gave and gave until she couldn’t.

And the book was written and distributed. Multiple hardcover copies were in the library now, I had bought one of many. It is still stained with my tears. Every time I couldn’t bear the burden, I flipped through the pages and relived that moment from when I was ten.

Each time, I got more twisted over these small cartoons. I showed less and less until nothing seemed to phase me anymore except panic. That was then suppressed with medication that made me feel like I was walking through life with a haze over my brain. Then I went off them because they were a danger to my health and impulses.

The bottle had rolled on the floor already, the damage had been done. I wasn’t to be trusted anymore. Much like the tree, who had been taken from time and time again, but never trusted to be given anything.

This poor tree.