The Job Part 2

Part 1

“How much longer?” you asked, sweat covering your shirt from climbing up so many sets of stones.

“Another mile,” I said, hoping it was true.

“You know, I can tell when people are lying.”

“Yeah?” I said, reaching up to grip another stone in the wall. 

“You're doing it right now. You don't know how to get me out of here. You don't know how long this wall is, just that this is somehow the way out when you're not using that magical teleporting dust.” You were right next to me, your eyes staring into mine, both pairs knowing you were right.

I looked up at the unclimbed wall ahead of us and forced my muscles to keep moving. 

“How did you get yourself into this anyway?” you asked, deciding that talking to a liar is better than talking to yourself.

“I was marked, just like you,” I said, not looking back down at you.

“Marked, with what?”

“Stars–everyone's marked with stars. You can't see them unless you've also been marked. . . and had to guard the gates.”

“The gates to what?” you asked as you stopped, resting your feet on a few nice rocks pushed outward.

“Hell.”

“Really? I've been marked to guard the gates of hell?”

“No, I don't know what gates you were marked to guard--I don't know which ones I guarded either.” I snuck a look at you, hoping you wouldn't ask me why there were more than one set of gates or any other questions I didn't know the answers too.

“So why guard them?” you asked instead

“I didn't have anything better to do,” I said, reaching up and finding my hand touch dirt. I let out a sigh of relief and reached up with my other hand to pull myself up. Your hands reached the ground a minute after my feet did and I helped pull you up before both of us looked across at the forest of trees surrounding us.

“Trees, huh?” You sucked in a breath and looked around, taking in the sounds of tree frogs and whatever else it was living in the sea of plants.

“And mushrooms,” I added, the tip of my feet nudging the top of one growing in front of me.

 ”What are those?” You pointed at the sky and the black feathers housing the cries of killer birds that flew in circles above us.

“Birds,” I said, taking a closer look at them as they spiraled down. “Birds we should run from. You still have my bracelet charm?”

The Job

       I didn't mean to follow you.

       Really, I swear I didn't. It's just . . . you seemed like the best father I've ever seen, you know? Like you actually cared and as long as that 3 year old girl in front of you is smiling, life is perfect. 

I wish it was. For you, it might have been. It would've been, I promise, but not in this world, not in this reality. I wish your life was perfect and you weren't the goddamn “chosen one”. 

I didn't know it was you-or maybe I knew, I just wanted so badly for it to be anyone else. Anyone else out of 7 billion people to guard the gates. Anyone else to be the one in that aquarium with shining purple stars tattooed all up and down your arms.

       I watched you smile as you took perfect family pictures in front of a tank of stingrays. I watched you pick her up and swing her feet off the ground in front of the jellyfish right before you leaned over and gave your wife a kiss. I didn't want to watch as you were torn away from them due to the demand of some higher power no one can control.

I walked up the driveway to your house, my ear-buds in and my heart pounding. The front steps were hard not to trip over and holding back tears for you was ever harder. My palms were sweaty and the Snickers I had just consumed threatened to come right back up as I pushed the doorbell.

A minute later (which felt like a year) you answered and I opened my hands, my eyes gleaming a bright green, while your family watched behind you as both of us disappeared.

“What happened?” you said as you woke up, finding the view of a dark lonely room and one plant pretty unwelcoming. Well there was that and me-probably the most unwelcomed sight in the room. "What did you do?” you asked, sitting up and feeling the spikes of your mohawk on top of your head. Shit. . . that little girl was going to miss those. “Where––”

“I, uh, I––” my voice froze up as I tried to speak, feeling my lips go numb.

“You have been chosen as guardian of the gates,” said a booming voice next to me. A sharpened pair of horns was on my left. 

“Sara here is your mentor and will teach you the ways of guarding before she is free to live as she pleases. Soon, you too will be someone else's mentor and free to live as you wish,” he said, staring down at you. My fingers played with the charm on my bracelet, and my eyes looked down at the star shape dangling from my wrist. The one identical to the ones on your arms.

“How soon?” you asked, desperately wanting to go back to ten minutes before when you were still living the perfect life. You weren't the only one.

“A few centuries, soon enough,” he answered, disappearing from my side and leaving the two of us to lock eyes.

“Centuries?” you asked, incredulous. “I can't do whatever this 'guarding' is for centuries. I have a family that I have to get back to. My daughter, her birthday's in a month and I––”

“I know,” I said, interrupting you, and ripping the charm off of my bracelet. It was now or never. “You have to get back.” I threw the charm at you, watching you stand up and catch it as the stars on your arms lit up like they had been in the aquarium. And like at the aquarium, you still couldn't see them.

“With this?” you asked, holding it up in front of you. “A bracelet charm?”

“It's a lot more than it looks,” I said, taking another look at you and a deep breath before I pushed at the stones in the wall behind me so they opened up the entryway to getting out.

Drink My Liver

My claws tore into the demon boy’s flesh, making him scream out as a sharp edge poked through to his liver. A liver was all I wanted; just a small, simple, young liver for Saturday’s ceremony. I could sell it on the black market afterward if it wasn't used; after all, everyone is in need of a liver.

The boy screamed again, this time in horror, as he felt his liver grow back and his skin close up. Of course, it wouldn't really be his, this new liver; it was just there to pretend to be a liver until his demon gene was activated. It wasn't like the boy would actually miss his liver; no, the loss of a liver is not something that makes you lie awake and cry at night. At least not this one––not when something new and far more beautiful is growing inside, taking its place.

Saturday came soon––the sun rising up over the hilltops, bleeding red light into the valley. The liver sat in a glass jar on the ground, ready to be drunk at any second. The first drop of the liver was always the best—it tasted sweet, like toenails and human brains with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Crushed pineapple was added to the last bite, giving it a precious taste of death.

The celebration was nice––the smell of fresh blood and the screams from sacrifices mixing together in a wonderful harmony. After the end of the day, when all the guests had gone and all the livers had been drunk, there was one liver left. I picked it up, watching the starlight dance around it inside the glass jar, and headed to the black market.

It was crowded, slimy, and smelled of intestines and dog food. The floor stuck to your feet, and the sounds of prices being set and objects being bought hung in the air. I stood where I’d set up my spot a long time ago. A motley crowd surrounded me, offering to trade with teeth, eyes, and a goat. I held the liver out to a blonde lady I’d seen at the market a time or two before, and asked her why she wanted it.

“I want something to decorate the house with. It’s looking a bit . . . plain, trust me, this would be perfect” she said, giving me the leash to the goat and proudly disappearing with the liver. Soon after, I led the goat into my backyard, and into its very own house. I fell asleep on the bed, hugging the goat because I knew, the second I had set eyes on the goat, that I loved it more than drinking liver.

The counter in the kitchen of Paris Hilton's house held a liver. A pretty, young liver from a small demon boy. Paris smiled at it and placed it on the mantle over the fireplace, next to the monkey skull and the zebra fish. Her decorating for the day was done.

November

All I remember about November every year is that it's a shitty month
but still I have this idea
in my head
that somehow it's not and that I want to go back.
But it's March and
I have no idea why I'm thinking about November
because recently,
nothing good has come from it.

The Start of a Dinosaur Story

I looked up, watching the moon. Tiger poked my side and chewed noisily on a long, twisting and familiar dinosaur tail. I glared at him, wondering whose that was. Tiger was such a dick. “What? Do you want some?” Tiger flashed his sharp teeth at me.

“No, I don’t enjoy eating . . . whoever that is.” I looked down at it, getting hungry. Goddammit.

“You know Miz Mudsplatter?” Tiger took another bite. “She’s tail-less now.”

“Tiger, what the fuck?” I rolled my eyes, mimicking our older sister whenever she came back to see us. That wasn't too often, not with her living with some non-rejected clan in what she called “society”.

“What?” Tiger chewed on the tail in his mouth, opening wide so you could see inside of it.

“Have you seen Mom?” I tore my gaze away from the tail, looking at our deserted dump of a dwelling. It wasn't much, it really wasn't even enough to call home–– it was just a shithole next to a lava pit. Sometimes, I wonder if our family was outcasted to the slums in hopes that we would disintegrate forever in the lava pit. I wouldn't blame the others; sometimes I wanted Dad in the pit. I don’t think it would matter much if Mom was in it too because sometimes, it felt like she already was.

“What do you think?” Tiger said, having swallowed. “If you haven’t seen her and I haven’t seen her––”

“Then no one’s seen her,” I finished with him. It was true, no one who mattered had seen her if we hadn't.  No one who didn't matter was looking for her anyway. I sighed and sat back down in the nest; it was falling apart. Tiger was next to me, still chewing on a tail and now staring at the moon. I looked over at the tail again, my stomach growling. Tiger ripped off a piece for me and shoved it in my mouth. I started chewing, swallowing down any feelings with it.

“You’re welcome,” he said between chews. “You haven’t eaten anything all day, just because we don’t have anyone to get us food, doesn't mean we can’t get it ourselves.” Tiger meant that we could still steal food no matter what, even if we had to chop off someone’s tail for it. “Have you seen Dad?”

“If I haven’t––”I began when angry growls erupted around us. The sound of a coconut that stunk of foul liquid smashing to the ground interrupted us. Tiger and I crouched to the ground and our chewing stopped. I abruptly swallowed and smacked Tiger when he didn't.  Hadn't we been through this enough? He gave me a pleading look while showing me that he had too much to swallow and he wasn't about to spit it out. I shook my head and gave him a demanding look. He scowled and abruptly shut his jaw, beginning to chew again when he was lifted out of the nest before I could do anything to help him.

“Who are you?” I heard Dad sneer at him and watched Tigers terrified look reflected in Dad’s eyes, twice the size of Tigers head. The tail dangled in his hand, swinging. “What do you think you're doing here? You little shit!” He threw Tiger down beside me in the nest and turned away, drinking from another coconut.  We both turned and stared, hoping he would leave for the night. “What are you looking at?” he sneered and threw the coconut at us. “Get out of here!” he yelled.

Tiger and I looked at each other and scampered out of the nest toward the jungle as the next coconut was thrown at us.

“Skittle? You know that lava pit?” Tiger said to me after vomiting and finding a leaf big enough to wear as a blanket around his shoulders. “Sometimes I wish that dad would burn in it.”

“You don’t wish that,” I said, even though I knew he did.

He just nodded. “I do.” He lay down on the ground next to me, looking up at the unfamiliar jungle around us. “Do you think Mom will ever come back?”

“She’s only been gone . . .” I had to think about it. How long had she been gone?

“Do you think we’ll ever go back?” Tiger turned over on his side so that I couldn't see his face.

“No, I don’t think we want to.” I stared at the back of his head until he rolled over again, nodding in agreement. A flutter went through the tree tops. We sat up, looking around for danger. A second later, a small light shot out through the leaves and down onto Tigers nose. “What is it?” he asked, in awe.

“A firefly. Mom said they bring good luck.”

Confessions of an Incubus Hunter

I hate killing. I know that might sound obvious and over said, but it’s really true for someone who spends a good 8 hours a day killing, learning how to kill, and tracking kills. Most kids would say they hate school. Most kids would say that hating school might sound over said and obvious because they go there eight hours a day; don’t get me wrong, I hate school too, but I hate killing more.

It’s not like I've been killing humans, I mean, I've thought about it (not that I would ever really, in even the most aggravating circumstance, actually move a muscle to do it), but I kill Incubi and Succubi. I hate killing Incubi and Succubi  it’s not like they don’t have feelings too. I mean, usually they’re pretty evil, but they still have feelings. For those of you who don’t know, an incubus or a succubus is a male or female demon who “lies upon people to have sexual relations with them while they sleep”. There’s some freaky, terrifying, demonic fun.

While I do happen to go around killing Incubi, I kind of don’t know anything about them. Except that a certain one who I didn't kill, is really good in bed.

They say if you sleep with an Incubus repeatedly, it will lead to your death. Sometimes I think I wouldn't mind that because I kind of doubt I was still be dealing with all this killing if I was dead. But I’m not dead. No, I am currently under the sheets in my bed with a sleeping Incubus named Dante, whose head is in my lap.

A couple nights ago we were sitting, just like this, except we were both awake. He looked up at me and played with my fingers. “So.  . . can you tell me again, um, do you, like, kill Succubi too? Or is just dudes?” he asked.

“Both.” I hoped we could get off this subject soon and he would decide that running out to get five bags of Doritos again at 1:57 AM to see who could eat more, was a good idea. Even that, which did not end too well, would be better than talking about how I kill his species.

“Oh, okay, so like, if you wanted to you could track a Succubus and kill her for me?” he looked up at me with his beautiful, sexy, Incubus eyes. “Please?” He tried to pull puppy dog eyes.

I laughed. He scowled and I suppose I should’ve felt bad, it’s just that feeling bad doesn't come naturally. I ran my hand through his hair and kissed him.

“What’s so funny? Is it too much to ask you to kill my ex? Am I not allowed to do that?” he lifted his head. “Are you not allowed to kill someone another Incubus told you to kill? ‘Cause if you aren't  then I take it back.”

“Dante, we've been dating for seven, six, no seven, months. I think we've already broken enough rules that we can find ways around breaking more,” I said as he sat up and rested his head on my shoulder.

I know what you’re thinking, and I would like to tell you to please shut up. You would fall for an Incubus too if he was crying when you met him and was wearing a shirt to save the whales. Even if you were totally sure he didn't actually care about whales (he does, by the way) and you felt your heart tug at the thought of having to kill him. And, let’s face, if the night you met him all of that happened and you had finally just gotten so sick of killing, I promise you would've fallen for him too.

“Right, but can you? I mean, if you want.” Dante looked to me, making sure I wasn't going to suddenly decide our relationship and his life was over for bringing up killing. He knew I hated it and he wasn't such a big fan either.

“You’re saying that if I want to, I can kill your ex-girlfriend because–”

A crash through my window and glass breaking to the floor interrupted me. We leaped out of bed, pulled on some clothes (I was pretty sure I grabbed his pants instead of mine) and rushed to my weapons chest.

“Is that your ex?” I asked Dante, handing him a bow and a pack of arrows.

“Maybe it is.” He sounded pretty guilty.

“Is that why you want me to kill her?” I surveyed the window, stepping back as something was thrown inside and watched as Dante shot an arrow out. He was just in his sexy black underwear.

“Yes, most definitely.” Dante nodded, looking over the damage. He was still tense, even though we both could sense she was gone.

I sighed and looked at the object thrown in, letting out my breath in relief that it wasn't a bomb of any sort. Instead it was nipple clamp holding a note. What an upgrade; it was definitely from a Succubus by the looks of it. And not of the high class variety, judging from the stench of her perfume and her window breakage. I opened the clamp and released the paper, looking at the note:

Dearest Hunter:

Prepare to die, bitch.

xxxx

I held up the note for Dante to read. He let out a sigh and looked down at the ground, probably wishing for a vortex to swallow him whole. He looked back at me, cracking a smile.

“You’re wearing my pants.”

Waterfalls Are Pretty

Waterfalls are pretty.

 If that’s the last sight you see before you die, at least it’s pretty.

 Pretty like a grenade as it explodes and ruins the night sky–splaying loose limbs and veins over the city. Pretty like an overfilled tomb, stuffed of disintegrating corpses and rotting flesh– the kind that drips off the bodies due to a leak in the pipes above creating water damage. Pretty like road kill: the sweet, sweet sight of a mangled Pegasus. I mean, yeah, maybe it was the last one in the world and it was “beautiful” but it’s pretty with the tire tracks and dirt over its crippled wings. Waterfalls are pretty; a pretty deep blue with stands of moss in it that may or may not look like fish heads, like an air bag suffocating you, forcing your eyes to go wide your lungs to lay empty. Waterfalls are pretty.

            But you want to know what’s beautiful? Listening to the sound of some poor, innocent, nonchalant, 3 year-old scream at the top of their lungs just because they can. The way the shriek runs through you, up your spine, and makes you shiver while wanting a knife to stab through your cranium and suddenly become possessed. Beautiful is nails on a chalkboard; squeaking, scraping, slowly . . . slowly sliding down, like metal scraping metal as sparks fly, so that the sound makes your mind, your fingernails, and your stomach, hurt. Beautiful is the sound of that crying Pegasus as it slowly dies from the collision with your car; lying on the ground and coughing up undead, baby Tasmanian devils which are screaming that they will kill you between vomiting up human blood. Beautiful is that uprooting, murder sound of the sonar piercing through your brain; turning it into a sweet, sweet pile of mashed potato mush in a matter of seconds while having heard, minutes before that, your ex fucking your now ex-best friend while your ex enjoys it more than they ever did with you. That, is beautiful.

            And this beauty of the beautiful is what has driven you to this waterfall.

            And waterfalls are pretty.

Lexa’s Guide to the End of Life

        This is the end of your life. Considering that it’s the end of your life, you're probably between 80 and 200,000 years old. Or you're a 13 year old girl who is reading this through her tears over her latest “world-shattering break-up” and “no one to understand her”. Assuming that you're the first option, please take the time to ease into this simple guide on the end of life.

1. You can do anything you want.

           Let’s face the facts: you're old. Probably. Maybe you've been waiting for this moment your whole life because you finally can show the world that you have no shame and you hate wearing pants and just because it is the end of your life, they might understand. Maybe you've been dreading it, and you find yourself wishing more and more that you were young again. Or maybe you're still a 13 year old reading this to take your mind off your "problems".

 Anyway, when you reach a certain point in your life, the end of it, you can do anything because when else are you going to do it if you haven’t already? You can  decide not to wear pants, you can buy as many bottles of toothpaste as you want to use as an alternative to pepper spray, make jams with marijuana and name them in Latin or pretend to worship Satan. (Or actually worship Satan, if you've wanted to try it your whole life.)

2. You may experience difficulty moving, breathing, talking, remembering etc. 

          This isn't really a perk of being old or the end of life, but hey, at least you’re not a 13 year old girl reading articles about the end of life when you probably have between 30 and 4,000 years left who wears stiletto heels and spells like an illiterate. But, maybe you experience some of the problems mentioned above, and maybe just your peers experience it. Either way, take it as an excuse to ride around in fancy moving chairs and terrorize young people. Terrorizing young people is fun, even if you only remember it for three seconds. You can finally ignore/be an awful human being to that one person that has constantly been around your whole life (or nine months after that condom broke) who has always been a bit of a jerk. You can change the subject of the conversation when they talk to you by pretending you don’t hear a thing they’re saying. Like what if someone won’t shut up about politics when all you want to talk about it Godzilla, just loudly mention Godzilla while cupping your ear.

3. Terrorize young people for fun and eat anything you want.

    Okay, the last part is not for everyone, (but for that 13 year old; comfort food is great for those “issues”) but even as a young person, terrorizing my peers is hilarious. Seriously, some of us are awful and isn't it always amazing and fun when those awful people are scared of an old lady or man wearing a penguin suit in a Segway happily singing a mix of modern and older pop songs, occasionally chanting Latin, chasing them through Wal-Mart? And if you really want to scare them, throw soft items like bread and mention something like 50 Shades of Grey and how much you hated the ending or complain about how you can’t eat solid food anymore.

4. You can set up things like treasure hunts to make your relatives, friends, neighbors, and/or the police find things you've left behind. 

          Things like your retirement money or your porn collection. The disadvantage of this is, assuming you set it up for after you have died, you won’t get to see anyone’s reactions (like the shriek of “OMG” from that 13 year old) when they find what’s underneath the “X” marking the spot or to the other surprises you have planned along the way. You can set up surprises like a sudden trigger that sets off heavy metal (or Justin Bieber, which ever you think will be scarier) that continually plays throughout the duration of the treasure hunt. Or you could go for stuffing your fridge full of Skittles (or cocaine) that spills out at them when they open the door. Of course, you could also set a treasure hunt up before you die and watch through a webcam or from the rooftop of the house next door.

5. You have been alive for this long. 
           Congratulate yourself. You can take this opportunity to do things you've never done before and finally finish your bucket list. Or start a bucket list, if you've never had one before. You can do things like skydiving, driving 100 miles per hour in an abandoned area smoking marijuana, bungee jumping, or streaking. (Maybe not the last one if you live near sensitive people.) Maybe if you’re 13 you should try this too, starting with realizing it’s not the end of your life. Really, why are you still reading this?

6. People will take you seriously. 
          Usually. Now that it’s the end of life, you can say things like “When I was a boy/girl . . .” and “Back in my day . . .” and tell someone a long lost story you've been meaning to tell for 77 years. Like the one time you ran over a police officer to get out of a ticket. Or when you got your best friends sister pregnant and how you now have a secret child. Anyway, now is your chance to tell some kid you've “mistaken” as your grandson your favorite long, plot-twisting, and unwritten (possible plagiarized), science fiction novel involving aliens and space monkey’s. And if you happen to be the “mistaken” or biological grandchild of someone telling you a story, you probably did something, or will do something, to deserve it.

*Not to be taken seriously. I am not responsible for any injuries, deaths or legal issues that arise during any participation of this guide.

I Think I Fell In Love With Her The Minute She Called Me "Peasant"

PART 1

PART 2

PART 3

Snowflakes fell on Fauve’s face. She pulled me along, her freezing hand stealing any trace of heat from mine. I didn’t mind and followed her through the snow, which was coming down harder each second. Our walk ended with a hard cave floor underneath my feet and stone over my head. Fauve turned back to me and laughed, pulling me farther inside.

Both of us crept forward and stopped when we saw the fire in the middle of the cave. Dragon backs were arched around it, their voices whispering, careful not to let them echo outside if Fauve and I should hear. We weren’t supposed to be here, in the sacred cave, even if one of us could speak dragon. Fauve cocked her head to the side, trying to lean in and listen . I jerked my head up, pretending to have heard something she didn’t. Fauve looked at me, suddenly nervous. I pulled her around the cave wall and back to the entrance silently, still pretending that the dragon we had rescued had sensed us. I knew I couldn’t keep pretending, though, ; Fauve knew things like that.

“Why did you–”

I just smiled down at her and leaned in closer, about to kiss her, when a shadow crossed before us. It was a human shadow. I looked up, pulling Fauve into me, and waited as the shadow took a step inside the cave. I froze, feeling as cold as Fauve’s hands had been. My brother stood in front of us, a half smile on his face and a chained dragon behind him. I could feel Fauve’s heartbeat speed up and heard her scream, summoning a flap of wings from behind us, when the dragon behind my brother reached out a claw and slashed through me.

“Peasant?” Fauve’s voice found my consciousness and ripped me out of the nightmare. “Skander?” I sighed with relief and opened my eyes to find her leaning over me, staring at my face. “Skander, what happened?” She looked into my eyes, concerned. “You were crying in your sleep again, and I hate it when you cry in your sleep. I also hate it when you steal the blanket.” That made two of us. She was wrapped up in the blanket I had been sharing with her; I was freezing.

“Can I have the blanket back?” I reached towards it, and she gently swatted my hand away.

“What happened?” She looked at me inquiringly. I sat up and told her, hearing an unusual silence from her compared to the last few times I had told her my dreams.

“Fauve?” I watched her carefully. I wasn’t sure she had ever been this quiet. She even talked in her sleep. It had been two weeks since I met her, and saved a dragon with her. A dragon that we were now camped out with in the woods. We were on a mission to find the Circle of Four—the four most powerful dragons in Everest. They had been searching for a Dragon Speaker for years, and I happened to be one.

“Fauve?” I asked again. She looked up from the snow and scooted next to me, sharing the blanket.

“Your brother knows you can speak,” she said. “When I was in the castle, Larissa would sometimes ask him if he had found anyone to talk to the dragon yet; he always said no. But you can, and you’re his brother.” Fauve looked down at the snow again. “Skander, Larissa’s going to send him after you. She wants a Dragon Speaker, and now that we’ve set the dragon free, she knows one of us can do it. And it’s certainly not me.” She was staring at me with her barely blue eyes.

“What?” I stared right back at her.

“Peasant, you know you can kiss me if you want to, right?” She smiled, and I opened my mouth when someone else spoke.

“I told you two to be up by sunrise. The sun comes in four hours.” The dragon’s voice circled around us, and I looked to his spot a few feet from us, by a circle of trees.

“What do you care? You’re nocturnal,” Fauve retorted, looking at the dragon. He had spoken slowly and carefully, so his was one of the few times she had understood what he said. It didn’t change the fact that she was scared to speak to him; I could tell by the way she was now gripping my hand with her nails.

“Yes, and you two are not. But since you’re up anyway, I suppose we should move on. The Circle is waiting.”

“How much farther is it?” I asked, standing up with Fauve and walking to his back.

“We should get there by nightfall.” The dragon eyed us as we climbed on his back. I felt Fauve’s arms around me as the dragon started flying. The air was bitterly cold, and her hands weren’t doing much to help. Neither was the fact that she once again had the blanket tightly wrapped around herself.

“Have you told her you love her yet?” the dragon asked me, speaking faster now.

“What do you think?” I told him, glad that the dragon was the one animal Fauve couldn’t speak fluently with.

“What are you waiting for?” The dragon had a trace of laughter in his voice.

“Time. I can’t just tell her I love her now.” And she might think I was just trying to get the blanket. Why were her hands so cold? I shivered and felt Fauve lean against me, resting her head on my shoulder.

“Your ever-so-painful love story is killing me to watch, Dragon Speaker.” The dragon flew higher and then slowly dipped low. Fauve made a small sound in protest and hugged me tighter. “Aren’t you going to say something about my flying for her?”

“Yes, you are an awful flier who shouldn’t get into other people’s love lives.” I looked back at Fauve, who wasn’t paying any attention to our conversation. She reached up and moved my hair from where it was falling into my eye. I shook my hair back into place and shivered when she purposely rested her frozen hand on my neck. She smiled and leaned back on my shoulder.

“And you,” the dragon responded, “are a Dragon Speaker who might not have all the time in the world to actually get a love life.” 

The Screaming

I hear them screaming.

I hear them screaming, but I can't help them. Their fingers fall through mine, and I'm not sure if it was me who let go first or just the sweat on their palms. I hear them screaming, I do, and I want to help them because I can hear every ounce of pain and I can feel so much of it, but I can't help them. I hear them screaming in terror and loneliness and sadness ... I hear them screaming and sometimes I wonder if it’s just me.

I've been told I scream loud enough to deafen ears, and I wonder, if that's true, then why has no one ever had the nerve to show up? Do I scream so loud I kill them? Paralyze them? Scare them? Or is everyone just walking around with earplugs? Are they listening to the sound of their own scream and, like me, think they’re too far gone to help anyone?

These thoughts are my reality and my reality has a piercing vibrato. I write words down on the wall when I can, and I wonder if anyone sees the letters in white sidewalk chalk. Do they see the spray-painted picture of the destruction in my brain?

I wish I could breathe. I wish that the happy world above me was listening or looking down to see that there are chains around my ankles, my wrists, that don't let me swim. I wonder if these chains were gone, would I sink? Would I float up to the surface? I know sure as fuck that I wouldn’t be able to swim. I'm not even sure how I'm still alive except that maybe it has to do with the fact that I don't want to die.

People don't notice it; they might see me in the water and nod, thinking that I'm just down here for fun. They might flash a smile, and I can always tell when it's fake. They might float with their chains next to me and speak, saying meaningless words while trying to pull down their sleeves. It's no use; I can see the scars that the rest can't because while they might think it’s simple, that it's easy to see, no one seems to notice unless they have them too.

My eyes flood with tears that mix into the water. When it rains it feels like I'm finally not the only one crying because the sky is crying too. And my arms, my legs, my hips, they bleed out into the water and it mixes with the tears and it tastes like fire and smells like the cold. The kind that is set on trying to kill you. Does it matter that I'm underwater to my ears? My eyes? I can hear the screaming and I need a minor release, an escape. One that wraps arms around me through voices, or lyrics, or words or simply beautiful sketches. One that sends me to the surface, for a second; it's one that makes the chains looser before I plunge back in, because I was never really out in the first place.

I scream and I hear them screaming with me. I want to help them, but I can't because I can't help myself. I hear them screaming and if I could, I promise I would set them all free. I hear them screaming and I know it's too much to bear; the chains tie us to the bottom, but the truth is, we're not all still here.

Some cut themselves loose and fall under the waves where they can't see or hear the surface because the two don't exist together anymore. Some float up and learn how to swim. Some of them dive back in and unchain The Screaming. Some of us stay chained, screaming, caught between trying to learn to swim again and letting the empty nothingness sink inside instead.

I hear them screaming.

I hear them screaming, and I wish I could help them.