[WRITING PROMPT CHALLENGE] ~DAY BY DAY~

Prompt: Linger

A cloak fogs and lingers
Gentle, tight embrace
Coating wrists and fingers
Resting, forced, in grace

A servant is awaiting
Restless, dignified
The hosts awakening
To follow what's set aside

Prompt: Summer Highs

Scorching from above
Stones warming you from below
Sun will embrace life

Group of Friends:

"Hey, have you heard? There's a new movie coming out, and it's supposed to be really boring! We should send Carl some tickets!", Sven yells into the tiny cramped room everyone gathered in to play some games.
"No, man, no." Jeremy replies, still focused on the screen and trying to beat up a tiny kung-fu lady, played by Steven. "I'm not paying for that crap." He is not very successful and glares at Sven, who is clearly at fault here.
"Except no, I already bought them! You guys are so boring. You are still playing last gen's stuff, too."
Players switch and Steven chimes in: "You really have it in for Carl, though. What did he ever do to you?", to which Sven has no real reply. After a short moment of honorary silence Steven bursts out laughing: "Ohhhhhhh, I see. Sven's curshing on Carl~, Sven's crushing on Carl~!", "AM NOT!",
"Just shut up, both of you." Jeremy finally got his moment of silence, and grabs another bag of chips. "... do tell me if your prince enjoyed the movie, though" Steven can't help but continue.

Escape the Dream:

Floating, bubbling
Never struggling
In the depths of water
Spring of life
As it falters,
Bring it alive
That spark that's resting
Spirit that's wrestling
That's put to waste
As you gaze
Into seeing double
You, in the turquoise snuggle
Well and growing
Groomed, curled, cuddled glowing
You, who gazes into trouble
You, who sees yourself, as double
Warm and gentle it washes over
Whatever thought hovers
Away, away, away into the depths
Long, long, gentle breaths
Imagine, a dream, and flow.
Deep inside where you feel you grow
Escape into the waters of self-love
Escape the larks of self-doubt
Escape, where you need to be?
To make all this reality

Memorial

In the far corner of the mind
A stone graces the sand
As time runs away
And gears turn their hands
It crumbles and fades
Rebuilds and braids
Its stray fate left behind

A memorial of our deeds
A memorial of our time
Of what qualities we possessed
And which we left behind
You pick them up
For a fragment remains
To become whole again

Blazing Sky:

Blazing sky glow red
Fiery autumn battlefield
Angels marching on

Morning Coffee:

As I sit at the kitchen table I look outside. The sun is still rising, birds are chirping and the few trees that separate this house from the outside chaos are all that's to be seen. Slowly, I sip at the mug in front of me. A broad, strong and almost boring taste assaults me. I thought I'd stopped drinking coffee, but then I thought I'd stop waking up early on a day off as well. The mug is still hot, and the extra milk I am pouring in is slowly circling in the mug until it's evaporated into it all, forming a gentle brown liquid. I never really thought of it as convenient, or helpful. The best it can do is keep me awake at night, but every time I drink it I feel a sense of peace, as I do now, sipping. A reminder of old days, of living together. I leave the cup with a third still in there, forgotten, and head into my room to start painting.

Secrets

Wild spirits grow
Where the truth shows
When it's trapped inside
Fears meet the eye

What is it that you keep from me?
Vile and boiling.
What is it that only you can see?
Sick and recoiling.

A stab into the dark reveals nothing
The dark is lit up to hide in plain sight
Lies try to make it alright
It changes the time, the thing.

Is it worth trapping?
Look at me.
Is it worth suppressing?
You see through me.

It's huffing and puffing
Into your gut you are stuffing
A life of regret and pain
And it's all in vain

Try to hide your hide
Try to tear your skin
Try to remove your soul
By letting it thin
Try to let it die
Try to poke a hole
Into the whole, pay a toll
It's useless - you cannot
Keep your soul from being alive

Go ahead, try.
Try and vilify.
That which is you
What you have done
That's made you you
And is long gone

Who are you running away from, really?
Come on, turn around!
Yourself is who is screaming
Go on, I don't care.
Face your own nightmare!

On the Road

On the Road.
On the long long Road I travel
Go through passages, tunnels and over gravel.
A day passes, and goes, and the sky stretches overall
The days grow longer and longer, the goal is far with no-one around
I sing to myself to let the day grow, I sing to keep the road shorter and safe
"Yo-ho, 'tis a good day"
"'tis a good day for merry-way"
I sing a song and the road stretches endlessly anyway

Changing Directions

Dear Diary, today I've felt very stuck. Like, there was nothing I wanted to do, and nothing I did was right. I got up really early to play with my sister, and even that turned to poo. I promised her yesterday, didn't I? So, I got to her and brought the dolls plus the monster truck (just in case I wanted to roll them over if my sis was being naughty), but she didn't even want to play anymore! She's been pestering me all week, got me to promise it, and then when she can have it, she doesn't want it anymore. Typical.
So after that I went to the kitchen to make me a sandwich, but I didn't know what to put on it. Did I want jam, or ham, or maybe cheese? Mom bought some French cheese yesterday, and I'd been so curious to try! But I didn't really feel like it today. So, I put on jam, and took a bite and regret hit me soon after. I should've gone for the cheese after all.
The entire day has been like this! I want to get real angry at me, but even that doesn't seem to work! Maybe I should just do something, anything. It's boring and watching TV all day makes me feel all antsy now (which is what I ended up doing without realizing it, yikes.) Do you have any suggestions? You know what, forget it. I don't even care what I do, so, anything goes, right?

Morning After

I woke up in your arms
Your breath, it is still warm.
You look up to me a while.
I take a deep breath and cry
And then, and then I smile.

(Unfinished as of yet)
Gone.

The day Jack received the message he hung up, left his house and kept walking. Eventually found himself at the beach where the sound of crashing waves drowned out any thought he might have. It's been numerous weeks since then, and life is more or less normal again. Regular schedules, showing up on time, a great deal of effort even. If not for the passion, then for the diversion. Jack has even earned a raise.
It's been a lonely time without his wife, even with the many friends and coworkers showing up to help support him. Looking back, he can remember the crash vividly. The bottles stacked up, the dishes dirty, laundry undone. It's not like he hadn't experienced grief before. When his parents passed away so early, it had been a huge shock, because he never imagined he would end up without any relatives so soon. But he got over it. And now is the time when he is supposed to be over his wife, when life should all be well again, when he should stand on his own. He should be, he is a fine man in his late thirties with a job, a car and even a house that's almost paid off. He could even get himself a new partner, everyone around him insists. He even got sick of all the consolation. Being back at work, cleaning his home, everything should be fine. He told himself it'll be fine, he's done it every day ever since it happened. Looking into a hobby to sink time into is just another part of that affirmation.
Yet he still finds himself at the beach, staring into the vast expanse, hoping for some sort of different, new, better answer. Every week, sometimes every day, after work. When the clouds hang low and the last fragments of light illuminate his path. Today is such a day, and he walks solemnly, close enough to the waves to have nothing else to listen to. He likes to amuse himself thinking that this nothing is what the sea answers. No thoughts, no wonders, no surprises, no dead beaten horses. He brought a camera, to take some pictures. New projects. New hobbies. He takes a picture of the waves at their strongest and looks at it – as if this wave would ever stay like it does on the picture; unmoving, safe. He sighs and looks for better material.
Eventually he reaches a softer spot, just before he needs to turn back. At certain parts of the beach the waves are especially gentle. Who knows if the sand protects itself from their onslaught, or the whims of fate just made it their forgotten ground. Tons and tons of seashells are lined up and heaped up around here. Some whole, some crushed, some hard to recognize as such. Despite himself, he takes a picture, and looks at it. A carpet of differently sized, colored and crushed seashells. He usually doesn't like walking there, because the crunch unnerves him, and the forgotten heaps of seashells always reminded him of graveyards. Something about the way the shells are lined up, forgotten, yet cared for by the water. Only to slowly decay and fall apart anyway. He sighs and turns away, he didn't come here to be reminded of the graveyard. Lord knows he visited the local one way too often. Told his parents about his achievements, his news... even his engagement. That reminder was just too much to bear.

---------------

broken - seashell (home), places you can't return to
something that was crushed, probably not by you or others, but by the force of nature/natural decomposition (or could be, in case of sooner than intended?)

relationships or family? dun care about workplaces, that not as sentimental, they'd glue it and say it fine.

feeling walking over it similar to whole ones, others not recognizing this change, personal. sea as everlasting companion, seashells gather at gentle parts/waves. -> natural wastebin? (soft supportive char)

internal closure: things move on, it natural? or.. what to do with those shells..
leaving the beach town behind and moving.

First Blush of Spring

I open the window to let the sun in
A chilly bright morning announces spring
A gentle refreshing heartbeat rings
While outside the birds sing
They sing for love,
A gift I remember all of.

Gregarious

Gregarious is the name
One of might and bitter fame
The sheep who go and bicker not
Who laugh and cry and together flock
It's a word much underused
A stylish dated word infused
Think of choirs no longer
Herd mentality is over yonder
One step away from hive mind
Twitch chat's got it down pat
The audience binds
Repeats common thought ASAP

His Sigh

There is a moment she's dreaded, escaped and ran from for a while now. She's made it multiple weeks without confronting her dad after destroying the window. She's visited friends, made plans with her mom, she even joined a voluntary study group in an effort to maybe avoid this moment, and this day. It's not like it'll change anything, but ... she sighs.

Her father is the sweetest kindest person on earth, and he's never once gotten angry at her. And herein lies the problem. He's found her now, after work, and stopped her.
He speaks slowly, as if to emphasize that he'll still love her, even forgive her. "I'm just disappointed..." he says and heaves his heavy sigh. He didn't think she would be so destructive, so careless. And then he turns around and leaves, the impression still imprinted on her mind. Maybe he doesn't even remember every single time. But even if he didn't, she will. There is no way to really let go, to redeem herself, given that he doesn't truly find fault with her to begin with. No punishment, and no tangible consequences. Except for his sigh. And his sigh, it stays forever. Heaped onto every disappointment she's ever brought. The irony is that it makes her sigh just thinking about it, remembering it.

Over the edge

It's finally come to a close - the battle against humanity, brought about the ever-battling forces of light and darkness in his heart! All his life, since childhood he has suffered, he has silently endured, and yet he knew it would never last. He's embraced it and has embarked on his heroic journey to challenge fate, and even the gods! Now is the time.While he spills blood he is bleeding, from his eyes, from his mouth, and even from other places he'd rather not mention.
He slashes and slashes away without a second thought, letting his hatred and bloodlust fuel his Blood Sword of Crimson Destruction. The 18-winged angel of dominion is howling before him in agony, dying at his blood-stained hands. With him gone, there is not a single protector left.
The sun sets behind the unlikely, dark and needfully brooding hero as he sets out for his final battle: over the edge.

Dangerous Waters

Joe went fishing ashore
Fished fish galore
One day he lost his cap
The next day he went mad
Now it's his hunting quarter
Hunting humans in dangerous waters

Free From Obligations

Who is free?
Those who have no need
And no desire?
Those who tossed their dreams
Into a pyre?

Rest not, and watch not
Fear not, and care not
Obligations may be a trap
But they are a safety net
For when you do not care
Others may have a thought to spare
Others may imprint their purpose
May consider and have repaid a debt
It's a random willful bet.

Who do you have an obligation to?
Your dreams, yourself?
Allies or people whom you despise?
Lighter and heavier Delights

It's all right, you see
For when you aim to be free
You wish to be doing all the same
Live and work and play a game
It's just that you do it out of your own will
Not even to pay a simple bill
Not an obligation, but a promise to your dearest
Yourself, and whom knows you clearest
Perhaps, a duty that's queerest
For it gives you joy and will
When you'd think it's the work that it kills

Rainbow Sprinkles

Do you know this feeling?
Life is drab, clouds hang low and you lost your beau?
Fear not! There's sprinkles
Fret not, it doesn't wrinkle!
Just one sniff, one whiff, one scattered pouch -
Your day just got better, you slouch!
Rainbow Sprinkles got it all, it even stops rainfall
It does your laundry, your dishes and grants your wildest wishes
It makes hair thicken, grills chicken, makes your heartbeat quicken

You want a fresh cold beer?
Use Rainbow Sprinkles and cheer!

At the Edge

A keen mind devised
To whet his abilities
Staring at the edge

Relationship Goals

One day a squire
Went out to find a lady he desire
Flowers he brought, and sausages too
When he invited a lady she shouted: "Shoo!"
Away with your 'sausage', away with your skin!
I'll flay you alive sell it as sheepskin!
His face and his patience were quite strong
So he replied "Good lady, you got it all wrong!
I brought a basket with food!
But I understand it if you are not in the mood.
'tis quite rude for me to begin
With something so close to the sin."
Hearing this she sighed in relief
And soon took a little aperitif
So the two chatted thus
Around these parts men were rough
But women were not behind
A suitor had to be strong and kind
She'd been looking for a cute man
Who is scant afraid of her plan
To rule the home and take care of the grain
"What else is it you excel at pray tell?
I am curious to know thee well!"
To this she showed him her knives
That's taken many a life.
"I hunt and gut and skin,
every game that's been.
Just don't tell the nobles
Who think they rule over the locals."
Now our dear squire
Had never met a lady he so admired
Trained for combat he might be,
He was rather carefree.
Wouldn't it be lovely,
To not take care of money
To enjoy the sun, take care of the crop
And let everything else be taken care of, full stop.
He'd long since tired of travelling
It certainly helped that she looked ravishing!
So in awe and spirits high
He couldn't help but to contemplate a little why
"Why has no-one responded to you yet?
Anyone would have their life set!
Fools they are, and haughty too
Oh, what wouldn't I do for you!"
To this she slapped her thigh and laughed
"You certainly know your craft!
Your pretty words and thoughts
If they are what they're worth
I'd marry you with mirth!
I'll take good care of you, you will see
You will have it set with me!"
And so the happy couple,
Set about on the double
And they lived happily ever after thus
The women leading the man without a fuss

Beneath the Boughs

Clinging upside down
A lost spider crawls
Wearing a loose shawl
It looks very tall
As it inevitably falls down

She lets herself sail
And in the wind she wails
Trying to tie her knots
Trying to web herself in without being swat

It still points down
But she's wearing her crown

Last Dance

It dances as it fights
Swirling and tails grazing with might
Pushing, blood gushing
Holes ripped, stamped and plastered
The sounds of bones crushing
Of a fury unleashed yet mastered
Of a creature insane in rage
All are foes but one
Who the circle tries to break
Claws grab so jaws can rip
A corpse tossed away so the next can trip
To crush to shake to rake to stake
To pierce to puncture to slit open
To end not just breathing but all functions
To end not a life but a mass
To end all living cells boiling with rage
As they boil and boil and wage
war against all signs of life
within and without, it matters not
They will all blow up
According to the rhythm of life
The heartbeat that keeps it alight
The fire, the spark, the light
The order of insanity
The chaos of madness
As more combatants align
To face the plight the monster the inhabitant
Of the lands mankind had forced a claim
One after another they fell
The victims still tell
While the survivors strive for more
One creature's brought a roar
And rips and shreds and stabs
And bleeds and slows and begs
To free it now, as it would never give up

My Ravioli

Ravioli I carry with me. Always, as though they were part of me. Sometimes I forget they are there, until I tumble over them again. They are squishy and drip red, I dipped my toe into them the other time just before bed. Some days I almost like them, some days I don't. Once, they came splashing all over my face. They can be messy, cold, or hot and warm. Soothing and cleansing as I peer into them, expecting a revelation. Even getting one, once in a while. Other days, they absorb my view. They narrow it down to just this one bowl of ravioli that's been here seemingly forever. Maybe it wasn't even here to begin with. But either way, it seems as though they it's here now, doesn't it?

Another Endless Sky

Another day to fill with unlimited potential to the brim
Overwhelming, tiring hopeless glimpse.

He Walks Away

Invisible, hidden away. He walks.
Trapped under the she, under the form
Under traditions and under norms
Unseen and unheard, so eventually unspoken
He grumbles and mumbles when he talks
Ever so slowly, away he walks.
Transparent like a sheet of ghost
His presence can still be felt
When before reality he knelt
He walks away.

AYEEEEEEEEEEEAYAYAYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Grumffaffagrumfaffagrumfaffa
SLASH.

On the Dockside

"You know I love you, don't you?", he calls after me, as the boat slowly slinks into the waves and the sails are being drawn. "Of course I do!" I yell back, even though my smile froze, over the crushing sounds below. "You always have.", I add. He did. I am sure of it. He's cared for me, clothed me, looked after me. He had taken great precaution on my taking this journey and prepared by inquiring about any other passenger and crew member. It was a habit of his he hadn't been able to shake since my early childhood. It's not just that he was protective, it's that his protectiveness was the only way he could put into his feelings into action. It was a technicality at this point. We both know it's true, and has been true, but neither carries with it the quiet emotional confidence of it. It is like the love we have for each other never really quite reached our hearts. Instead, we engaged our busy minds and put them to good use. On the bright side, it is this striving that led me to journey across the globe. I have accompanied merchants on their trade routes, studied foreign languages until I was eventually proficient enough to employ myself as a translator and mediator. Seeing that faraway Japan is opening trade, I will be one of the few to take in the new sights and curious customs we only ever heard about from the Dutch. While it breaks my father's heart to see me leave, he quietly supported my decision.

Forever's Edge

There is a blade remaining
That strikes you to the bone
Which's cuts leave you prone
You may rise and strike again
Wince and fall in pain

Its dull broken hull
Scabbard rotting away
Its blade un-cared for, dull
But its effect stay.

Groan and moan
Cry and whine
Beg and plead
Rinse and repeat

Those who wield it care not
They strike for striking's sake
Being in a blind spot,
They treat it like a handshake.

Its effect is still there.
It repeats like a nightmare
Words and sounds and viscerally
They drive you insane, eternally.

Within the silence of the word.
In the chaos of the world.
A tiny sound comes through
Echoing and bring to
Yourself, the self.
Sprouting like bamboo.
First as a preview
Then as a path, conferred.
Until it's a mission, undisturbed.

Cup Favors

He paces up and down the stairs. He looks at the various name plates, the little ringing bells, the various doormats. This one is superman, the one next to it plain brown with nothing on it. Just a rough doormat. Is the one with the plain doormat a down-to-earth friendly person or old-fashioned and stingy? Who isn't to say that old-fashioned people would be more open to be asked a favor. If the superman one is only a young adult, they may not even cook anymore, nor have any ingredients. But then, even if you only have basic necessities, most people do drink coffee.
This one's no good, he thinks. He's thought too much and he can't contain himself. Downstairs it is. Butterflies vs. a green, crooked poor excuse of a doormat. The movement helps. He'd almost forgotten what he came here to do. But he can't associate anything with the images, so he goes back upstairs. The brown one it is. Quick, before he can think anymore! He knocks. Then remembers in his confusion that there is a doorbell. He rings it, tapping his feet. Oh gosh, what if the resident thinks he is weird? What if someone else saw him and thinks he is weird? He looks around. No-one's been staring at him, right? A sharp clicking sound brings his attention back to a thick, dark wooden door.

"Yes?" a quiet voice answers. A bit hoarse. He didn't disturb someone sleeping off their cold, did he? "... what is it?" she asks again this time, and with enough suddenness to bring him back to his senses. With a sudden movement he pulls out and shoots out his hand - or what he's holding with it, a small cup. Startled she looks at it, then to the man's face. "... soooooo? A cup?"
"Y-yes! A cup's favor. I mean, a favor. A favor involving a cup." he choked on his own thoughts and tries to collect himself. Seemingly with infinite patience the lady just looks at him, rolls her eyes and asks "Do you need some sugar or milk, perhaps ?" He beams at her, and heaves a sigh in relief. "Yes, yes! Well, no, I mean, not both. Just some sugar. I've been baking you see, there's this birthday party and I just ran out and -" Soundlessly she takes the cup from him, returns to her quiet abode and closes the door. He's stumped in the middle of his unfinished sentence. But he tells himself everything is okay. She'll not steal a cup over a favor. Probably. Eventually she comes back out, hands him the sugar cup, wishes him a good day and closes the door.

Green Hues

Colorful screens
Are not found outside your room
Only deep green hues

Hymnals of Snowflake Sparkle

Asgorath
1.
Sing praise!
It's cool~
For void!
Starting from scratch, anew
For void!
Put yourself into anybody's shoes
Asgorath, Lord of my groove!

2.
Sing praise!
For love!
Milestone of ancestry~
For love!
Liberation of vice and enemy!
Asgorath, free of fluff~

Garl Glittergold

1.
Sparkle, sparkle is the game
Sing your praise and steal your name!
I will kindly take over watch
And take you down a notch!

Hlal

1.
Oh, Hlal who disturbs the flow
Of nosy people in the banquet hall
Go and pin them to the wall
Make it into a great show!

Brav e

Defeating your foes
Charging in front
Ignoring your woes
As if you are on a hunt

It's a distraction.
Easy deception.
A good movement
But within it's clueless

It's not
That there is no good to be found
When you are on the prowl
It's not
That you should fret not
Struggle not
Fight not

You should
Rebel
Repel
You could
Unlock your strength

Remember
Your foes
Remember your struggle
Remember what you need
To rally your steeds

But brave it is
Only sometimes
To stay still
Listen.
To your own will
To your own heart
Beat as it may

Old days' decay
Still shines through the cracks
Of broken fortunes, friends and backs
Take a deep breath, relax
Face to what is, straight-up.

Just Ratification

"How do you explain this, sir?" He waves a piece of paper, a written contract of service in front of the other man's face before placing it gently before him on the table.

"How would I know, man. Never seen it in my life. You sure me's the right person?", he picks the paper up, looks at it, then tosses it aside.

"But I've been with you there, yesterday night, during the after-party. I saw you sign it with. my. own. two. eyes!" He slaps his arms on the table, holding himself steady as a fit of rage shakes his face.

"Oh nah, not me. Not me. I'm a good sorta guy. A bit lazy, sure. Wouldn't dream 'bout faking this one out though. Trust me."

"... how do you explain your signature then, oh kind sir." His face slowly freezes over the bubbling red.

"What signature?" The first man points to the scribble at the bottom of the sheet. "Oh, that signature. Yeah, no idea what that is." He pauses.
"Listen, you look like ya in trouble. Look like ya could need a help, know what I mean? I'll help ya."

"..." He stares at him blankly. With a look between disbelief and utter frustration.

"What?"

The man slowly rubs his face. "That's literally what you proposed said evening. Stop this sham."

"Nah man, nah. I'm on mah buddy's side. Your side. What's they call this thing?
A just ratification, let's do it."

Following Love

What's the deal with following love anyway? Brave, pure, good. Nobody's talking about following those who love and respect you. What about those you love and do little for you? About those you love and are pitted against you? What if you love this world as a whole? Stop messing around and get a hold.

Love isn't a holy grail of yore.
It's not frail or a pile of gore.
It's a force to be reckoned
With strength at call and beckon
A waterfall crashing down your face
Grin, bear and brace
Yourself.
It flows through your veins
You can give and spread it
Be granted it by the source and protector
If you give it you're the one who gains
A treasure and pains

Love isn't the goal, but it's the means
It's a way and an underlying feat
It says nothing and does nothing by itself
It sure is a holy grail to hold your faith

A wayside accomplice, a vehicle, a motor
Numerous crimes committed by their promoters
A fist to your face, lies down your throat
Excuses up your butt, hurting by rote

"It's all for love_-_but I love you!"

As if that negates the crushing deadlock
As if that excuses it all
As if that's enough to stop rain and nightfall
Noone's doubting it, mind you.

So what if it's true?
Love says nothing means nothing weighs nothing
It conquers all, makes the worst enemies fall
It chokes the ones close and holds, and cloaks
What all else there is clouding your souls.

Love. To love be true. To your own love, mind you.
Lies delude your own self, your truth.
Excuses fan the flames of burning self-worth
Pain reminds you of your being alive
It also shows you that you only barely survive

It says nothing, by itself. Love's a word, a game.
Love's all you wish it to be.
Depths or shallowness, lies or beliefs.

Follow love?
Follow love until where?
Until it turns into a nightmare?
Maybe you need to crush it, abandon it to find it again.
Maybe it's all part of a greater plan.

Love can be fate.
It can brutally murder you, mate.
Love is your destiny.
If that's what you want it to be.

I've crushed fate before. Died to get out.
Left my old shell behind
Because the fire gave out.

I'm still following it.
Not the thing, not a cause.
I follow the truth of what it does

It teaches you lots.
Carry it with you forever.
What most people call love
Isn't that special a ledger

Be true, and to your own truth be true.
It is, and will be.
Follow what your will may be.
With love, around love.

Stop following shadows cast.
Just enjoy it while it lasts.
Why not follow your own path at long last?

The sky was black, the smell of fire and ash lingering in the air. A lone child walked along the street, black and charred buildings looming over it. Its face was ashen, with endless tears clearing what path they could through the young one's face. Fear was pointless, happiness was gone, only sadness lingered within the child's heart. Head hanging down, it saw nothing but the blackened hard street under its feet. In its left hand, within rags, it was holding the only thing it could save from its now lost home, a golden locket, with a tiny painting of its family held safely within. The child kept walking aimlessly through the street until someone called out to it. "Are you alright?"

The child raised its gaze above its head and saw before it a man, in fancy yet simple looking clothes standing right in front of it. The child was perplexed by the feathers that were adorning the man's hat. "Are you alright?" the man questioned for the second time. Silence lingered between them, as the child looked up with its gaze ever focused on the man's hat. "Where are your parents?" asked the man, louder and firmer than before. Tears began forming in the child's eyes yet again, which it promptly wiped away with its right sleeve. "I see... can you tell me your name then, boy?" asked the man empathetically. "Wa.. Walter, sir." forced the kid out of its aching throat. "Well, Walter. It is not safe for you to be here, let me take you to a safe place." A lone child walked along the street, black and charred buildings looming over it, yet when it looked up, it had inadvertently found hope.

"Summer highs!" yelled Crazy Eye Po. "Get your summer highs over here! The best high you've ever had!" he exclaimed as he was waving around a small plastic bag filled with white powder. The nearby police car was instantly onto him and turn its sirens on. "Crud, it's the five-oh!" Crazy Eye Po had no intention of going back to the slammer.

He pulled a six-shooter out of his shabby coat and started frantically shooting at the incoming agents of the law. "Suck my shriveled dick, you fucking pigs! YAHAHAHAHA". Those were the final words of Crazy Eye Po, as he was repeatedly shot, up to a eight times, by the police officers.

Such was the end of Crazy Eye Po. All of this, for summer highs.

Sanya had forgotten something. She was sure of it. Silence surrounded her, every indicator was a steady, resolute green on her displays. In theory, she'd done her job to the letter. Everyone around her laughed uneasily and congratulated each other on still being alive. A pen tapped the side of her forehead and drew her gaze as it drifted to the upper bulkhead. She reached up and plucked it from the air. Better not to have items drifting loose in command.

The monitor told her everything was fine. It was all under control, but in the heat of the moment, she'd missed a step somewhere. They were panicked. Alert sirens had been screaming in their ears. The stars had been spinning dizzyingly. People make mistakes when they're under pressure. It's inevitable. She had missed something. Something important. Something that might cost lives. She couldn't shake the feeling. Up here, the slightest miscalculation could be a life or death error, and there was nobody to come and help them.

A commending hand grasped her shoulder and she could feel her body slide up in her harness as gravity briefly tried to lift her out of her seat. She emitted a manic giggle. She could only hope that failing to properly secure her restraints when the ship was spiraling out of control was the worst of her mistakes, but the sense that she had failed to do something much more important gnawed at her.

She stared into the displays. They were green across the board. There were no yellow errors. There were no red warnings. There were no orange reminders. She clicked the pen uneasily with her thumb. "Hey, you alright?" someone said. From the way his voice quaked, she could tell that he wasn't all that surprised at the fact that she was still looking for any further signs of danger.

Her voice cracked nervously, but she didn't hesitate, speaking more decisively than she could ever recall. "We need to check the outer hull."

The voice belonging to the hand on her shoulder said, "Dale's suiting up now."

Good. That was good but she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd forgotten something, and whatever it was wasn't out there; it was in here.

The house I live in now is my grandma's house. My father and I inherited it after her death. I practically grew up in this house, and it's one place I'm really comfortable. Past the back yard is a creek and on the other side is a wooded hill. We have woods. Now, on the other side of those woods is a US interstate. They're about fifty feet up that hill to a fence and on the other side of that fence is a Burger King, beyond that a Taco Bell, and beyond that, a highway, but if you travel these woods along the hill, you'll notice that they don't end and eventually widen out until they join the Mark Twain National Forest.

In our back yard and all throughout the neighborhood, in fact, you can find wild onions. When I was a kid, I was out here every single summer. It was easy to find wild onions. The grass blades were thick like leeks and if you pulled them up, there was an onion at the roots. I'd eat these right out of the field at the intersection where the woods finally came to an end. I don't know why I liked these onions but not regular onions, but this neighborhood hasn't changed much at all since I was a kid, except that when I was a kid, there was only one restaurant on the other side of the woods, and I'm pretty sure it was a Wendy's. I'm pretty sure I could still find the onions, but I really don't have the energy anymore.

I used to swim in the creek. Now, that's not such a good idea as the creek has been since rerouted through a spillage pipe and now there's actual garbage that can be seen coming out of it. It seems like all the changes were for the worse, even though this neighborhood seems slow to change. I guess things really were better when we were kids.

This is quite frighteningly based on a true story. It didn't happen to me but to people that I'm very close to. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. Decades ago, there was a side-show performer that used to come to town. Yes, traveling circuses were a real thing. This performer was a belly-dancer that people used to call One-Eye Wanda. The reason they called her that was because she had an eye tattooed on her stomach and when she danced, she'd make it wink. By all accounts, she also had the personality of a harrassed alligator. Whenever she was in the area if she wasn't breaking into houses and burglarizing them with her friend, she was shooting neighborhood kids with a slingshot, or otherwise beating them up and taking their money. She would drive up into the city with an old 50s Buick and look for parties or trouble up there.

Well, these kids that she terrorized eventually became teenagers, and teenagers have a tendency to drive into cities looking for trouble of their own. It was a group of four friends from our neighborhood. We'll call them Tim, Ron, Eddie, and Kevin. As soon as they were old enough that people would believe fake IDs, they started going bar-hopping. One night, but who should walk into one of these bars but One-Eye Wanda and her friend. By all accounts, the encounter was the drunken stupidity that one might expect; the kind that would do a disservice to writing if it were to be recounted here. Suffice it to say, it led to our four teenage friends being ejected from the bar.

Well, Ron, the wildest and most mentally unstable of our friends spots her car and he says, "Hey, Tim! I got an idea!" He goes to his own car and pops the trunk. From the inside, he takes out a can. On this can reads "Sherwin Williams: Latex: Verdant Green." "Don't you think that ugly old car needs a paint job?" By some strange coincidence, they even had more than enough paintbrushes for all four of them. Yes, they put a thick coat of house paint on her car, including on the windshield and side and back windows and quickly left.

The next day, the police come to Tim's house, and eventually to all four friends in turn. "Were you in the vicinity of such and such bar last night?" "Did you see a car?" "What do you know about green house paint?" Of course, the responses were as true as the Bible. "Officer, we're too young to drink." "Oh, no, officer! We'd get in trouble if we did something like that!" "Green paint? Who'd want to paint their house green? I wouldn't have green paint!"

The mystery remains unsolved to this day, but One-Eye Wanda used a scrapper to get the paint off of her windshield to the best of her ability and chose to drive from that day forward with her side windows rolled down. Of course, the passenger side and the rest of the car were still covered with green paint. As far as anyone knows, she never did get it fixed. If you think she learned her lesson, you'd be mistaken. She only got nastier and meaner until the time when she stopped coming around town.

Staring out into the woods ahead, eyes burning while adjusting to the rising sun over the pine of the Great Forest, I couldn't look at that damned piece of plastic and salvaged tech. But there it rested at my side, warm and still emitting that near-silent hum, letting me know it still existed on the old picnic table. It was on for a reason, but it was a terrible reason. There I sat, and for a while I wondered if anyone would find me in the woods if I let my thoughts ruminate too long.

That cruel companion of me was still there by my side all this time, the only heirloom of my dad. Of all the things I could've had to remember that quack by, it had to be a weapon. Something so soaked in the blood of others by now, all spilled by the pull of a trigger, a blue muzzle flash and the smell of ozone. I'm damn sure the grim reaper will reek of that odor when he comes knocking someday. I hated the short-lived stench more than ever at that moment.

Dad had the audacity to accessorize the blaster when he gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday. Why wouldn't he? Kids are stupid, and I was no exception. The fox-head key chain hanging from it was pretty on the nose, wasn't it? That stupid awe as he finally entrusted me with a gun, gingerly holding the plastic killing tool in my young paws like some kind of fucked-up toy.

Why wouldn't I get a gun for my big one-three? He may have been a mad scientist, like one out of some musty comic book or an old B-movie, but he was still a hick. I've lived and died by that plasma gun for years now. Wish I didn't. Not after all I'd been through up to that point. Not after the horrors of chunks exploding and melting away into slop from people at the pull of that godforsaken trigger. Not after all the times I'd smelt burned flesh and heard guttural screams of agony, seen ragged burns seep blood and smoke billow where viscera once existed.

The morning was rising quick in the Great Forest, but it was chilly as late August sundown was wont to be. My dark-furred hands kept clutching at my smartphone, and my eyes still burned in anger at what I became thanks to that blaster. The lyrics of my jam went in one ear and out the other, some mellow tune now playing bits of its chorus.

♪ Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger? ♪

Those memories of seeing him die didn't have to linger. And I didn't have to keep killing. Not any longer.

My fangs clenched in a knee-jerk wrath, my head whirling about to stare at the pistol. The back of my phone clapped against that table while my blaster still sat, primed for its sole purpose. Had I been paying attention, I would've realized I smacked the device down so hard against the dead wood that it reset with its brief vibration. Nasty visions flashed through my mind, fingers dangling over it when I reached for its grip: the barrel being jerked toward the side of my head, or even aimed at one of the old trees around me.

"No".

Like the meek child I used to be, I delicately took up the grip and, with the click of a small switch at the weapon's side the warmth left the weapon like a dying body. That vague hum, inaudible to a human and barely one even my vixen ears could pick up, ceased as the energy weapon went cold. Nothing left but the lyrics of birds singing to their own melodies.

The burning in my eyes worsened.

"Don't save me a seat so soon, you two".

Those words of mine opened the floodgates, heartstrings tugged to the point of breaking. Tears gushed like the blood I'd spilled of my enemies. I was used to taking lives, so what kind of hypocrite was I to have been so shaken by losing someone in the heat of violence?

But it still hurt. It hurt so bad I couldn't move, but only shook. I couldn't speak, but only sobbed. If I hadn't turned off the blaster, the last life I would've taken with it would've been my own. Even if I felt I deserved it for all the suffering I'd caused up to that point.

I shudder to think of that dark moment to this day, knowing that it could've ended in a flash of self-hatred paired with a flash of plasma.

"Don't laugh", I spoke with narrowing eyes. Eric's expression was somewhere between surprised and amused at my outfit. Though too hot for a leather jacket in the dog days of summer, I was wearing a white blouse with a poodle skirt. Part of me wished I could've rocked that jacket though, but I also didn't want to swelter with this and my fur.

"Whatever floats your boat, fox tits", Eric grinned. "You weren't kidding when you said you liked that old movie. What was it called, Grease?"

"That's the one", I replied, that loathed nickname of his bouncing off me for once. The blouse was stained of course, and the skirt originally didn't have the poodle embroidery, but I made it work. "Just glad sewing machines survived in the end; would've been a bitch and a half to find a costume".

Shrugging as he got in line for the weapons check, Eric was dressed in a wife-beater and shorts, dropping his more rugged outfit. If I thought it was warm then, I knew it'd only get worse once the townies from Lock City started to mill into this one old club for the annual summer festival. The year prior, the air conditioning was on the fritz the whole night and I thought I'd faint halfway through.

The line shifted as Eric spoke up. "So how much prez did it cost to have the tailor put that dog on?"

"Not the worst rate", I shrugged. "About ten bucks. I helped out with the loom and had her use cheaper thread, so that cut the cost".

"Damn", the lad groaned, "All for some costume?"

"I mean, I had the blouse. Hadn't found a good time to wear it till now, but my crop top won't last forever. The material... it doesn't breathe well, but it'll last"

Eric shrugged. He was stoic as usual, but I've seen him dance before and he gets into it. He's got a passion for getting down as much as I've got for singing, and I'd say he gets as much pleasure from the occasional dance as he does his guns. Considering he maintains those damn slug-throwers with the fervor of a true gun nut to this day, that's saying something.

Eventually we get to the booth, and plenty of Northern Lights cops are standing in their protocol stances, their automatic guns held in that usual cold fashion. As usual, Mayor Kowalski spared no expense to make sure trouble didn't get past those doors in one piece. My eyes lingered on a plasma carbine while Eric was checked for arms, carried by one of those Canadian MPs; as much as I adore energy weapons like Eric does his guns, I sure wouldn't want to risk getting melted if a fight broke out inside. Surely those ones were just meant to combat threats trying to make their way inside?

"Name and weapons".

My snout whirled around in surprise. Jeez, guess I held up the line. Embarrassed I replied, "Uh. Dana Cooper. Plasma pistol and some throwing knives".

The attendant wasn't armed or even armored, and had a glazed look in his eyes as he pointed toward a bin. A few pistols and mostly knives sat there. Hell, there was even a crowbar. "Uh, right", I chuckled meekly, already undoing the strap of my holster. Once Greased Lightning left my hip, I then went to my belt pouch and dispensed my blades. "Should be all of 'em".

"We'll see", the attendant flatly spoke as he waved that device across my body. Some kind of wand to detect metal, I think it uses magnets? A half-sweep later and the thing beeps, a yellow-green light blinking on it.

"Oh", I blush under rusty orange and cream white fluff. "Yeahhhh... I forgot about that one". Raising my other hand defensively, I made no sudden movements as I patted a backup knife I had clipped to the inside of my blouse. "Right, forgot I had this pocket put in. My B".

An unceremonious unbuttoning of my blouse later, and I withdrew the fixed-blade knife from its hidden compartment. Just as indifferent as its buddies being dropped off, that blade also clanked into the bin.

"So, uh, can you point me to the karaok--"

"Stop holding up the line, mutie"

"Yeah. Sorry".

The trio strolled the streets of Horizon under the cover of the warm night, the air cool as summer neared its end. As human-owned businesses began to close, the night life in that distinct awoke to bring on the night. In the center of the marketplace booths began to open among the Brigalian ethnic groups, starting to peddle caravan wares and offer concessions to those strolling under the lantern light. A lone dwarf began to tune his lute, a leather cap laid on the ground in front of him in the hopes of earning some spare coin from his coming night of street performance.

"Nothing quite like the city life", remarked Lovela, the human of the three ladies whose pale skin and striking auburn hair turned plenty of heads. "Though I've not had the opportunity to really enjoy Arakhavian night-life. Thanks for the invitation, you two".

"It was Raziya's idea", admitted the vixen Maia. "Rather than hunt like my kin at these hours, the night is their domain".

The lioness shrugged, offering a chuckle. "I wouldn't say it's my peoples' 'domain', but it is true that our businesses stay open longer than humans. Being partly nocturnal helps".

Maia smirked back. "I'm sure that daily rest period also helps".

Raziya blushed. "You're the one bringing race into the discussion", she deflected, "I'm just glad this city's caught on to some aspects of the culture".

"Well", Lovela spoke up, "I'm just glad I don't have to crunch my studies tonight. No pressing exams to take or lectures to give, no demonstrations of learned magic theory either. Just the fresh evening air is a blessing".

"I'll say", Raziya replied, "It's gotta be stuffy in the college this time of year. I can't fathom anybody with fur putting up with it".

"Try wearing a cloak as the dress code", the pale girl giggled. "I wear mine proudly, but I'm glad to leave it at home tonight".

"Right", Maia nods, "At any rate, the juice bar should be here somewhere, right?"

"You tell me", Lovela replied, "You and your lover are the ones with night vision".

Raziya's dark lips curved up like a bow, her tawny finger pointing ahead of the ladies on their night out. The clawed digit pointed out a booth among the cobblestone streets, a fellow lion-person and a human lad among crates of fresh fruit and simple clay cups. "There it is, the Sweet Citrus. And ready to take customers too. C'mon, let's get there before a line starts!"

Lovela smiled as Raziya briskly padded forth, leaving the lass and the vixen behind. "I've had their juice before", Lovela cheerfully added, "They catered for the college once, and their orangeade is to die for. Come, let's not keep our eager Seeker waiting".

"Hey!", Maia grimaced, "I don't even see a menu, don't walk so fast ahead-- oh, bollocks". Not one to be left behind, she strolled ahead to catch up with her fellows.

Already Raziya was giving a pleasant exchange in Brigalian with the Leonine behind the booth; at least, Maia figured it was due to their casual and happy tones. Even if Lovela could likely pick up bits and pieces of the tonal language, Maia wasn't privy to any other than the Common Tongue and Feyspeak. Even then her den spoke in the former more often, with the latter shared with what few elves remained in the known world.

At last the incomprehensible conversation ceased, the leo addressing the others in a thick accent and jolly tone. "Ah, welcome to d'Sweet Citrus, ladies! Dis one is 'appy to 'ave customers so early dis night. And what a night it is, no? 'Ow may dis one 'elp you?"

"What, pray tell", opened Maia, "Do you have to offer?"

The portly lion-man gave a hearty chuckle, "What doesn't dis one 'ave to offer to such a fine Fey-Fox?"

His assistant, setting down a prybar and taking some lemons from a newly-opened wooden box, groaned. "Matteo, she don't look like a regular".

One of the owner's rounded ears flicked as he carried on, keeping up the same merry expression. "Oh woe! You'll 'ave to forgive dis one, sweet vixen. 'E 'as been working on a new menu with new options, you see. But as de sign says, dis is de Sweet Citrus. Whatever you may want of dis one of de sweet-sour fruit, dis one and 'is 'umble apprentice can prepare".

An audible groan left Maia. "That, em, won't help. I am not from these lands, so I'm not used to such fruits".

Lovela stepped forth, reaching for her coin pouch and opening it before her. "Um, pardon", she spoke up, "Might I have an orangeade, please?"

The assistant gave a thumbs up, nodding to the gentle query. "Coming right up, ma'am. That'll be... what was it, Matteo, two copper?"

"Only two copper?" Maia blinked. "I've heard good things about this stand; surely you could charge twice that for such a cup?"

The assistant shrugged, pushing the crowbar's end under the lid of a different crate. "That's what I keep telling him".

"Nonsense", grinned Matteo, "Dis one 'as a grand supplier, no? Dis late at night, de people of de city are more generous wit der coin too. Perhaps too eager after some juice of a different kind, no?" He gave a deep chuckle, looking to Raziya. "My kin, perhaps you might help your lover decide?"

Maia gasped softly, muzzle ajar as Raziya grinned back. "C'mon Maia", Raziya smiled, "If you're so sure of us being mates, others may as well know".

A soft whine left the vixen's throat. "...that's fair", she finally conceded, "Em, get me something mild. Not like those bright yellow fruits. Those were too sour to enjoy".

Raziya chuckled, her eyes rolling over to Matteo as she chatted with him once more in their beastly language. Matteo burst out into a joyous uproar, remarking with an amused yet incredulous tone back.

"Lovela", sighed Maia, "Just what the hell are they saying...?"

The magician blushed. "Um. Well... did you really try to eat a lemon slice?"

The vixen's eyes widened. Gekkering loudly she soon spat in her baffled speech, "R-Raziya! No one needs to know that; what the hell?!"

Another hearty laugh left the proprietor as Raziya's eyes turned back upon her girlfriend. "Lighten up a little, sweetheart. We came out to have fun, right? Laughter at one's own expense is something you need to learn to handle".

"Aren't you're the pot to call the kettle black", groaned Maia. "You'd be cross if I shared every gory detail about you, too!"

"Right", the assistant sighed as he lifted a tall cup of freshly-squeezed orangeade to the sorceress. "Uh, here's the drink. You've got the copper, right?"

Passing a coin to the lad, Lovela smiled, "Here's to a night where you gain much more, friend".

"This isn't two piece, this--" The lad's own eyes widened as he stammered, "Th-this worth five times that. A silver piece for one drink! Are you sure?"

"Sure am", Lovela humbly replied, calmly kicking back her beverage. "Ah, just as good as last time. Maybe better".

A look of surprise was still painted on the kid's face as he gave Lovela an eager nod. "Yes, ma'am! Thank you so much. This'll be a surprise for my mama and papa, tomorrow morning".

"Make that two more", Raziya smiled. "And here's to a good rest of the night, friends".

Standing at the edge of the cliff across the shadowy hellscape, Raziya knew she had no place left to hide. The devil cackled in the background, cutting his way past the walls she'd thrown up before her. Each stroke of the grisly scythe pulsed across her mind; each slice a splitting headache, the nightmare around her wavering into a brief haze.

Clutching her head, the lioness growled in pain. His mocking words grew louder and louder as he carved closer and closer. Barriers of stone crumbled, walls of wood splintered, and now only a wall of hedges stood between her and the demon.

Silence.

"Ashurrrrr", cackled the demon. "Little boyyyyyy, this is all you've got left?"

Her arms wrapped around her chest. Anything to prove to herself she was meant to be a lioness, even one with a mane.

A tap on the shoulder. "Boo".

Whirling around Raziya shrieked, dropping to the ground and scrambling backwards, arms held in a block before her. How did that monster appear behind her?! Still dressed in his huckster's leathers the fiend grinned, the canines of his teeth growing longer and thicker. Human features distorted with grisly squelches, taking on a boar's visage as he clomped forth, cloven feet ripping through cheap leather boots.

A throaty chuckle left the Huckster. His next words came forth in a seeming contradiction, syllables flowing between the guttural sound of his human voice and one like a hog's squeals. "Ashuuuuuurrrr. Stop covering those fake tits, you ugly boy. Fucking freak. I could have done my trick any time; I just wanted to fuck with you".

A distinct whizzing noise and the rush of air, and Raziya gasped; the quick, dull sting of the demonic blade turned sharp in a split-second, blood gushing from her forearms. She cried out in pain; he gave a cruel laugh.

"You know my deal", the Huckster sneered. "Your soul or your life. You've got a whole congregation of people I can slaughter if you don't sell yourself to me. Sure pays to be strong, huh?"

A whole congregation...? She wasn't still in the derelict manor? Who could have pulled out of there?

"Don't look surprised", the Huckster smirked. "Bemus is too goddamn stupid for his own good. He brought you back to the temple to try and have you healed". Cackling and stepping forward, the scythe fell toward the lioness' terrified face. Expecting to have her face gashed open, she blocked high. Instead the scythe's handle rested against her gushing forearms.

The next pain she felt came from a split-toed kick between her thighs. Her innards seemingly crushed by the foul blow, Raziya fell to her side and coughed in agony. Her body refused to move and she fought to keep herself from throwing up as she laid there, expecting a violent end.

But instead of the Huckster's wretched voice, someone else's spoke out. It was masculine and gruff, but it wasn't the one that her assailant had used.

"Raziya". Big Bemus? Was this another trick? His voice was dim, but it almost seemed to pierce the darkness of her mind despite its subtlety. Even so, she could feel something across her forehead, warm and greasy, slowly and carefully applied by warm fingertips.

The pain in her groin was ebbing away, vanishing rapidly, as was the stinging of her sliced arms. And as the lioness looked up, the Huckster seemed frozen in place. No, not frozen, she realized. But he moved at a snail's pace, seeming to speak something and trying to pull the scythe down across her body. Instinctively she scrambled back, and the Huckster didn't follow.

Another pulse across her mind. "That son of a bitch", the Huckster bellowed, but his body was still trapped in that strange stasis.

Bemus' voice continued, seemingly louder than before. His voice was still hushed, but she could make it out easier, as if he'd leaned into one of her ears to speak.

"Raziya, I fucked up", he sighed. "You didn't have to try and save me, but here you are. I had to haul you back. The reverend says you're fighting for your life; I know that bastard's trying to take control. He tried the same crap against me... and won. You're better than that. Fight him. Kick the shit out of him for me".

The shadowy cliffs around her didn't change, and the demonic nemesis was still in front of her. The Huckster's snarls echoed around her, reverberating and seeming to clutch at her chest in a hateful rage. There was no mistake in her mind; the priest had anointed her body, and the Huckster knew his time was running out.

"You motherfucker!" his horrible voice bellowed. "Your worthless priest won't stop me! Bemus' soul is mine, and yours will be nex-- GAAAAAH!"

The echoing stopped and the nightmare was losing coherence around the pair. Barely able to move his eyes, all other parts of his body frozen in place from the holy man's ritual, the Huckster peered down in terror. His sights confirmed the searing pain in his chest; pushed to the knuckles into his ribcage, Raziya growled with a phantasmal copy of her iron claw gauntlet clutched in her hand.

"You're the only motherfucker here", the lioness snarled, sapphire eyes glaring defiantly into the demon's face. "A thief of souls but with none of your own. With no body left alive, your death here will set Bemus free, and you'll have to explain to your miserable gods why you failed".

Helplessly the Huckster gasped. Steaming, foul-smelling ichor poured from his gaping wound, oozing down the back of the bladed arm-guard. His shoulder muscles twitched, then his arms, then his wrist. He wanted to grab the wrist of his intended prey, or strike back with the scythe of his other arm. Something, anything, to wrest control away from the mortal.

But the lioness was an apex predator, and her righteous wrath only cemented that fact.

"Before you go back to hell", the lioness spat, "Get my fucking name right. Ashur is gone. He was never real". A tug across his ethereal viscera, a grunt from the Huckster. He'd had his avatar slain by enough mortals to know where this was going.

"MY NAME IS RAZIYA!" In a split second, with one downward tug of her right arm, the dream was no more. As her eyes slowly fluttered awake, hearing the hushed and hopeful chatter of the town around her, the lioness felt sick to her stomach.

She wasn't sure if she was nauseated from her revival, or from the fading feeling of intestines spilling onto her mere moments ago.

It was my turn to stand in front of the urn, to offer any burial gifts for the poor kid. Everything culminating to this moment was harsh, from the morning after his death leading up to the funeral. The remnants of the funeral home were muggy on this early morning, the wallpaper peeling and yellowed and making the place look even more tacky than it might've in its heyday.

I'd stayed near the back of the line. The pastor's words about Silas painted a picture of his life, connecting the dots of who he was. He didn't talk too much about his past, but the holy man's words only confirmed my suspicions that the kid loved life. Like me, like Eric before me in that line, like most of us out of necessity; we all did what we could with the cards we were dealt.

I guess that's why it hurt so bad. He didn't have to die, not this early. Not when he had years ahead of himself, seemingly unhardened by the harshness of the apocalypse.

I could hardly face his mother, but she didn't hold it against any of us for the loss. His mother truly believed that he didn't have to suffer any longer in this hellhole of a world. Silas hadn't believed in anything beyond this world, so to see his time cut short before my own eyes hurt. I can't speak for the hereafter, but sometime during my mourning I'd wondered if he was right. If there's something better lying behind death's door, it's not a big deal. But if not?

...my turn to offer my last words to him was up. Eric gave me a firm pat on the shoulder, my hands clutching that rose close to my chest. He came off as a hardass to most, but it's times like these that Eric shows he's got a heart underneath that cold exterior and bomber jacket.

So I braced myself. On weak legs I approached the urn, grateful that I didn't have to see his lifeless face. Instead my eyes locked on this sketch of him, drawn on yellowed paper from an old sketchbook. Lowering my head and stroking the urn with my fingertips, I placed the rose before his ashen remains and whispered my goodbyes.

"Silas", my voice spoke out softly, just between us. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I want to believe you could. I guess your lucky star has grown dim, and I wish I could've shared the light from mine. If it meant you'd be around today, I know I would have".

Tears welled up, my voice quivering. "Goodbye, Silas... I'm sorry. I don't wanna make the same mistake again... I promise, I'll live life for your sake. Tell my dad that his..."

I began to weep. "...that his little pumpkin misses him. We'll meet again... someday, we'll meet again and I'll have stories to tell the both of you".

As she padded into her living room, Paige was incredulous. The pile of dishes she'd left in the sink were all cleaned, with the dishwasher even having been run. The dried spaghetti sauce on the stovetop was gone, and there was even coffee brewing.

None of this made any sense. She had crashed hard, tired from the first full week of swim practice. And last she checked, her father still wouldn't be home from work for a couple days. Did her dad's absent-minded girlfriend let herself into the apartment again?

Or heck, did her monstrous ally Amira learn how to do chores? Paige still wasn't sure how being an Esper worked, only that her ally had begun to passively pick up bits and pieces of her modern know-how. Maybe the lion's mind was drip-fed Paige's procrastination against the chores?

These thoughts quickly ended as Paige's leg bumped into something solid. Almost like she'd just walked into someone. A sudden jerk of the head downwards, and the teen gasped.

"Alter, frau Esper", the short hominid greeted "Watch your step. I nearly spilled your coffee".

But by the time the petite person in humble medieval garb began to speak, Paige was already scrambling for the knife rack. "The hell are you!?" she shouted back. "Amira. Amira!"

As if hearing her voice on the wind, the Esper's guardian replied. "Paige? I'm waking up. Are you okay?"

"Hell no!" Paige called back, now drawing a cook's knife from the rack. "One of the Goblin Brothers is here!"

The short human shook his head nervously, beginning to back away. "Please frauline, I mean no harm. I'm not like--"

Just then a ball of shimmering air, wavering like heat waves off a grill, flew out from Paige's open room as it took form. In the blink of an eye the lion-like Amira appeared, her maw curled back in a defensive snarl.

But once she saw the quivering creature before her, the bared teeth faded behind a surprised smile. "Kobold!" She chuffed happily, getting down on all fours and strolling like an oversized house cat toward the sight for sore eyes. "I was wondering if you'd ever appear here".

Paige blinked, easing up the ice-pick grip on her piece of cutlery. "Amira, you know this monster? Uh... you know he's a goblin, right?"

"Like I wanted to say", Kobold cleared his throat. "I am not like my brothers. I'm not a thief or a thug".

"Yeah", Amira purred, rubbing her cheek against the Kobold's. "He's the black sheep of the Goblin Brothers. The only good brother".

A moment's pause led to an awkward setting down of the knife. "Oh", Paige finally replied.

Kobold shrugged. "Irre, right? It's no problem, frau". Raising the warm mug he offered, "But ja, do have some. I don't know how humans can drink such weak stuff. I nearly spat my cup out the first sip!"

"Kobold my dear", Amira smiled as she sat back on her haunches. "If it's okay with Paige, might I have a cup? I miss the magical brews back home, and I can smell you've spiced up the pot with your powers".

Paige sighed, crouching and taking the coffee from Kobold. "This stuff's not gonna put a curse on me, right?"

Kobold chuckled. "Nein. I'd have joked about it turning you into a frog, but I feel it's in bad taste".

Coming to on a cool morning in the rainy season, Raziya shifted about in her bed, awaking to birdsong and pale sunlight as the rays crept into her small home. On any other morning she'd try to let her thoughts come to her, trying to recall what happened during those last bits of the night prior.

This time, the answer came quickly. Gentle arms wrapped around her midriff, the press of one's bosom against her back, the calm motion of someone soundly sleeping behind her. As her groggy head jolted in realization, the stronger lioness stopped moving.

She didn't want to wake her lover, after all.

Trying to gaze back at the sleeping Maia behind her, Raziya blushed under her tawny pelt as she saw the vixen's face from the corner of her eye. She was even cuter when she was sleeping. The locks of auburn hair were messy across her forehead, a sharp contrast to the prim and proper way the fox kept herself groomed.

Turning back, Raziya smiled in spite of herself. Somehow it felt appropriate that she, despite her physical prowess compared to the sagely illusionist she'd slept with, wound up being the little spoon. Fantasies came of explaining her relationship dynamics with one of the villagers came to mind, and the surprise that Maia would likely be the one to wear the pants.

Nah, Raziya thought. Anyone who knows me well enough could see my darling being in charge. Which is everyone in Dawn's Light by now.

She blinked. My darling. Those words echoed through her groggy mind. Any time before, Raziya would have been scared to cross a path of no return. All the time lost to being hesitant toward Maia's advancements, in spite of having legitimate feelings for the trickster. All of the fear came crumbling down last night.

Through thick and thin, Maia kept by her side on their adventures. Nothing could drive Maia away, even if Raziya tried. Not Raziya's anatomy, not her attempts to keep her heart distant from Maia's affections, not even the risk of death and dismemberment. And when Maia came back to the village days after their most recent quest, proposing her love to Raziya and presenting those lilies lovingly in her hands?

Tears of passion left Raziya's eyes, loving sobs leading to nuzzled necks to kissing and... quite the exploratory night, spent mostly in the lion's den.

Sniffling, the lioness snapped back to reality to find herself joyously tearful once more. "Maia", she softly spoke, "...I love you".

A yawn from behind her, a flinch from the feline. "I love you too, Raziya", Maia sleepily purred. "Um. My arm under you is asleep".

Hastily moving off the vixen's forearm, the lioness turned to gaze upon her darling in full. "So, uh", Raziya smiled. "That happened".

"Yeah, it did", Maia lazily chuckled. "You're pretty good at it, you know that?"

"Please", Raziya humbly chuffed, "You were on top most of the time, dear".

"And the times I wasn't", Maia cooed, "You did amazing".

"It's nothing", Raziya giggled. "I've had practice. Only with Jengo but hey, but what are friends for?"

Maia blinked, her lover blinking back nervously. Raziya began to offer, "Not sure if that's the mental image you wa--"

But as the gay vixen gave her cute laugh, Raziya's heart was pulled up from its sheepish sunken state. Maia replied, "No kidding! I'm going to have trouble sitting down for a week; I just *knew* you had practice". Those skinny arms wrapped gingerly around Raziya's neck, now quivering in a purr. "Cutie", smiled the vixen.

Heart fluttering, the lioness rumbled lovingly. "So... who's making breakfast?"

I've been here every day, without leaving, for years. Not that I'm complaining, I wouldn't rather be anywhere else. I have access to everything I need here. I can talk to my friends, I can see the world, order all the food I need. All from this small box.

Sometimes I wonder if I should leave. But that doesn't really make any sense. As much as I thought that it would hurt to stay here for too long, leaving might bring on even more pain. It has before. Regardless of everything, too, I can't think of anything out there that I can't access right here. Home is where the heart is, right?

I'll linger around here, just for a bit longer.

I was feeling the heat.

There was sweat covering my body- and the feeling of exhaustion and stress was consuming me. How long could I keep doing this? Not for very long, that's for sure. Summer was coming to a close- I would have kids to teach soon, and I couldn't give attention to this and them at the same time. How am I expected to educate people on chemistry if it was the very thing destroying me?

I checked the time. An hour had passed when I began those thoughts. A different kind of exhaustion came over me- this had to end, one way or another. It was something I had sought to resolve in myself many times before, but time was running out.

There was one week of Summer left, and I prayed that the heat would fade.

I entered the restaurant, wondering if this gathering would truly go how I expect it to. The stress of social anxiety filled my body- would this truly work out? We were seated, and immediately I realized my mistake.

My groupon was expired. I screamed out in the middle of the restaurant, my friends, judging me. But this is where I misunderstood our friendship. They suggested to fold the area of the groupon with the expiration date, as to possibly hide it from the employee. Would this truly work? Would we get our $10 off our meal for 4? Most of all, would they forgive me if it didn't?

When the employee arrives, I ask for a pancake and eggs.

"How would you like your eggs?"

Oh no. I had spent the last 5 minutes obsessing over the groupon, I was not prepared for this.

"Well-done" I say, in a panic.

After a blank stare from the employee, I correct myself.

"Uhhh, I mean, over-easy."

What the hell was wrong with me? My friends would remember this for years. I was the laughing stock of the group. I would never be respected again.

I hand in the paper, and amazingly, nobody stops me. We get our $10 off, but at the cost of embarrassing myself there. I turn to my friends as we walk out and apologize for almost messing everything up.

"It was a well-done gathering of a group of friends!" one says. We all laugh- and I realize how rare it is to have great friends like these.

He wakes up.

A yawn was followed by the rubbing of eyes, followed by a stinging sensation. His hands were covered in ash. His room was burning around him. The boy smiled- his recurring dream occurred again. He hadn't woken up at all- this was all part of it.

His heart was beating fast, but he knew that too much excitement would result in waking up. Calm, he rose from bed to see the other rooms of his house. Despite his efforts, his heart rate slowly rose. The hall was in a blaze, with nobody occupying it. One by one, he checked the rooms. One by one, he became more excited and eager.

Each room he checked was empty of what he was looking for- but there was a single room left. The boy laughed, walked to the door, the handle blisteringly hot to the touch as he grabbed it, and when he turned it-

He woke up laughing. This was cut short by realizing that the dream was over. Now annoyed, he threw his covers off, and strolled right over to the room he had just attempted to enter.

The figure was built up to demonstrate their devotion. Despite being made extremely quickly by only a few people, it was intensely detailed and incredible in size. It was unbelievable, science could barely explain it.

Rivaling the wonders of the world, the structure became a massive tourist attraction. When the makers realized they could charge any price for admission, an absurdly high entry fee. Only the most wealthy could see it. Celebrities talked about the wonder of it all, the sheer magnitude of it annihilating their brain.

A few months after this, the cost of admittance was severely cut. Anybody of the middle class could now view the new peak of construction. It was the most popular tourist attraction, with the ground around it looking more like a sea of people than solid ground. People visited, multiple times a year, every year.

As the size of the constant never ending mob of people grew around the monument, a surprising decision was made, one that made no sense. The admission price was changed.

Not to nothing, but even less. A person would be paid to witness the structure. By all means, it made no sense, but it didn't matter. There was now no reason to spend all available time fawning over the monument.

Soon enough, the entirety of the world's population gathered. People were trampled over, it was mass hysteria and a flood of people for miles. Families were separated, people were starving from not focusing on anything but the memorial, and any sense of self or individuality was lost.

Until, finally, they all realized the true magnitude of what they were looking at.

As I left the small shack I called home, I saw the sky was on fire.

Well, not really. It was unbelievably hot, though, with the distortion waves caused by heat covering most of my vision. It was so hot, in fact, that to survive for a reasonable amount of time outside, some sort of full-body suit was needed to protect a person from overheating.

I couldn't really afford anything fancy- I had a few layers of normal clothes with a trench coat on top, and a bunch of rags wrapped around my head. My entire body was covered in sweat, but it was still better than getting burned all over.

The heat began a few years ago- not from global warning, like most people thought would end the earth hundreds of years ago, but from an absolutely insane lad who claimed he could make a second sun in the sky. After headlines came out with titles such as "Absolute mad scientist claims he can make a 'Second Sun'" and the like, he was seen as a complete joke. Out of spite, though, he pursued his ambitions, and actually created it, with it orbiting right our main sun between Jupiter and Saturn.

Days were sporadic now, not really following any sort of pattern. It threw off earth's ecosystem and left humanity in shambles. Most people live near the poles of the earth, but I didn't really have money to do that, so I'm still here. In Florida. Right beside the equator, where it's hottest. Not the most desirable life.

I've been managing though. There's new rules of life in these conditions- black pavement is a danger zone that'll burn through shoes, fire or stoves aren't necessary for food due to the outside being a suitable cooking area, and abandoned supermarkets and stores were safe havens.

While thinking about all this, I heard some popping from my hands. Looking down at the bag I clutched in my glove, I saw it slowly expand. There was a slight smile under the rags covered my face.

The popcorn was ready.

A morning coffee is, for some people, the highlight of their day.

Joe was one of those people. He drank it every day, the same way, in the same cup, at the same time- and this practice never got stale. It was a controllable constant in this world of chaos and unexpected things.

That said, Joe went through a lot of shady business that involved a lot of chaos, and, of course, unexpected events. He was the middle man in deals concerning packages of unspecified drug material between unspecified important individuals. It was a stressful job, but his morning coffee helped him through the day.

Today was different, though. As Joe prepared for his coffee, something was off. His coffee creamer container was empty.

Joe began sweating intensely. He looked at the time. 7:20 AM. There were packages on his counter that needed moved to a nonspecific new destination at 8:00 AM- but he couldn't do this without his coffee. He had enough time to run to the store to buy more coffee creamer.

Frantically, Joe drove to the store, going twice the speed limit. In record time, he used the self-check-out to buy the coffee creamer and drove home as if he were a bat out of hell.

Busting through the door and ready to start his day, he prepared his coffee, poured the coffee creamer, and ripped open a package of sugar to pour into his coffee.

Within 30 seconds, the coffee was finished, drank like a man who had just escaped a desert. Finally Joe could go about his day normally- but something felt off. That didn't taste like his normal coffee at all. It was as if he didn't add sugar at all to his coffee- because he didn't.

Oh no.

That was cocaine.