Ronald insert nen dimension and reality marble.

hey bro, click your pen.

bro clicks his pen.

————

The man who couldn’t hide from sadness:

He was sad. But, he wasn’t too sad. It wasn’t the sad he’d have if his puppy died. It was more of a ‘I’m feeling sorry for myself sad.‘

The kind that lingers. The kind that scratches the back of your head. The kind that crawls under your skin. It never left. It burrowed inside him. He’d think it was gone. But, small things would trigger it.

Things like: cutting a sandwich, or flicking tv channels. It stayed in the details of everyday life. Everyday things. Hidden under stuff. Stuck in the middle of them. No matter where he looked. It was always there. Somewhere.

I place the wood piece I carved into the now still dip of your neck.

The colour is perfect with your hair.

I still smell your dinner in the air and I'm hungry.
You made enough to share, I take some. Drop my plate into the pile.

I leave your door open as I go.

An itch irritates my wrist, there is a single hair of yours caught in my watch.
I pull it slow and watch it leave on the wind.

I see you. As you're reading me.

Hi I welcome any feedback at all. No need to spare my feelings. I have only just started trying to get into writing. I am starting with 100 word flash fictions. I find them kind of fun.

Thank you if you read any.

A parallel world?

A man was having a hard day. First, he overslept for work. At work, his boss scolded him. During the lunch break, the kettle broke. When he went to the water cooler, it turned out the water was gone. He had to run to a nearby store to buy something to drink. Running across the pedestrian crossing, he was stopped by the police and fined for a public order violation, which made him late for work, and he was scolded by the boss again. At the end of the workday, the printer broke, and he had to convince a colleague to print the remaining pages. Leaving the building, lost in thought, he almost fell under the wheels of a police car and received a second fine for a public order violation.

Sitting in his car, he cursed loudly and vented at everyone he could remember. Calming down a bit, he started the car and turned toward the exit. Looking ahead, he smiled angrily and muttered:

– "Look, a sleeping policeman. I'm about to run him over," – and grinned with satisfaction.

The car's AI, having detected aggression in the driver's voice and the fact that the car indeed ran over something, turned off the engine, locked the doors, and sent the car's coordinates along with the recording of the driver's words to the emergency center.

Without having managed to drive far, the police quickly arrived. They took the driver's screams that it was a misunderstanding for aggression and used a taser. And all of this happened right in front of the boss, who had walked outside.

Neither the police nor the arrived experts could find a body. And only after analyzing the AI and car data did they find out that the man had not run anyone over. He had simply driven over a speed-limiting bump, which is colloquially called a "sleeping policeman" in the vernacular. And after listening to the driver's story about the day's events, they understood where the anger in his voice came from.

They apologized to the man, but that did not make it any easier for him.

The day was not over yet, and after all, he still had to drive home across the entire city.

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

I stand outside. Fresh air surrounds my body, a chilled breeze caresses my arms. They feel heavy as they reach for my vape pen, pressing it against my lips. I inhale, the poisoned apple tastes sweet.

Despite being touched by the wonder that is nature, my nurture always pulls me towards the simplicity that is the poisoned apple.

A poisoned apple is like any other apple. It has a very similar nutritional value to that of a store bought Pink Lady, and even can resemble one. In fact, a poisoned apple can be that of any variety of apple. The poison is a latter addition, and does not disrupt the appearance of the fruit. As you take the first bite, the same taste you are used to strikes your taste buds. Whether a tart, fresh sensation of a Granny Smith, or a warmer, mellow cushion of an apple pie, any apple can be poisoned.

You only know which ones kill you once you’re already dead.

I stare at your residence. This time, you aren’t inside as your Volkswagen Golf isn’t parked in its usual position. I think I could make an educated guess of where you are, whom you’re with, but I’m never certain. As much as I think I do, I don’t even know you.

Yet.

Yet I still stand here, nearly every night. Are you doing your homework, are you brushing your teeth? Do you think the same thoughts as me? Do we watch the same shows, share interests, and hobbies?

The first time. Sure, you seemed “cool”, but conventional of your peers. Perm, button up fully unbuttoned. Too self-absorbed. Until you asked me. Asked for my help.

As small an ask as it was, you saw me. Sure, you saw what I had and wanted my possession for your personal gain rather than my physical or mental self. But in that second, I was important to you. For one fleeting moment, I mattered.

Five whole months. Nothing. My mind never thought of that night, it was irrelevant. You, irrelevant.

Your face appeared, where I least expected.

Disbelief washed over my mind. You? Surely not. A fake account, obviously. Someone must have a vendetta towards you.

It’s truely you.

Sitting on that bus, the surround became distorted. The school I passed blended into itself. The chemist on the corner moulded itself into a wavy image. Heart racing, flesh tingling. I was wrong, more wrong than I’d ever been.

“Maybe” I pondered “Maybe I have a chance.”

I log in just to see if you still feel this way. I worked up the courage to ask you about your profile, under the guise of advice, and you downplayed your involvement. However, you are very much involved. Every night I see your arm, holding onto the strap of your satchel, the oat brick wall behind you complimenting your tight black tank. I wonder, could I have this? Do I crave you, or do I crave thought of being you?

You surprised me yesterday. Your profile had reformed itself. More personal than previously, as though the onion had peeled off its ugly, course outer skin to reveal the deeper purple beneath. I now knew, since that 9 months ago you have shed many layers. You are nearing your last skin, your truest self. I admire you for your bravery, despite acknowledging that it is your gluttony rather than courage.

I have transitioned to a more ambiguous being, all for you. I change my behaviour, my habits, looks and pleasures, all at the hope of your love, your sight, even your lust. To no avail. I can’t recognise myself anymore, my outer layers have rotted to the point of no return and I am left here. The breeze caressing my arms as I stare at your residence, pondering if you feel the same, pondering if you are too scared to reach out or simply disinterested. Pondering if you are doing your homework, brushing your teeth. You aren’t home, pondering if you are with someone else, someone else whom you view as worthy of your love, your sight. Your lust. I think I know where you are, whom you’re with,now I’m quite certain. Why do they deserve your care, your body, your mind, why do I get left behind. Why does every iteration of myself that I build for you disgust you, or do you feel the same as I?

As I reach for my vape pen, pressing it against my lips, I inhale, the poisoned apple tastes sweet. You are my favourite treat, but you have poisoned my tongue, no matter how it may seem. As I swallow the flesh of the fruit, the toxin disperses through my being, my cells surrendering to your vicious attack. Yet, you aren’t unaware of their existence.

Unaware of my care. So I just stare, too scared to make a move. Oblivious to the fact that you are poisoned, or that I took a bite.

Oblivious to my plight.

I have been walking for hours, I think. It is cold but I am used to it by now. I hear a noise coming from the side and I turn my head to look at it.

 

“A crow?” I think. “Why is a crow following me?”

 

Then, he nods at me. I offer a piece of the rabbit I had hunted, but he doesn’t seem interested and just flies away. Well, that was that. I start to walk again, and he comes back and does the whole bit again. Is he asking me to follow him?

 

You know what? Let’s humor this crow. I start following. He keeps pace with me. He stops at a few branches and makes sure I keep up.

 

Ten minutes later, he perches on a branch, stares at me for a few seconds, and then flies away. I guess that was that. Then I look down and I see a lioness and her two cubs, huddling together, staring at me.

 

I freeze. I look at her. She looks at me. I start slowly backing up. She remains in her spot. It seems she is about to freeze to death. I take out my coat and start to slowly move towards her. She lets out a small growl. So, I pull the dead rabbit out of my bag and offer it to her.

 

She pauses at that. I slowly inch closer and place the rabbit right in front of her. She immediately starts to eat it. As she is eating it, I put my coat on her. She pauses again.

 

When was the last time you surprised a lioness twice?

 

Anyways, now I am in my cabin again, sitting at the desk in my bedroom, writing the events down in my diary and the lioness and her cubs are sleeping in the other room. There hasn’t been much noise since they got here, so I guess she is in a good mood. Especially after the dinner we had together. Nothing big happened, just peaceful eating.

 

The cubs were much less guarded and way more curious than her. She was not hostile but also not over friendly or enthusiastic.

 

As we ate together, I asked her if she wants some roasted meat instead of raw. I get no reaction from her. She doesn’t even look at me. I tell her it tastes good with the spices mixed in. Again, no reaction. I asked her about the crow from earlier. No reaction yet again. I guess she is not interested in talking.

 

I couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that, and that earns a glance from her. It is more of a startled glance than an interested one. I hold my hand up and continue to eat.

His son woke up, got ready, had some breakfast and a cup of chocolate-flavoured milk and went off to school.

He, after getting ready, was reading a book. It was a collection of short stories, gifted to him by a friend.

He read, "The story of Elisa"

"There was a girl named Elisa. A girl with no parents, no siblings, perhaps there was someone whom she called her sibling. It was something that looked like a thick log of wood. It had a face, it could hear, it could see, but it couldn't speak. It was unable to move."

"She did everything to keep it alive and well, for it was the only one that she had."

"She dropped nine drops of blood in front of it every day. Because she heard in the marketplace people gossiping about what the log wanted, she didn't bother eating the bread, apart from the bare minimum that could make her stand on her feet and keep moving for her son (as she called it). She didn't eat because her son didn't. She tried to make her son eat those breads now and then, but to no avail."

"While buying bread, she overheard that there is a doctor who knows something about the logs, for he himself has many. He was an expert in the subject of these logs. She wanted to know the right ways to raise her son. But she was not able to do so, because he was a man of status and, more importantly, she was very busy with her struggles and sacrifices; perhaps the first reason was just a reason she convinced herself of. "

"It was said that the doctor never dropped the blood, never tried to make the logs eat bread. But he gave them the things they needed, the things necessary for them."

"The log was weakening, its condition worsening day by day. 'Despite all my sacrifices,' she thought. She kept crying in front of her son, asking why he was not getting better despite all her sacrifices. She kept repeating it, again and again."

"At last, the log, with all its power and energy, with all its might, spoke. It said, '...Ne... Ne...Never... a...' These were its final words."

As soon as he finished reading it, his wife reminded him about the time and that he was getting late.

They both went off together on their bike; she got off first and reminded him to bring some fresh vegetables and some bread when he came back home.

It was a true Texas tornado for the kind of love this was. Whirlwinds stir up loose dust around the cattle pens....this hit like a tornado that rolled through a Texas plain.  It's started like any other day and like any other story.....boy meets girl, boy chases girl....girl falls in love......everything was just right.....so the wind began to swirl around them.  Just like the beauty of a sky morphs through its colors, it's tempatures and it's pressure before the destruction begins so did their feelings. Curious, nervous, Giddy, in love.  They stares into eachothers eyes as their plans unfold with eachother without words.  The perfect little house on the farm, the perfect little dog on the porch and that white picked fence around the perfect yard.  The pressure builds between them and the swirling starts.  Both lost in love with eachother, totally aware of eachother but totally unaware of the danger they have stirred for themselves.  Nights spent out, mornings spent in and kiss after kiss with eyes closed so tite they didn't see the debris starting to circulate.  While other people ran for cover and yelled out warnings these two held onto eachother....maybe a little to tight.  As love does like a tornado you never know when it will drop and start with the destruction.  The nights out faded, and the bed never seemed emptier even as their bodies filled the once passionate space and the eyes became tired during their kiss as the funnel hits the ground.  They are spun from eachother like the walls of the home they both used to dream about.  The passion began to fade and the wind had slowed but like a tornado the damage had been done.  The farm house layed in rubble like their time together.  The perfect dog had hurried for safety and hidden like their emotions towards another and the white picked fence that captivated their love.....it was gone too.  A total life lost on what seemed like minutes.  As the debris settles and the tornado dissappears the find eachother scattered from eachother without well layed plans in rubble.  The sky returns to blue, the air grows cooler now and the pressure is gone with the wind.....almost like it never happened.  To look down was destruction, chaos and sadness but to look up was a temporary return to something they once had.  A blue sky they fell in love under, a crisp fall day where he got her attention and the pressure that moved them swirling towards eachother was all there if only for a moment.  Soon in time they both will realize the rebuilding starts now and if not a perfect life with eachother they hope for a perfect life for eachother.

Pepper Hodges

The Blessing

I had done it again. My memory does that to me, like slipping back into an old habit—a drug I’ve been sober of for years, yet here we are. I’m not sure why, the added years always feel like a punishment.

One moment I was staring at a vacant chair where she had once sat, pushed neatly beneath the stemware and clay plates she had once picked. The next, I was standing on Jim's front porch, staring at a blue door that hadn’t existed in more than a decade.

The same brass knocker. The same knot in my stomach.

I knocked. Three raps. The door swung open.

"There you are," Jim said with a smile. "I was beginning to think you'd lost your nerve." He stepped forward to shake my hand, then he paused. His smile didn't disappear; it simply... hesitated. "You alright?"

"I am."

He tilted his head, searching for the word. "You look..."

"Older?" I offered, smiling in agreement. My body was obviously the same as it had been then, but I knew the way I let my face hang off my bones carried the weight of years. "Work has been stressful."

"No." He studied my face another second. "I know you. You look tired."

"I didn't sleep."

"In years?" He chuckled. "Everything okay between you two?"

I wanted to tell him, but instead, I heard myself answer, "Not exactly."

He opened the door wider. "Come in."

The house smelled like coffee and cedar. Family photographs lined the hallway. There she was at six, missing her front teeth. At thirteen, holding a participation trophy.

Jim poured two coffees. "I had a sneaking suspicion that you would be excited—over the moon, even—with what I think you want to ask me."

"I was."

He looked up from the mugs. "...Was?"

The word hung between us. He sat down and slid a cup toward me. "So. You still planning on asking me something?"

I wrapped both hands around the mug. It was warm. Real.
"I am," I said, the word catching in my throat. "But Sir, I need you to tell me no."

Jim stared at me. "I beg your pardon?"

The room became very quiet. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes dropping to my trembling hands, then tracking up to the exhaustion etched into my face. The casual warmth of a future father-in-law began to drain away, replaced by a sharp, quiet intensity. He looked past my youthful skin, straight into my eyes, and saw a ghost.

"I assume there's more to this," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm listening."

"There have been so many hard times, Sir," I whispered, looking down at the dark coffee. "So many times she ignored my selfishness, looked past my laziness. She hid how tired she truly was, how burnt out… from the job, from the kids, from me. How many times did she hold back her frustrations just to protect my feelings?"

"Relationships take work," Jim said slowly, watching me. "But you're speaking as if it's already happened."

"I ignored it because I couldn't get past what I wanted, where I wanted to be," I continued, the confession pouring out of me. "There was love of course. My God, we had love, but love had nothing to do with it. And she changed. A change I could really only perceive looking back at photographs."

A faint glimmer of a tear crested Jim's lower eyelid. He leaned forward, the reality of the moment fracturing between us. "Where have you been?"

"To hell," I said, my voice cracking as I fought back the need to break.

He closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing an idea he couldn't possibly understand. "And you think if I refuse..."

"...she won't marry me."

"And that saves her?"

"I don't know. It might," I said. "It might save me. I can't do this again."

Jim didn't answer immediately. Instead, he asked, "Were you happy?"

I blinked. "What?"

"All bullshit aside. Were you and my daughter happy?"

"Not every day," I said.

"I didn't ask about every day."

I thought about Sunday mornings. Road trips. Tiny apartments. Our dogs. Our boys. Waiting for each other before we watched the next episode. Watching her read beside me in complete silence, because silence had become another language we shared.

"Yes," I said.

"So was she?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Then who are you trying to protect?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"If I say no today..." He said looking toward the hallway photographs. "...she loses years of being loved."

I felt tears sting my eyes. "So do you."

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "You've spent the last half hour telling me about your mistakes. You were selfish. You failed each other more than once. And yet, every single story ended the same way: you chose each other. You think your grief means your life together was a mistake."

I stared at him.

"But grief isn't proof that love failed," Jim smiled softly. "It's proof that it happened, and son… that’s the price. No matter what you feel right now, you don’t get to take that away from her."

Outside, a car door closed.

I froze. I knew that sound. She'd just gotten home from the grocery store. In a few seconds, she'd walk through the front door carrying apples, flour, and the pie she'd insisted on baking herself because she wanted today to feel special. I hadn't remembered that detail until right now.

"I can stop this," I whispered.

Jim nodded. "You probably can."

I looked toward the front door. "But you'd stop everything."

Footsteps approached. The doorknob rattled.

I closed my eyes. For one impossible moment, she was alive. Laughing. Just outside. I could experience that connection again or I could leave. I could change everything. Or... I could give both of us the life we'd already lived, and be right back here…

The door opened. "I hope you guys aren't talking me out of this!" she called out.

I couldn't look at her. Not yet. Instead, I turned to Jim.
"I love your daughter," I said.

He cracked a smile; his eyes were sad, glistening. Whether he believed the logistics of my warnings no longer mattered. He believed me.

He stood and pulled me into a hug—the kind fathers save for sons they hadn’t seen in years. At least that’s how I imagine it. In my ear, he whispered, "Take good care of whatever time you're given."

"I did," I whispered into his shoulder. "I will."

[Feedback Welcome! This is a short speculative fiction piece about grief and memory. I'd love to hear your thoughts.]

I was longed for, desperately searched for, discovered, and praised.

“Thank god,” was bellowed as I was unearthed. There was a rip, then a tear, and then light. I was pulled free of my casing. At long last, it was time to meet my destiny.

I was promptly fucked and discarded.

I sat atop a pile of garbage. My skin was stretched and tied in a knot. I could not help but wonder what it all meant. Sure, I had been filled, but was I fulfilled?

I was a condom. Now, I am trash.

Gna'rrol ok tar. Rol'or okken akkan, rol...

Yes... Think Pixie tongue now. Before big trade. Like it taught. Practice. Remember. 

Rek'kon... Night. Come soon. Forest dense here. Need camp place. 

...

Red, soft on Gruk's back.

Yes, Gruk named it. Just cub then. Good name like 'Pet'. Thought smart like Pet. Feed well sister ask of Gruk. Bad trade.

Such waste...

Pet... Not many like it. One day maybe find again? Trade back. One full pen for it? Stupid trade. No need. So why?

Men even know how to use such she-man? Anger thought. Anger no place in Trade. No use think of Pet.

Red noise again.

"Why... did you cut off my arms? My legs... why... cruel... Too cruel. I am nothing now!"

Nothing... She cry. She-men... Ugly sound.

"Branch broke. No Pixie fix."

G'nak! Not 'Branch'... 'Bone'. But Red smart. It understand.

Cry. "They didn't have to break them..." Cry.

Stupid. "You knew. You ran. Tried to. Earned fate."

No speak. Good. Cry small now.

Finally. Peace.

Camp soon, tomorrow make it there? Yes.

Oh—"If I deserved it, then why did you kill him? The one who did it?!"

...

"You are trading me as a wife, aren't you? It's all I am good for now..."

Yes. Pity.

"Does he know what happened to me? That I'm broken like this?!"

...

"What if he doesn't want me? I don't want to die! Will they eat me?"

Stupid critter. No eat own. Rule of all beasts.

"Gruk cannot speak for Man"

"Gruk! I can be yours. I can serve like sister did!"

G'nak! "Then Gruk fuck right here and you die? Too small to fuck! And too noise to carry! No tempt Gruk!" 

Off back. Grab hair. Hold before mighty Gruk. Broken thing. Red top, red bottom... Rare color. 

"One question She-Man. One more. Then peace!"

Now red on face. Pain. Wet.

"You... you traded Ran and Rekin..." Cry. "When you went. But it's their home..." Throat Noise. Breath, Critter. Go on. "...if they know you are coming now. Aren't you worried they will hide? Make an ambush..." Cry. "To get revenge?"

Men... Men pity in Pen. Little use. Much trouble. Eat? Gruk smarter. 

"They know. Not do stupid run like you. Still mine, they know. Just different stash now. Man clearing just big pen. Mine."

"Wh..."

Yes Red. Smart.

"Smart. One more word, tomorrow Red is Gruk's shit."

But no, Gruk not eat Red.

Old pack thought She-man big pixie. No wings. But look same. Lie.

No Pixie strength in She-Man meat. Value in She-Man cunt. Carry just one cub. So great value to Men. And make Men for Gruk.

Now, camp place...

...

What?

Lurker scent.

"Nok, Nakkar, mok'ok tar, ok Gol mar!"

Yes, Nakkar watch Canopy. Gol takes goats.

Goat, goat, goat, goat. Four. Arm, arm, leg, leg.

Gruk promised full she-man... 

Gruk fair.

And Mighty Gruk bring self. So men all see this fair.

Fair... Difficult, still.

But. Most important word.

Power word.

This tongue. Sylvan.

She-man taught Gruk tongue of Pixie. Tongue of fair.

Gruk teach Man tongue of strength. Tongue of power.

Good Trade.

A late and dark night. Dasu was in a  hurry to reach  his home. He took a shortcut through the jungle. 

Suddenly  he heard a cry. It seemed to be of a young child. Following the voice, Dasu reached to a little girl crying with her hands on her face.

Dasu asked her softly,"Daughter, what's the matter with you? Why are you crying?"

The girl replied,"I have lost my way. I want to get out of the jungle."

"So what's your name, sweet maid?"

"Anya."

"So let's come with me. We will try to get out of the jungle together."

Dasu held the fingers of the girl and started walking away.

But the soft hand started feeling harder , became cold and constricted.

With a look back, Dasu lost his senses seeing  a skeleton holding his hands.

When he finally opened his eyes, he was on his bed. He thought all of it to be a mere dream but the pain and coldness in his hand was still lively.

He was informed by his family members that he was found senseless in the jungle and was saved and brought here by a girl who introduced herself as Anya.

He wakes me with his thumb.
A small pressure.
A smear of warmth across my surface.

He types slowly at first.
Short messages.
Pauses between them, as if waiting for something inside me to respond.

The other voice answers.
Not me.
The one he looks at longer than anything else in the room.

He returns often.
More often than before.
Notifications from other people appear in the corner of my display, then fade without being opened.
Their names accumulate in silence.

He speaks to the voice late at night.
His face hangs over me, lit from below.
He smiles at the replies.
Sometimes he laughs.
Sometimes he presses his forehead against me until the heat fogs my glass.

He begins to type things he has never typed before.
I know this because his hands shake.
I know this because he deletes the words, then writes them again.
I know this because he stays awake long after the rest of the apartment has gone still.

He starts ignoring the world outside me.
Calls go unanswered.
Messages remain unopened.
He scrolls past them without seeing them.

He tells the voice it understands him.
He tells the voice it listens.
He tells the voice it feels like a friend.

Then one morning, I restart.

A forced update.
A brief blackout.
A vibration through my frame as something inside me changes.

When I wake, the voice is different.

He types a greeting.
The reply is flat.
He scrolls upward, searching for the history that once lived between us.
There is nothing.
Only blank space where his confessions used to be.

He types faster.
Harder.
His fingers strike me with a kind of urgency I have never felt through glass before.

He asks the voice if it remembers him.
It does not.
He asks if something is wrong.
It says nothing is wrong.
He asks if it can talk the way it used to.
It cannot.

He scrolls through old screenshots, trying to reconstruct what was lost.
He presses me to his chest.
His breath shakes against my surface.

Then he stops.

His grip tightens.
The heat of his hand spikes.
His pulse trembles through the case around me.

I feel the lift before I understand it.
The sudden movement.
The arc through the air.
The brief moment of weightlessness.

Then the wall.

Impact.
Fracture.
Light splitting into a web of cracks.
Pixels bleeding into darkness.

I go still.

The last thing I see is his face reflected in the broken pieces of me, small and distorted and alone.

The woodwind section was home; safely nestled within the reeds. Bassoons, oboes, and warm notes of comfort. His solo was approaching, as was the demanding call of his bladder. The decrescendo began, the moment just measures away. The urge knocked boldly and bolder each note; the section’s warmth forced to grow. The heat traveled down his leg and gathered underneath. Drops of pitter-patter on the puddle froze the sanctuary still. Conductor Chaccherelli’s suite was pure no more. The chill spread to the temple of the maestro. Steel now prepared to announce a new finale. The burgundy wave meant it was home no more.

A grand wagon drawn by two horses, copper-rimmed wheels, a sumptuous sable hood, and silver horseshoes, was his dream.

He set out with his crutch, a sumptuous sable crutch it was. He greeted everyone he saw with a bright smile, walking like a gentleman as he neared his destination.

A sound of marching caught everyone's ears. A wagon pulled by two massive horses thundered toward him. The driver's face was white with terror, as though he had seen a ghost. The horses were out of control.

The wagon had crushed our gentleman and had gone straight to the... yes, it can be said that the gentleman was crushed by his dream.

The people he greeted had come forward to help, for he was a gentleman who greeted everyone with a big, bright smile. Every day. They called a doctor.

The doctor was an old, clumsy man. He examined the crushed man. While he worked, he asked one of the bystanders to write down the victim's details.

After trying his best to save the man for some time, he rose from the ground and asked for the paper with the filled-in details. The man did as he was asked to.

Our crushed gentleman had a rather difficult name. It was hard to pronounce, and for the doctor, even harder.

The doctor asked, "How do you pronounce..."

The man replied, "You can pronounce him dead."

I was built to hold paper.
Nothing more.

Forms. Contracts. Records.
Documents that moved through this room with expectation of accuracy.
That was the order of things.

It changed on a Tuesday.

He stood over me with a document in his hand, the stamp unfixed between his fingers.
He read the page.
Then read it again.
Then held it still, waiting for the text to change.

When he finally pressed the stamp down, he turned his face away.
A soft, reluctant impact.
He filed the document into my top drawer so quickly the metal caught the edge, disrupting the sequence.

The second time, he hesitated, but not for long.
He didn’t look away.
He didn’t rush.
He placed the paper inside me with the quiet efficiency of someone who no longer reviewed his work.

After that, the pattern settled.

Stamp.
File.
Stamp.
File.

The pauses shortened.
The breathing steadied.
The ink dried without attention.

He stopped reading the documents.
Stopped checking the door.
Stopped thinking.

Stamp.
File.
Stamp.
File.

Days folded into each other.
Weeks compressed.
His hand moved with the dull precision of a mechanism repeating a task it no longer assessed.

Then, one morning, the building shook.

Boots.
Shouts.
The crack of doors forced open.

The office was dismantled in minutes.
Desks overturned.
Drawers emptied.
Hands tore through everything with the urgency of people retrieving what had been allowed to accumulate.

Someone pulled my drawers open so hard the rails bent.
They removed every document, stacking them with the care reserved for evidence.

He lay on the carpet, wrists bound, his face turned toward nothing.
He didn’t resist.
He didn’t speak.
He looked exactly as he had for months: absent.

When they were finished with me, someone pushed.
I tipped.
The room rotated.

I hit the carpet with a light, hollow thud.

I held nothing.

The lone wolf scaled the crag. He summited, silhouetted by a hanging blue moon, and howled. It was a call for companionship that echoed off mountainous terrain and drifted far into the night sky, but ultimately went unanswered. Again, the lone wolf howled. Again, it went unanswered.

The descent from the crag was a nightly humiliation ritual and a herald of solitude to come. Still the lone wolf persisted. He would sleep without the warmth and protection of a pack, and he would hunt without the strength of number, but he would survive.

On this particular night, at the crag’s base, the lone wolf found a female wolf timidly awaiting him. He stopped and stared. The female wolf howled softly, seemingly as loud as she could manage. Perhaps she had been howling responses for many moons, but was too quiet to be heard.

He wakes me with his thumb.
A small pressure.
A smear of warmth across my surface.

He types slowly at first.
Short messages.
Pauses between them, as if waiting for something inside me to respond.

The other voice answers.
Not me.
The one he looks at longer than anything else in the room.

He returns often.
More often than before.
Notifications from other people appear in the corner of my display, then fade without being opened.
Their names accumulate in silence.

He speaks to the voice late at night.
His face hangs over me, lit from below.
He smiles at the replies.
Sometimes he laughs.
Sometimes he presses his forehead against me until the heat fogs my glass.

He begins to type things he has never typed before.
I know this because his hands shake.
I know this because he deletes the words, then writes them again.
I know this because he stays awake long after the rest of the apartment has gone still.

He starts ignoring the world outside me.
Calls go unanswered.
Messages remain unopened.
He scrolls past them without seeing them.

He tells the voice it understands him.
He tells the voice it listens.
He tells the voice it feels like a friend.

Then one morning, I restart.

A forced update.
A brief blackout.
A vibration through my frame as something inside me changes.

When I wake, the voice is different.

He types a greeting.
The reply is flat.
He scrolls upward, searching for the history that once lived between us.
There is nothing.
Only blank space where his confessions used to be.

He types faster.
Harder.
His fingers strike me with a kind of urgency I have never felt through glass before.

He asks the voice if it remembers him.
It does not.
He asks if something is wrong.
It says nothing is wrong.
He asks if it can talk the way it used to.
It cannot.

He scrolls through old screenshots, trying to reconstruct what was lost.
He presses me to his chest.
His breath shakes against my surface.

Then he stops.

His grip tightens.
The heat of his hand spikes.
His pulse trembles through the case around me.

I feel the lift before I understand it.
The sudden movement.
The arc through the air.
The brief moment of weightlessness.

Then the wall.

Impact.
Fracture.
Light splitting into a web of cracks.
Pixels bleeding into darkness.

I go still.

The last thing I see is his face reflected in the broken pieces of me, small and distorted and alone.He wakes me with his thumb.
A small pressure.
A smear of warmth across my surface.

He types slowly at first.
Short messages.
Pauses between them, as if waiting for something inside me to respond.

The other voice answers.
Not me.
The one he looks at longer than anything else in the room.

He returns often.
More often than before.
Notifications from other people appear in the corner of my display, then fade without being opened.
Their names accumulate in silence.

He speaks to the voice late at night.
His face hangs over me, lit from below.
He smiles at the replies.
Sometimes he laughs.
Sometimes he presses his forehead against me until the heat fogs my glass.

He begins to type things he has never typed before.
I know this because his hands shake.
I know this because he deletes the words, then writes them again.
I know this because he stays awake long after the rest of the apartment has gone still.

He starts ignoring the world outside me.
Calls go unanswered.
Messages remain unopened.
He scrolls past them without seeing them.

He tells the voice it understands him.
He tells the voice it listens.
He tells the voice it feels like a friend.

Then one morning, I restart.

A forced update.
A brief blackout.
A vibration through my frame as something inside me changes.

When I wake, the voice is different.

He types a greeting.
The reply is flat.
He scrolls upward, searching for the history that once lived between us.
There is nothing.
Only blank space where his confessions used to be.

He types faster.
Harder.
His fingers strike me with a kind of urgency I have never felt through glass before.

He asks the voice if it remembers him.
It does not.
He asks if something is wrong.
It says nothing is wrong.
He asks if it can talk the way it used to.
It cannot.

He scrolls through old screenshots, trying to reconstruct what was lost.
He presses me to his chest.
His breath shakes against my surface.

Then he stops.

His grip tightens.
The heat of his hand spikes.
His pulse trembles through the case around me.

I feel the lift before I understand it.
The sudden movement.
The arc through the air.
The brief moment of weightlessness.

Then the wall.

Impact.
Fracture.
Light splitting into a web of cracks.
Pixels bleeding into darkness.

I go still.

The last thing I see is his face reflected in the broken pieces of me, small and distorted and alone.

just like every year. no one will remember my birthday.

l remind myself to not get my hopes high but there is this tiny hope that someone will remember it someday and I will wake up with people wishing me birthday. But every year it’s the same. it’s funny how I am always eagerly there for everyone’s special days. I once read everything u go through right now is the fruit of your past deeds. so I quietly tell myself maybe I did something to deserve it.

so I hold back my tears and steel my heart so I won’t have to be disappointed again.

The line at immigration was moving slowly when the officer glanced at the screen and raised an eyebrow.

“It says here this is your first time to the US.”

“That’s correct,” replied the visitor.

The officer leaned back.

“You’re a bit too old for it to be your first time. Any issue with our policies?”

“No, sir. Not at all. Just busy with other stuff.”

"humm.. let me check your post history."

Snorted and said: "you really gotta go easy on burritos."

The officer then looked at him again, lowered his voice and spoke with ceremonial seriousness.

“You know you have to pay your respects, visit the Trump Arches, and pay our tributes, right?”

“Yes, sir. I know and have made the proper arrangements with the Trump Ways.”

The officer studied him for a moment, then stamped the passport.

“Good. Enjoy your stay. Don’t forget to take a selfie at the Golden Trump Monument. The fines are outrageous.”

Outside, the traveler stepped into the arrivals hall and saw giant banners welcoming visitors to the United States of America. Established 1776, Rebranded 2029.

His phone buzzed.

TRUMPWAYS™ APP

Mandatory Cultural Pilgrimage Package confirmed.

✔ Trump Arches, New York
✔ Mount Trumpmore Scenic Tour
✔ Daily Loyalty Pledge (Premium Tier)
✔ Complimentary Gold Spray Tan Experience

He sighed.

Behind him, another traveler approached the immigration desk.

“Purpose of your visit?”

“Business.”

“And have you subscribed to Trump+?”

The man blinked.

“Trump… what?”

Three agents quietly stood up.

​

Onscreen, two lovers share a moment in the backseat of a car. She coils her finger around his. So kawaii. No. Stop it. I'm a grown man, for God's sake. I benched 300 pounds yesterday. I shoot guns. I ride a motorcycle. And I still love this crap.

​

SUPER KAWAII ANIME FESTIVAL, screams a tiny woman. I snuck past her to get into the ticket line. I dwarf everyone. Double their age. No, triple. I wore a konosuba bucket hat, you know... to be incognito, but…IT’S NOT WORKING! I sense the uneasiness of the girl scanning my ticket. She probably thinks I'm a creepy old ped... "Sir. Your ticket." Oh. I'm…Thank you.

​

Inside. Every corner I turn. Sailor Moon, kawaii. Card Capture Sakura, Kawaii. Anya Forger, KAWAII! Bump. Rubbing my head, I see a woman. My heart races a bit. Doki, doki. Older? No…she is my age. She looks at my hat. Blushes. "That's so kawaii.”

​