We crashed back through the floorboards of my living room. Everything is back in place. The drywall is still. The ceiling fan is silent. The crows outside are just normal, stupid birds again.

And as his window was pelted, cold moisture began trickling through his pane. He let out a sigh and tried to refocus in breathing. In for 4, out for… and there she was crossing through unannounced, hijacking his thoughts. A ghost of potential occupying every corner of his mind. His nervous system had been rerouted around her subconsciously so obviously he was lost. But he has yet to acknowledge his wrongs and flaws. Refusing growth, focusing solely on how others’ actions affect him. He couldn’t even remember the last fight. Rain hit her windshield with the same relentless fervor and she barely noticed. She didn’t dare call or text, but. She traces through all she thinks she knows of him. She pieces stories together to figure his mentality out, silently forgiving him. She painfully remembers their last fight.

I wrote this piece about the last few years of my life. I hope you enjoy it and would love some criticism.

I remember the day I felt fully alive. I wasn't a day old, nor 18. It wasn't the day I lost my virginity or my first time seeing the ocean. No, it was the first time she gave me one of those hugs. The kind of hug that makes you feel chosen: feel loved even if her words hadn't said so yet. Slowly my life began to change. I had someone to take with me to Christmas, someone to say good morning to someone to ask 'what are you up to this weekend?' knowing that she wanted to spend time with me. We got married and I had someone to come home to. We had a daughter and I had someone to pickup and tuck into bed. We had another daughter and somehow everything went wrong. I'm not here to claim none of it was my fault; there were certainly signs along the way, but the woman I loved dearly no longer had tenderness in her eyes. They had grown distant. No, they had been distant. They grew cold. That was the day everything changed. I had been told a woman makes a house a home. I'd seen that at the duplex we use to live at. She filled the house with warmth and brought our dear friends near. What I wasn't told is that if she ever left she would take with her everything she had ever given me and take everything I had ever given her. My joy, hope, stability, identity, my daughters, my trust, my desire to see friends, my enjoyment of anything at all. Gone. It had left me. I was left with nothing but the desire to be hugged with nothing to hug but memories of a woman who didn't exist anymore. Gentleness had become curt, kindness had become hatred. Forgiveness: malevolence. You've been told a woman is needed to make a house a home, but my house? It is stronger than ever - filled now with an understanding of how to love myself. A home again it most definitely is. She never made it a home. I did with my love for her. She never knew how to love me. She just wanted to escape the wrath of her mother and tried to please me instead, replacing her vicious captor with the devouring voice inside her own head until it devoured all of her and then with nothing left to devour, became her. I pray my daughters will escape before the day that voice turns to stamp them out.

📚 Explore the 20+ book library and watch the full trailers: https://DallasWThompson.com

▶️ Subscribe for a new video every day: https://www.youtube.com/@DallasThompson-Author

Can you trust your own eyes? Play along with 7 real perception tests from the science of vision, from a 1660s blind-spot discovery to a 2011 study on the face you can't un-see, and keep score. Every test is tagged FACT, LEADING THEORY or SPECULATION so you know exactly what's established.

Today's tests come with a story: Eyes Wide Shut: An Enigma (Hidden in Plain Sight), a psychological thriller about the border between reality and perception, where hidden truths surface and nothing is as it seems.

📖 Eyes Wide Shut: An Enigma: https://DallasWThompson.com/eyes-wide-shut-an-enigma/

​

Looking for advice on this spoken word I wrote

"I Am Not an Easy Story to Tell"

I'm a little bit of chaos, a little bit of grace, a thousand different thoughts and a thousand things I wish I could say to someone's face.

I'm the kind of person who feels things deeply but won't always let you see. Because there's a difference between being sensitive and letting people walk all over me.

And trust me, I've learned that difference the hard way.

I'm opinionated. I'm stubborn. I've got a mouth that can run faster than my patience, and a personality that refuses to fit inside whatever little box the world has waiting.

But at least I'm real.

And in a world where everybody's trying to be somebody else, I'd rather be a little too much of myself than spend my whole life being somebody that everybody else accepts.

I have a mind that never seems to sleep. Always creating. Always imagining. Building entire worlds out of nothing because sometimes the worlds inside my head make a little more sense than the one beneath my feet.

I give names to the impossible. I give personalities to the stars. I take broken ideas and turn them into stories where even the monsters have a reason for their scars.

Maybe that's just how I see the world.

I look beyond what's standing in front of me. I want to know the why. The history. The hurt. The things people hide behind a smile when they're hoping nobody asks them what it's like to be them.

Because there's always a story.

Even when people make it difficult to care. Even when they give you every reason to walk away. Even when the world tells you that being kind is something you should save for people who deserve it.

And maybe that's where I'm complicated.

Because I can be soft without being weak.

I can love people without agreeing with them.

I can forgive someone without giving them another chance to hurt me.

And I can stand my ground without apologizing for the fact that I have one.

Don't mistake my kindness for permission. Don't mistake my patience for stupidity. And don't assume that because I've got a heart I'm going to let you use it as a doormat.

I have boundaries. I have beliefs. I have things I will defend even when it's uncomfortable, even when it's unpopular, even when everyone in the room would rather I just shut up and agree.

Because silence might keep the peace, but it doesn't always make things right.

And I've never been very good at pretending something is okay just because somebody else wants me to act like it is.

I'm still learning, though.

Learning that I don't have to explain myself to every person who misunderstands me. That not every argument deserves my energy. That I can be strong without having to prove it every single day.

And that sometimes, walking away is just as powerful as standing there and refusing to move.

I'm not perfect.

God, I'm not even close.

I've got flaws I recognize and others I'm probably still making excuses for. I've got days when I feel unstoppable and days when getting through the day is the only thing I'm proud of.

But I'm here.

Still dreaming. Still creating. Still finding things to laugh about. Still looking for magic in a world that sometimes makes it difficult to believe in any.

And I think that matters.

Because I don't want a life where I'm just existing.

I want to make things. I want to feel things. I want to love people who make me laugh until my stomach hurts. I want to create stories worth remembering and memories that feel like home.

I want to be the kind of person who leaves a little warmth behind even after she's left the room.

Not because everybody liked me. Not because I never made mistakes. Not because I was everything everybody wanted me to be.

But because I was me.

Unapologetically. Imperfectly. Loudly, when I needed to be. Quietly, when I needed to heal.

And if there's one thing I've come to understand about myself, it's this:

I am allowed to take up space.

I'm allowed to have a voice. I'm allowed to change my mind. I'm allowed to be a work in progress without treating myself like a failed project.

I don't have to be everyone's cup of tea. Hell, some people don't even like tea.

And that's fine.

Because I'm not here to make myself smaller just so someone else can feel bigger.

I'm here to live. To learn. To create. To love. To fight for the things that matter to me.

And to keep becoming the person I'm proud to introduce to the world.

So, who am I?

I'm a little bit of fire and a little bit of feeling.

I'm a head full of stories and a heart that refuses to stop believing that there's more to life than what we can see.

I'm stubborn. I'm passionate. I'm complicated. I'm still figuring things out.

But I'm not finished.

And maybe that's the most important thing you could ever know about me.

I'm not finished.

Not with my life. Not with my dreams. Not with the person I'm becoming.

And if the world hasn't figured out what to do with someone like me yet?

That's alright.

I'm still writing the story.

I have two brain cells

running a group project,

forty-seven unfinished thoughts,

and a fictional universe

with better organization than my actual life.

I can spend three hours

developing the backstory of a character

who doesn't even fucking exist

and still forget

what I opened my phone to do.

Make it make sense.

My imagination has no budget,

no business hours,

and apparently no HR department,

because the characters in my head

have been through some shit.

Meanwhile, real life is over here like,

"Hey, can you make one phone call?"

And suddenly I'm acting

like you've asked me to negotiate world peace.

But that's the thing about me,

there's always more happening

than whatever you're currently looking at.

You might catch the sarcasm.

The strong opinions.

The joke I probably should've kept to myself.

But that's the problem with snapshots.

Everybody thinks they've seen the picture

when all they've got

is one corner of the frame.

And I'm not about to spend my life

explaining every layer

to people who only came here

to read the caption.

So, if you're looking for a simple answer

to the question of who I am....

you might've picked the wrong person to ask.

Because I'm not an easy story to tell.

And I'm not finished writing it.

~R.M

Yay.....my brain hurts though. Why is book 2 always harder to write than book 1?

Hey everyone! I’m Wren!

I’m a student, and I recently decided to start a little YouTube channel around something I’ve loved for a long time: fantasy worldbuilding.

I’m experimenting with soft-spoken ASMR-style narration, original fantasy stories, and imagery to bring my fictional world to life.

The world, characters, history, stories, scripts, and voice narration are all created by me.

I’m not expecting the channel to become anything huge. I just wanted a creative outlet that would encourage me to keep writing instead of leaving everything unfinished.

Recording my own voice is honestly one of the most intimidating parts so far. Hearing yourself speak is such a strange experience!

I’m still figuring out editing, thumbnails, narration, and pretty much everything else.

Did anyone else start YouTube as a way to stay motivated with another hobby? I’d love to hear how it’s going!

Here’s my channel if anyone wants to take a look or offer feedback! ♡

https://youtube.com/@wreninthemargins

It was a breezy, chilly Sunday morning. I wanted to try this newly opened cafe, they had this famous mocha tea. The craving for mocha recently grew for me. It has this earthy, frothy flavourish which calms you from within, well at least for me it works that way. I could hear Vivaldi four seasons from the speaker played in a soft low volume. There were hardly any people beside one or two. I guess not many favour mornings that too on a weekend. I ordered my drink, and sat at the table. I sat on the chair beside the glass wall. A girl in her late 20s sat just three chairs ahead of me. She had her phone in her hand and her drink in the other. Eyes on her phone. I squeezed my eye a bit to see what she was drinking. Her hand went for a sip, and I saw her looking at me. I was taken aback, kind of awkward. But she gave me a soft smile. I gave a smile too. The cafe had a calm vibe to it. I felt nice, relaxed. I looked at the counter. The waitress was coming in my direction, but without any tray. She came and told me, in a low voice, “Sir, we are extremely sorry but the machine has stopped working due to technical malfunction. Can we serve you any other of our drinks”. She spoke in a soft voice, but I felt everyone could hear us. I felt disappointed to be honest. All I wanted was to have a good Mocha drink. The waitress was still looking at me, waiting for my response. I replied, “No, thank you. I do not want any drink, I can come back later”. I tried to be polite. My eyes went to the counter, where another waitress was coming in our direction, and she whispered something to the waitress standing besides me. I looked at the girl sitting across from me, she had almost half of her drink. She looked at me, I shrugged. She smiled at me. She showed me her drink and kind of gave the expression that it is quite delightful. The waitress finished talking. “Sir, we can serve you Mocha. But you have to wait for 10-15 mins”. I thought for 5 seconds, and I whispered to her, “I want to taste what she is having”, pointing my eyes in the direction of that girl. “Alright Sir, we can serve you that”. I smiled at both of them. The girl was looking at me, her glass full empty. She smiled at me, this time I could see her white pearl teeth. She got up from her chair, put on her earphones, adjusted her bag, and walked towards the door and left. I was waiting for my drink. Now I was eagerly waiting...

Never for a moment

Have I forgotten

The sky of my thoughts

O, rainy moon—

The urge and conflict

To snatch you away

From that very place

The wall of reality

Brings such frustration

Painful and heartbreaking

To a person like me

The poem of salvation

Offers a gentle healing

Full and content

The voyage moves forward

Challenging the rough waves

All in solitude

To grasp this endless world

Within these hands

And then

To draw that future sky

Closer to me

My only wish

Is a tomorrow

Walking by your side

I’ve been having this problem for my whole life. Do you ever get over this, while you create, or do you just tank it through awkwardness and all of your negative feelings about it ?

Disarray SMP — Directors & Scriptwriters Wanted!

I'm looking for creative people to join the production team for Disarray SMP, a scripted Minecraft SMP series inspired by Unstable SMP-style content.

We're building a story-driven series with plot twists, betrayals, wars, character development and cinematic scenes. I'm looking for people who are passionate about storytelling and want to help build something entertaining.

🎬 Roles available:

• Directors: Help plan scenes, guide characters and organise recordings.
• Head Writer: Help develop the main storyline, lore and major plot twists.
• Scriptwriters: Write dialogue, episode scripts and interesting scenarios.
• Lore Writers: Create character backstories, secrets and connections between characters.

Requirements:

• Be creative and willing to collaborate.
• Have a genuine interest in Minecraft SMP content.
• Be reasonably active and able to communicate with the team.
• Previous experience is welcome but not required.

💰 Payment: This is currently an unpaid volunteer project. I'm looking for people who want to gain experience, contribute creatively and receive credit for their work.

If you're interested, comment below or DM me with:

1. The role you're interested in.
2. Any previous work or ideas you've created.
3. Why you'd like to join.

Let's build something amazing with Disarray SMP! 🔥

Please check out this chapter from my novel. Honest feedback on the prose, readability, and POV would be greatly appreciated. Also, do you think the following passage would flow better in first-person POV?

Scene: Dawn and other dark mages who awakened their power in the coming of age ceremony are now guided to the last part of the ceremony, to the council chambers where elders will judge based on their powers.

Thirty of them marched past the dark stone wall, guided only by the flickering flames of rusty iron chandeliers. Without warning, the group came to an abrupt halt. Lost in thought, Dawn bumped right into the back of the young mage ahead of him.

“Sorry...“ Dawn muttered, staggering back to catch his balance on the cold stone floor.

The young mage didn’t even turn around, barely registering the collision. Up at the front of the procession, an attendant’s hands came together with a sharp, echoing clap.

“Nobles first, then commoners! Split into two lines,“ the attendant shouted. “Quick now!“

Swiftly the students started to form a line. Dawn scanned the divide, silk dark cloak and polished boots lined right, dark faded tunic and tattered sandals lined left. Commoners or high folks? The system had ripped him from his world and dumped him directly into this sequence, leaving only his appearance unchanged. He knew nothing about his origins or lineage. How could he know where he belonged if he had not been told?

As Dawn was about to step into a queue, a massive hairy hand slammed him against his chest, shoving him back. “Where are you pulling into mutt” a guttural voice barked. “Hide your ugly mug alongside the commoners.”

Before Dawn could regain his footing, a second hand reached out, catching the brute’s wrist and wrenching it away.

“Now, now, Darwin,“ a smoother voice intervened, cool and condescending. “Even if he is a half breed, noble blood still lingers in him.“ The brute muttered something under his breath but fell in line like a well trained hound. It only took one word for him to keep the mutt under control. He eyed Dawn for a beat, then stepped back. “Malrick, give him some space.“ With a low grunt, the purple haired young mage backed up, clearing a gap in the queue. With a practised smile the savior gestured to the open spot, his voice smooth as silk. “Get in line, Dawn.“ Defeated, Dawn took refuge beside him among the noble ranks.

From the line he peeked another look at his saviour, Slicked back hair, calculative dead pan eyes, pale skin with a noble house crest knitted into his clock. Everything about the man screamed authoritative nobility. He flashed another smile, rotten and hollow, the fakest among fake.

“Now, the first five from the noble line, follow me“ the attendee called out.

Pulled into the line, Dawn was standing fifth. First was the brute, his massive frame hovering over everyone in the line. Second was the dark savior of Dawn, other two slots were filled with a purple dyed student with piercing, and a normal looking one. No code were followed in this school except the attire needed to be black.

The group followed the attendant toward a pair of massive oak doors. Pulling them open, he gestured for the young students to step inside.

A towering, crowded arena greeted them. Dozens of senior students looked down from the lower stands, while armored guards lined the dirt floor below. High above, in the upper wooden balconies, a few hooded elders stood watching. Their sharp eyes judged the new arrivals from beneath deep cowls, quiet fingers stroking long white beards.

Right in the center of the dirt floor, a single wide circle was drawn. A few feet back from the circle, a line of examiners sat behind wooden desks. Quill pens scratched fiercely across parchment as they scribbled notes.

“Welcome! The first batch is right on time!“

The speaker stepped forward to greet them, a teacher wearing round spectacles, a pointed witch’s hat, and a bushy white beard that billowed out like a pine tree.

“My name is Tharos,“ he continued, gesturing around the corner “And the one over there is Crowfeet.“

A few feet away, a second instructor hunched against the walls under the balcony shadows, his tall frame half-swallowed.

“As time is of the essence, we will begin the welcoming ceremony! No time for pep talks.“ Tharos turned toward the rear doors and ordered the guards, “Bring in the prisoners!“

Two hooded guards dragged forward five prisoners chained in a line. Heavy iron cuffs bound their wrists and ankles, clanking loudly as the captives struggled to walk. Sacks covered their heads completely.

Dawn’s chest tightened, a spike of cold panic piercing his gut. What were their crimes? What was about to happen? Around him, the other recruits stood impassive, as though expecting this all along. Everyone knew the rules of this ritual, except him.

As Dawn stood frozen in contemplation, a heavy hand patted against his shoulder.

It was his savior. The noble had effortlessly slipped out of his spot in line and stepped up beside him. According to whatever twisted logic of the system, they were supposed to know each other, yet Dawn’s mind remained a total blank, unable to retrieve a single memory of the man.

“Are you ready, Dawn?“ the noble asked.

Dawn wanted to mouth no, to scream it, but his instincts took over. “Yes,“ he muttered anyway, the word escaping his throat before he could stop it.

“No time to waste! First up, Corin from the House of Iron march!“ Tharos called out.

The brute stepped forward out of the line, his massive frame looming over the dirt circle. A guard stepped up, unlocked the lead chain from the line of captives, and guided a single prisoner with wrists and ankles still bound and forced him onto his knees directly before Corin.

“Start the timer on my mark! Corin, show us your power. The elders will judge!“

Tharos gave him a brief moment to prepare, but the brute looked more than ready, standing unnaturally tall and broad for a mage. As the signal was given, a guard flipped a heavy hourglass upside down, and grains of dark sand began to trickle down through the glass.

Corin activated his skill. From his broad shoulders, two massive arms made of solid shadow erupted into the air. With a brutal burst of violence, the giant hands of shadow slammed down, pummeling the helpless prisoner into the dirt.

After the fist’s first heavy impact, Dawn instinctively dropped his gaze toward the floor. Before he could look away, a firm hand clamped around his jaw and yanked his face back up.

“Don’t look down,“ a smooth voice whispered near his ear. “Look around us, Dawn. None of them are staring at the dirt. They are all looking death straight in the eye.“

The slick haired noble tilted Dawn’s head upward toward the balcony. “The elders are watching.“ He turned Dawn’s face back down toward the desk of instructors. “We are being judged. Act according to our noble name.“

He released his grip, leaving Dawn forced to witness the brutal onslaught as shadow hands mangled the lifeless body. Dawn was no stranger to butchering livestock or the stench of rotting animal carcasses but now he would have to get used to the sight and smell of human blood too.

“And time!“ The guard flipped the hourglass flat and checked the remaining sand. “Ten seconds!“ he announced to the arena.

Tharos shook his head slightly. “If you had stopped your meaningless rampage early, that could have been a record.“

Across the arena wall, the grand slate board shuddered. The name holding tenth place dropped lower, triggering a domino effect down the line. The fiftieth name vanished from the bottom entirely as the forty ninth slipped into its place.

“You are currently tenth on the leaderboard,“ Tharos announced.

Corin threw his arms wide, flexing his massive muscles in triumph as a handful of senior students scattered throughout the crowd offered lazy applause. High above in the balcony, the elders remained silence, unimpressed. At the long wooden bench, the examiners jotted down their notes.

After allowing Corin a brief moment to bathe in his glory, the guards escorted him out of the ring. A cleanup crew rushed in immediately, dragging the mangled remains away and leaving behind only a slick, pool of blood staine in the center of the dirt.

“Now for our second recruit, Matthew of the Vlodrath family! Come forward,“ Tharos called out.

The savior with the polished black hair stepped smoothly into the spotlight. A wave of murmurs rippled through the arena. A few senior students cheered, while others looked on with sharp, astonished eyes.

Dawn watched him walk forward, his lingering suspicions confirmed. Matthew was clearly from a high ranking house and dawn belong to the same house as him.

“Now once I give the signal, you can show your powers to the elders“. Dawn frowned, by showing powers now has a darker meaning then anything else.

As Tharos signaled, Matthew took out the dagger from his belt and lunged at the prisoner, slitting his throat without a shred of remorse. Not a single second was wasted.

He glanced over at the guard operating the hourglass and shrugged. “Turn the hourglass upside down again!“

“The trial only ends when you show us your powers. It’s not about how fast you can kill,“ Tharos snapped, giving him a scornful look.

High above, a few elders gasped in disappointment, while the examiners at the desk didn’t even look fazed, they had seen this arrogant rookie mistake a thousand times before.

“Fine,“ Matthew declared.

He opened his palm and twitched his fingers, weaving invisible dark threads from his finger tips that slid directly into the fresh wound on the prisoner’s neck. He held the stance for a moment before commanding in an cold voice, “Arise!“

The dead body mechanically jerked upward to its feet.

“A Puppeteer,“ one elder murmured from the balcony, sounding quiet impressed. Beside him, another wore a proud smile, as if to say, That’s my boy.

“And that’s time!“ Tharos shouted, glaring toward the guard.

“Twenty seconds!“ the guard called out.

The reanimated corpse stumbled forward a few feet before collapsing back into the dirt like a broken rag doll. As the cleanup crew dragged the body away, Matthew walked past Dawn, silently lipping the words good luck before stepping out of the arena.

As the lineup moved faster and faster, Dawn fidgeted nervously with his hands. He checked his status screen several times, but the truth remained unyielding. Neither the class bestowed upon him nor his skills had changed.

Up ahead, the queue dissolved quickly. The purple-haired boy summoned a small brigade of skeletons to tear into his target, while the quiet silence student calmly coated his blade in poison before finishing off his prisoner. They logged times of thirty and thirty five seconds, respectively.

Finally, the floor was cleared and his Dawn’s turn.

“Velkar from-” his voice suddenly cutting out with a strange, unnatural static. Tharos entire frame glitched for a fraction of a second. As if the system is fixing a mistake, “...Dawn from the Vlodrath family!“

Dawn didn’t bother worrying about the system glitch. He had far bigger problems to survive right now. He swallowed hard and stepped into the center of the circle.

“Wait for my signal. Then, you may use your power,“ Tharos said.

Dawn could feel the weight of every eye in the arena preying upon him. Tharos gave the signal, and the guard flipped the hourglass.

Dawn activated his skill: Summon Orb.

A tiny black sphere materialized in the air in front of him, hovered for a split second, and then dropped straight into the dirt with a pathetic plop.

A wave of muffled chuckles rippled through the stands. Tharos quickly silenced the crowd with a sharp glare before gesturing for Dawn to proceed. Over at the instructors’ bench, however, the examiners leaned into one another, exchanging urgent whispers.

“What is your class?“ one of the examiners called out, breaking protocol.

“It’s called Void Caller... ah, sir,“ Dawn replied, his voice barely holding steady.

The examiner slid his spectacles down the bridge of his nose, squinting at his parchment. “And what is the rank of your class and skill?“

“SSS-rank, sir. Both of them.“

“Continue,“ the examiner ordered flatly, turning back to his colleagues as they frantically began scribbling notes and debating among themselves.

Dawn took the sphere into his hands, looking out at the crowd. Up close, it resembled a heavy iron cannonball, polished slick like a black bowling ball without finger holes. When he lifted it with both hands, the weight sank heavily into his arms, around twenty pounds of solid black metal.

“What is your power again?“ the examiner pressed, leaning over his notes as the sand inside the hourglass slowly dripped away.

“Ah... it’s this,“ Dawn stammered. He lifted the iron sphere, balancing it in both hands to show the entire gallery. “I can summon this ball.“

A sudden wave of roaring laughter erupted from the senior students.

“Silence! Silence!“ Tharos barked, glaring sharply at the laughing crowd. “Let Dawn from House Vlodrath finish his-”

“That insolent brat is not from the Vlodrath family!“

A roar interrupted and shattered the mood as an old bastard in the balcony jumped from his seat, leaning over the wooden railing with a face twisted in rage. “I have controlled enough tolerance, One member’s failure to control his sexual urge will not leave a black mark to the entire clan! Never utter our house name again alongside that brat’s name.“

With that single outburst, the entire chamber went dead silent.

What did I do to piss that old fellow off again?

Dawn stared down at the heavy black sphere resting in his hands. Holding it tight, he took a hesitant step toward the kneeling prisoner. Beneath the rough sack, the captive let out muffled, frantic whimpers, his mouth bound tight beneath the cloth.

Dawn glanced back over his shoulder at Tharos and the examiners, his wide, desperate eyes silently pleading for someone to intervene.

The pressure unlocked a core memory, where he had stood frozen on a stage during a speech competition, paralyzed under the glare of a hundred staring faces. But this wasn’t a speech. He didn’t want his first act in this world to be murdering a helpless man with a twenty pound bowling ball.

A tongue clicked sharply from the darkness.

It was Crowfeet. The instructor hidden beneath the shadow glided forward, his tall frame cutting through the dim light as he clenched his fists. Without a word of warning, Crowfeet grabbed the prisoner by the head, slammed him face first into the dirt, and pushed his knee into the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground.

“The timer won’t stop until you kill him,“ He pointed a long, bony finger at the sphere in Dawn’s hands. “You hold a weapon. Use it.“

Dawn’s hands trembled as he adjusted his grip on the heavy sphere. He closed the distance, raising the ball up near his chin to gain momentum.

“H-huh...“ Dawn gasped, losing his balance for a fraction of a second.

“If you drop that on my leg, I will kill you myself,“ Crowfeet growled without looking up.

A few muffled snickers snuck out from the senior students in the stands, though Dawn took a small, twisted comfort in knowing the other particpants had already been escorted out and couldn’t witness this embarrassment. Still, Crowfeet’s threat worked. Panic surged through Dawn’s veins. He quickly lowered the heavy ball back down to his waist, bent his knees, and released his grip, the sphere went down toward the captive’s head.

Crack.

The heavy iron smashed into the prisoner’s nose with a sickening crunch. The ball rebounded off the face and rolled away into the dirt. blood instantly soaked through the sack.

Dawn spun around, gulping his bile back to his stomach.

Crowfeet let out a long, disappointed sigh. Raising his hand, he activated a telekinesis skill, the iron orb lifted off the ground and floated directly into his palm. Wrapping his fingers around the ball, the instructor brought the sphere down onto the prisoner’s head again and again, raining relentless blows until the captive stopped breathing and the skull caved in completely.

Crowfeet tossed the bloody sphere carelessly into the dirt.

“Stop the timer!“ Tharos shook his head. “It doesn’t even count!“

Before Dawn could even catch his breath or wipe the cold sweat from his forehead, two guards stepped up, grabbed him by the arms, and forcefully escorted him out of the arena.

I am not depressed or burned out … but I had a hard time expressing how it felt going to work on the daily.

A ray of sunshine?…

I have a scar that will not stop growing.

Sometimes, I pick at the keloid, convincing myself that it has grown smaller, that perhaps the wound is finally healing. I peel away at its edges, searching for the skin that existed before it. For a moment, the surface appears smoother, the scar less conspicuous. Almost gone.

But it always returns. Thicker. Uglier. Harder than before.

I have tried to reason with my resentment. Things could be worse, I remind myself. Time will eventually carry me somewhere else. None of it matters. The resentment simply grows, quietly and stubbornly, the way scars do.

And yet, every morning, I return to the place where it grows.

The janitor greets me with a fist bump. The respiratory therapist tells me about his family in Haiti. The charge nurse shares her plans to return to school to become a nurse practitioner.

And they seem happy to see me. You’re like a ray of sunshine, they say.

Perhaps what they see is merely the light of a star that died millennia ago.

Once, a patient asked what I had planned for the weekend. Nothing came. For a moment, the question seemed meant for someone who wasn’t there.

As I leave the building, the keloid begins to itch. Then it grows. By the time I reach my car, the ray of sunshine they see is gone.

The people inside blur. Their names vanish. Their stories crumble. I joke about it, of course. But the truth is harder to admit: this place never mattered to me. Nothing within it ever did. I arrived already wanting to leave.

Like all keloids, it grows past the edges of the original wound.

The reflection in the mirror saddens me. Unrecognizable. He stands tall, wearing a smile that could fool even those who love him most. But I know him. The weariness in his eyes cannot lie. There is no light.

Then, on the horizon, a sunrise. The first light of spring, finding its way back to me.

My sister telling me about her day. A friend, nervous and excited about a date. My mother describing what she is cooking for dinner.

A spark catches. A familiar warmth returns.

For a moment, I am back.

I look for the scar. Was there ever a keloid there at all?

But even in the warmth, a small fear remains. The darkness will return. Perhaps it will take more of me this time.

A tap on my shoulder. The janitor.

I smile and give him a fist bump.

Hey there, this has to be the very first Reddit post of mine. I have been trying to take up writing seriously once more recently, and began writing about a historical bedouin tribe and their adventures in a quasi-fictional timeline. I'm badly in need of more people to read and let me know what they think. Because most of the people in my personal-life circle aren't avid readers.

Please don't mind the UI-issues on the website as I could only do so much on my own. Here's the link to the series on the webpage run by me personally: https://mothnest.net/tag/banu-numayr/ or https://mothnest.net/category/proses/stories/stories_cont/banu-numayr/ with a short introduction as well.

Don't hold back, and thank you so much in advance. I wish you all the best of muses.

Editing: There are currently three episodes, and they all are around 10-minutes-reading mark.

They say drivers were handed their futures on a platter of gold
The predestined
The chosen one
Forged under the spotlight he’s destined to thrive under
⁣
But people forget they too were once children
Children led by ambition and cradled by fear
Children who were told they were predestined
⁣
Tell a child he will be great everyday of his life and you believe it before he does
Pressure mounts on shoulders too small to bear the weight
⁣
Tell a child his value comes from the money he brings home
And try to act surprised when he auctions his sanity
His dignity for sale to placate the hand that feeds him
Not love, not valour
Watch his heart bleed
So he can be served on greater platters of gold
⁣
Parents intoxicated by vanity, beside brandished children
Heirs to the life they’re conditioned to want
Forced to stand straight beneath the crowns too large for their developing minds
⁣
Their names are the first trophy in the showcase
Locked behind the glass like it brings them honour
Forever etched in glass, behind a visor
You’ll see his eyes and think you know him
But the soul of the little boy was sold for the brand stamped on his forehead,
A sticker book of the greed they traded his childhood for
⁣
Children forced to be men
⁣
A man that will hide behind armour that saves him from fire
But a suit of armour won’t save the remnants of the boy that wore them first
The boy who shared his eyes, shared his face, shared everything but his passion
The passion he was taught from his parents that valued him at every medical appointment
Like a sheep for slaughter
He performed for them, but everything was never enough
⁣
So even today as engines catch fire they cannot ignite the desire to be more
The red lights flash on periodically, like the heartbeat in his ears
The little boy vanishes under the rubble, leaving the man bearing the weight of the crown he never chose to wear
His parents wear smiles that tell him the bank needs more blood so they call upon the child for more
Anything to keep his platter of gold

— zephyr’s echo