And the Clock Keeps Spinning

DianezeGoddess: Soooooo, what’s up?

Me: I was just wondering about time. Wouldn't it be great if we could, oh I dunno, control and bend time to our will? Then maybe our lives wouldn't be so depressing and short.

                                                                                                Seen 1:33 AM

Me: I know you’re still online. And that you saw what I wrote.

                                                                                                Seen 1:36 AM

Me: It’s okay, I was just kidding. Lol. :D

                                                                                                Seen 1:37 AM

DianezeGoddess: Oh, hah hah! Lol you almost got me there for a second! Nice one!!!

The day is much too short in my opinion. Maybe that is what makes life so precious. It’s because everything has a limit. The day ends, the sun sets, your coupon expires, the food spoils, the rain ends, the night turns to sunny daylight, and of course, you die and your entire life ends.

I often wonder if one could control time. After all, isn't it merely a thing of human creation? We certainly can’t actually explain what time is. In fact, everything plainly laid before us could be a lie and we are lies and we don’t even exist, so in that case, why should anything matter.

Another four minutes has passed, and time is rushing me. Sometimes I really don’t like time.

It’s such an amusing concept though. Time, that is. Children watch the clock tick by second by second wishing time would hurry up so they could get out of class, while people like me wish time would slow down so I could have more time to just sit back and enjoy things instead of always stressing about what’s next to do and how long I have to complete it. (I’m terrible at scheduling anyways; I always delay everything, even when sometimes the delays aren't under my control.)

On the other hand, time seems to fly by with a loud whoosh when you are trying to do something you enjoy, such as spending time on a delicate craft project, or simply relaxing with someone you care about. In that case, is time controllable after all? If I think of it hard enough, would I be able to stop time?

Oh, wouldn't that be wonderful.

But, for now, time is out of my control. Pity, but nonetheless true.

For now.

(I just wasted another 6 minutes of my 1440 minute day. Oh well, I'll be wasting a lot more later on anyways.)

Update

Hello! So I have just added a new page that's on poetry, and you should be able to see the tab right up above, so please feel free to check that out! So far it will mostly be old poems I dug up from past notebooks from when I was a kid. It's a bit different from the usual short stories I write. Thanks for reading!

-Gemini Note

Writer's Conundrum

There never was anything to win in the first place.

It was an ungodly hour to be awake at, much less staring at a bright screen in a pitch black room. The time was somewhere in the muddled hours between morning and night, the objects in the room basked in a soft, yet harsh glare of pale blue, grey and ghostly to glance at. The cursor kept blinking, blinking, blinking.

Her head hurt.

The pattern repeated itself once more. Type, type, type a few words. Words dry like the desert, stale like old musty bread long forgotten in the back of the refrigerator. Emotionless, feeling less, and utterly revolting to read. Delete. Delete. Delete. No, this would do nothing for her.

Each thought and word was like a feather on a songbird's wing. You could see, and you could reach for it, but the moment you almost touch it, it takes flight, leaving you with nothing but empty air and a chilling breeze.

Outside, a nightingale croaked.

She looked up from the millions of pixels that made up her blank page, a glance that only took her a split second, but a second too much, for she lost her train of thought once more in the land of pounding heads and dry eyes.

She switched screens to her social media site. No living soul was online. But of course, who was she fooling, as if anyone would be online at this time in the day. Or was it the night? Was time even relevant to one who lived in a fictional world full of fictional lies to blind oneself to the cruel, bitter, biting cold of reality? Why did she still feel that pang, that tiny hit of a rusted bell echo in her chest, radiating loneliness throughout her body?

She turned back to her writing piece and gave a soft sigh. Months had already passed and still no progress on her project. Nothing had come out but disgusting pieces that were filled of false plastic emotions and a sticky layer of cliché plot-lines. And to think that this was the life she had chosen. Oh well, it’s not like happiness was achievable anyways.

The word want, in the phrase “I want happiness”, implies that one would never be satisfied with what you have, thus one would never achieve happiness.

A sudden growl of self-hatred tore up her heart, gripped her by the shoulders and ripped at her hair. 

Anger seared her from the inside out, but it wasn't frustration at her lack of process, no. Rather, it was anger over the fact that she knew she would never be the heroes in her stories, or the saved in the finales, nor would she be the loved one, or the successful one, or rich one, or the happy one, anyone in any of these millions upon millions of alternate universes and different realities that she ever made up since childhood because those weren't this reality, or this time, or this life, and everything, everything was fictional and impossible to achieve in the end. It was sad. Oh, it was very, very sad.

Sad is such a vague word. Sad. But what does one really mean when they use the word sad? Was it depressing or were you merely sympathetic? Were you struck by the cold metal bat that is the truth, or were you simply just, lightly tapped? Such a vague word indeed.

She shakily took in a breath (when did she stop?) and rubbed her must-be-red eyes. She had spent too long dawdling and pondering over useless philosophies again. It was time to get back to work. The pattern continued on, long past when the sun woke up to grace the world of its beauty, and long before the moon could say hello again.

Time is irrelevant to any situation where you do not need a number to measure how you feel. Thus, time is irrelevant to one’s life.

Beating the World

It's still a few days too early for New Years, but I got this idea really randomly, and I just couldn't let it fly away, so, early Happy New Years!

_______________________________________________________________


It was New Year's Eve, the snow delicately twirling around in the navy skies, saying hello to the gleaming stars and the laughing moon, before landing safely on the blanketed roof-top of a house. The house was giving off a soft, warm, faded yellow glow, and if one stayed quiet, you could hear raucous laughter and loud cheers from a party echoing inside the house.

It was this party that 23 year old Mark was at, skirting around the huge salad of drunk, sober, nearly drunk, and barely sober guests, beer freshly taking from the ice box in hand. He, of course, was completely sober, considering he had only had one beer so far, and had a high alcohol tolerance level, and it was precisely this sober-ness that prompted him to maneuver through the massive throng of crazy, frolicking, hyper college students, college graduates, and just over all excited people, all to reach a familiar, extremely familiar, aloof face on the other side of the sea of jumping people. Somewhere behind him, a high pitched shriek sounded along with angry yelling as a girl beat her boyfriend in some sort of Wii game. 

Wincing as a clearly drunk classmate shouted something in his face and gave him a sloppy, badly aimed one arm hug, he dodged the few final people to reach his destination.

Raising an eyebrow along with the hand holding his beer in a queer greeting, he yelled over the blaring music (Did they really just change the song from his favorite to something by-who was it, ah right-Carly something, Jedi? He didn't care. He didn't like it) at the glaring girl, "Hey loner, long time no see!"

An annoyed frown flashed across the dark haired (Actually, not just dark haired, dark everything, from clothes to shoes) girl before she settled for sneering out, "For good reason too, loser."

Strangely enough, Mark just chuckled before leaning against the wall next to her and staring out at the crowd. (The number of sober people was significantly less than before he crossed the room. Had it really taken that long? Or were they just really good at getting drunk fast? Why did he even know half of these people...)

Taking a chug of his beer, he offhandedly commented, "God, , I missed your terrible sense of humor."

"And, god, Mark, I always hated you as a person over all," she slyly teased back, hiding a nostalgic, minuscule, just barely there smile behind her slender glass of red wine.

Barking out a short laugh after a roll of his eyes, he asked, "So how's Simone been?"

"Still an aggravating idiot," she muttered, blushing as she took yet another sip of her wine.

"Oh please, after what, 8 years, and you still put up that act? You're a hoot, Avery."

Avery began to blush more fiercely as she stammered out indignantly, "It's not an act! And no one says 'hoot' anymore! A-anyways, how's Nickie been? I haven't talked to her in months."

He laughed out, longer, and more heartily this time (Oh how this reminded him of the old days), before saying, "Flitting about,  worried, of course. Although, all her new dress orders really should be a good thing."

"She always was strange," she snorted.

"Oh? And what about you? What sort of high class wine is that, you snob?" he snickered, taking another gulp of cold beer.

Frowning, she twirled the wine around in the glass a bit before answering, "Merlot. I don't particularly like it, but," sighing, she continued, "I guess it's better than that beer. Makes people act like cavemen."

"Hey! Beer does not make people act like cavemen!" he shouted indignantly. Unfortunately, his point was pathetically cut off as, near the middle of the room, another familiar, too familiar, face leapt, no, grand jeté'd, into the air, shouting some drunken slur, and broke out into a terrible, ear shattering rendition of some ungodly song (no one could tell, to be honest, it was that off-tune).

"Whoohoo...! I-I can f-fly you guys! Look at me soar! I believe I can flyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!! La-la-ahhh-hahah! Butterflies!"

Mark's hand flew to his forehead without further instructions from his paralyzed in horror brain.  Avery began laughing, even crying tears, leaning against the wall with her arms, as she shouted out in glee, "No, not cavemen. Like Brad!"

"Brad always was a stupid idiot," he groaned, face lightly pink from his humiliating old friend.

By now, Avery had stopped choking on her laughter, and had instead settled for another sip of her wine and a triumphant smirk.

The clock clicked as another minute passed. It was only a few minutes from the next year.

Glancing at the clock, Avery sobered instantly, retaining her cold expression. Following her gaze, Mark sighed in melancholy. 

"So, yet another year flew by, hm. I wonder where our lives went," he hummed sadly, taking a small, tasteless drink of his no longer cold beer.

She gazed into her wine intensely, as though the swirling, sloshing color would tell her all the forgotten jokes, hazy summer days, and joyful laughter that made your stomach hurt.

She sighed as well, and whispered, "Don't we all want to know. Some days I look into the mirror and wonder if I'm doing the right things in this world."

Suddenly, as though her words had hit a trigger in him, Mark pushed off from the wall and swung around to face her, the condensation from his beer glass flying away into the crowd. 

"Don't say that! It's the New Years! It's time to look forward to a new page! You're doing the best you can, we all are. And we can be tomorrow's heroes, I'm sure!" he exclaimed, arms flailing in exaggeration.

Avery frowned. 

"You're drunk, Mark."

"No I'm not, and you and I both know that. It's true! We, we can be like the Avengers, or, or the Teen Titans! We can save the planet together, save the people! We can make a difference, Avery, as much as you don't want to believe it. You just need some confidence."

The crowd had all settled down behind them, and began to count down, staring fixedly at the small television screen.

10

"Mark, you're crazy. What can we do? The world's too big for just us to change it. We're not living in a fairy tale, idiot. This is reality. Grow up already," she snapped heatedly. Her glare had no power though. Instead, it was tired, so so tired of the world, already defeated by too many, too too many fights.

He smiled softly at her, "Maybe that's the problem, Avery. We all grew up too fast. We've all stopped believing. But, Avery, maybe we really can, and we've just given up too early."

9

8

7

She stopped glaring at him, and looked out at the jumble of limbs crouching around the couch in the living room in contemplation.

"I guess. Who knows."

"No one. That's what makes it an adventure."

She smiled and wondered under her breath, "An adventure? Like...like when we were kids?"

"Like we're kids again, except this time, it won't have to end once the sun sets past the purple hills," he murmured, grinning down at her."

6

5

4

3

"Come on," he said, tilting her remaining beer towards her. Seeing her blank stared at the green glass bottle, he laughed and said, "A toast silly."

She grinned, (for real this time, so happily, so joyfully, like she had when they stilled swung from the metal bars of the playground across the street), and laughed out, "A toast!"

2

"To us! And to changing the world!" he cheered happily over the noise of the rest of the party.

She grinned to the point her face could stretch no more, and exclaimed, "No, not to changing the world! This, this is a toast to beating it!"

He blinked, confused, before slowly grinning along with her, and shouted, "To us, and to beating the world!"

"Cheers!"

1

"Happy New Years!"

And was it a happy night indeed.

Somewhere, Nowhere, Everywhere, Anywhere

     They were two of a kind. She, she was a caged animal, frozen in the same glass box for all her life, wishing, wanting, clawing for a way out, pulling at her hair in frustration at  the repetitiveness of everything, at the cruelness of life for making her suffer through the same things over and over again, at her lack of ability, of freedom, to find who she was, and not who others wanted her to be. He was a lost soul, fluttering from city to town to village to countryside, then to yet another city. He was so so lonely, always the outsider, who didn't know the jokes, who didn't know the rules, the manners, the ways of living. He was always shrouded in a mist of not knowing, of clueless-ness, and of the utter desperation of not belonging. 

     They met on a subway to nowhere. She had been sitting in the very last seat in the furthest corner of the train, staring out into the grey skies and dead grass. He had just gotten on, and had flipped his hood up, slouching to avoid attention. The train had jerked, and both had been startled into looking up, and that was when their eyes met.

     Now, looking back, they could both laugh at how cliche it sounded, that they met with just a snap of the fingers, too coincidental to have been by chance, but all the same too well planned to have been on purpose. Of course, they had broken the supposed what seemed romantic cliche, considering they were now more like siblings, but nonetheless, it was laughable.

     After that jerk, that clicking moment where their gazes met, he had awkwardly shuffled to sit next to her. They said nothing, just stared out opposite windows together, his gaze on the grey skies, hers on the dead grass. 

     They stayed there until the subway had gotten to the very last stop, a small town in the middle of nowhere, and had to get off before they were kicked off. 

     Once off, they parted ways, only to meet again in a small cafe in the town in the middle of nowhere, and once more, they stared out the window together.

     No words were needed for them to keep meeting in that small cafe in the town in the middle of nowhere, and eventually become friends. 

_____

     They always had the strangest conversations. The kind with long periods of silence that to any stranger would seem awkward, but to them was perfect. She would daydream about the wonders of the outside world, and he would tell her of the glowing cities he felt so lonely in. He would sigh about not fitting in, and she would laugh and tell him of why he should hate fitting in, and how it felt to be trapped. 

     Once, it had just finished raining that morning, in that town, in the middle of nowhere, when she had opened her mouth after swallowing a gulp of dull tasting hot chocolate, and said, "Let's go exploring."

He continued sipping his coffee, before answering, "Where."

"Nowhere. Anywhere. Somewhere. Just somewhere where we can pretend to be anywhere but here, and nowhere else."

He drained the rest of his drink, and pushed his chair back.

"Then come on. Let's go explore nowhere."

____

     They ran down stone cobbled streets that had soft green grass peeking from between loosen stones, and between wooden houses painted cheerful colors, sad colors, and old, faded colors. They slid between alleys that were still shimmering from that morning's shower, and found shaky wooden doors that led to long forgotten rooms. 

Together, she found a way out in the form of secret passageways and lost memories, and he found a way to belong, by the hand on his arm, dragging him to everywhere. 

Together, they found the nowhere where they belonged.

Because here, nowhere was everywhere, anywhere was somewhere, and they could forget about all the pain and the suffering and the sad, sad, sadness, and the melancholy that chained their lives.

To them, nowhere, was home.

Red Words, White Wall

     It started when he stumbled into the newly opened bar on a late Friday night. One of his colleagues at the firm he worked at had gotten engaged, and to celebrate, he was dragged into this cacophony of shaking glasses, toxic drinks, seizure inducing neon lights, and intoxicated people who could dance about as well as his fifth grade math teacher could draw (the man was terrible). He had given a slur of pathetic excuses, but in the end, he still found himself faced with more people that should have fit inside this small building.

     He had only lasted a total of five minutes, and one sip of a drink that look like the potions a witch in a cartoon would make (it tasted like poison too), before he had a pounding headache and had to slip outside. Gulping in the city air that, for once, didn't smell polluted to him, he rubbed his eyes and glanced around. The street was empty, with the nearby streetlight flickering eerily, as though it were from a horror movie. The only bodies around were either passed out from the drinks ( he shudders at the thought of the unsightly liquids) or murmuring to a pole while tripping in circles. Looking away from the embarrassingly drunk people, he saw a little bookstore just a few shops down the road. It was practically hidden from view, snugly squeezed between two huge glass jewelry stores that had more ads pasted on their windows than the number of people in the subways in New York. A faint yellow light came from it's plain windows, and inside, he could just barely make out some tall shelves. Deciding that it was better than going back inside the bar, he headed towards the store.

     Moments later, he found himself in a completely different world. The smell of musky books overwhelmed him as a friendly old woman greeted him from behind the counter. It looked family run, with mismatched pillows and blankets piled up in the corners, and stacks of books strewn about. He slowly browsed the towering wooden shelves, eyes not looking for anything in particular. He was simply looking for the sake of having something to do. He had reached the back of the small shop when he tripped over a pair of dark blue, denim clad legs. Startled, he blinked at the legs moved, and a pair of ripped burgundy sneakers, laces frayed and dangling, filled his vision instead.

"Oh god! I'm so sorry! Are you alright?" a voice laced with worry asked.

He slowly nodded, confused and he was gently helped up and placed back down onto something soft. It was a mountain of pillows.

The pale face of a boy, just barely reaching adolescence, tilted ever so slightly to the right, was staring at him. He blinked again, and before he could process anything, his own voice filled the air with a loud question of, "Why is your hair grey?"

_____

     And that was the start of a strange friendship, or companionship, as he preferred. The young boy, it turned out, was actually not so young. In fact, the silver haired man was only one year younger than him, at the tender age of 22, and well versed in the ways of society.

     His name was Gavin, and he was an artist, who really, wasn't so much an actual artist rather than a lover of creating beauty. He was currently studying at the University just a few blocks down from that bar that started everything, and was playing around with, or, as the student preferred, "experimenting with" several forms of art, from painting to graphic designing. The number of whimsical ideas that the man could spout greatly contrasted the seriousness, strictness, and conventional-ism of himself. In only the first few weeks of their new friendship, he had heard that messy head of bleached hair tell him "Alex, dream more!" at least a thousand times.

Yes, that guy was an enigma, but, he mused, their contrasting personalities was probably what made them such close friends.

     Gavin, he found, was painfully shy, at first. The night of their first introduction, Alex had done all the talking, and it wasn't until their fourth meeting that Gavin loosened up enough to start talking nonsense. He had bleached his hair at the age of fifteen, as a rebellion against his strict step-father, and he had kept the look. His hated tying his shoes because it meant he would have to bend down and stop walking (he was a very impatient person). His clothes consisted of skinny jeans, paint stained graphic tees, and faded cotton button ups.

He liked sweet drinks, and hated artichokes with a burning passion. He liked it when Alex wore casual clothes instead of his pristine suits and classy dress shirts and pants. He didn't like Alex's colleagues (he called them idiots, not to their faces of course). He liked kittens, but not puppies. He liked the color dark red.

Alex prided himself in how well he knew Gavin.

But one fact that he knew all too well bothered him.

In all five years he had known the man, Gavin had never let him anywhere close to his apartment, despite the number of times Gavin himself had slept over at Alex's own flat. And, the man never would, it seemed.

But that fact was bound to change eventually, he decided, and it did.

__

     They had been out celebrating Alex's birthday, and, much to Alex's chagrin, Gavin insisted on buying him red wine (he hated alcohol, it made people do stupid things). The energetic young man had claimed he liked the color of the drink, and continued to force him to drink it. After an hour and thirty-two point four minutes (he counted how long it took him to cave in to Gavin's demands each time; this was a new record), he agreed to the wine, and to the picnic in the nearby park.

Unfortunately, Gavin was, apparently, a very light drinker, and after four glasses, Alex found himself dragging the guy down the street.

Fortunately, with the drunkenness came the loosened mouth, and opportunity to see the mysterious man's apartment finally arrived.

He found them both staggering down the old street, past the dreadful bar, and the old bookstore where they had met so long ago, into an elevator of a quint little complex full of friendly, inviting neighbors, and into Gavin's abode. He ceremoniously dumped the passed out man onto a dark red couch (the guy was heavy), and began exploring the unknown territory.

It seemed normal at first. Messy (as expected), but clean enough to sustain life (by Gavin's standards). Paint stained the tables and chairs in the kitchen, and pens and erasers and crumpled up sheets of paper were thrown about the living room. It wasn't until he reached the bedroom that he began to notice something strange.

There weren't any mirrors.

Frowning, he made his way into the bathroom, and found the entire mirror duct tapes over messily. A sharpie was left lying next to the sink, and it was a bright red color. Words of the same color was scratched all over the white walls. Words that scared him.

Ugly, stupid, idiot, useless. I hate you. You should hate me. I hate myself.

He traced each word with a trembling hand.

Was this the reason why he had been forbidden to step a foot into his home?

How long had this been going on? How long had his friend, his closest, dear friend, been suffering like this?

And why?

His throat began to clog up, and he promptly marched out of the bathroom and snapped the lights off.

__

The next morning, he interrogated his friend.

He may have had to tie Gavin to a chair to get the words out, but he was desperate.

He refused to let this go on.

I hate mirrors, because I hate having to look at myself. 

The next day, they went to buy a gallon of dark red paint, and together, they covered the malicious words on the walls, stroke by stroke.

Those were things people have said to me. I've told them to myself too.

Alex now visited Gavin every night, as soon as he was out of work. The man had refused to go to therapy, saying he was fine, nothing was wrong.

He hadn't liked it, but he didn't want to force his friend into sitting in a cold metal chair for an hour each week either, so they found themselves sharing bowls of chocolate ice cream over old cartoons and Disney movies every Friday night, until Gavin had loosened up enough to talk to Alex.

Sometimes, they would fall asleep on the couch from staying up all night talking, confessing, and listening, and understanding. Other times, the night would end with Alex comforting his friend, as Gavin cried over decades worth of pain and self-loathing.

No one wants to be my friend. I don't want to make friends. I don't even know why you stay with me.

The next morning, they would do random things, enjoying the relaxation they both needed, one from his own biting, snarling, vicious thoughts, the other from the pure stress of work and supporting another person's mind.

I don't like the way I live, but I don't want to change either. I'm too, too...something.

That Christmas, the first thing Alex went to do was buy a large mirror for Gavin's bathroom, and the silver haired man watched, tears welled up in his eyes, as he sharpied a border, three inches thick, around the glass, made purely of words he could think of to describe, no, compliment, his friend.

Funny, creative, energetic, free.

Two days later, he found himself back in the old bookstore where they had first met, and found his friend had written down everything Alex had done for him, and the old woman from the store, along with Alex's colleagues (who were no longer idiots, apparently, and rather, "cool people who think you're a hero"), had helped Gavin contact several publishers.

The book was dedicated to him.

He might have face-planted onto the floor again, but this time from shock of seeing his name on the very first page of the book.

But it was fine, because he was happy, and Gavin was happy, and everything had worked out in the end.

(Until he was pulled into the crazy bar again to "celebrate".)

From a Window Sill

He was born into the world of crime, and he was perfectly fine with it.

At least, until now.

__

The moon was hanging low in the cool navy sky, and the moist stone paved roads of the sleeping town was silent, with the occasional drip, drip, dripping of water trickling down the steep rooftops high above.

His footsteps were precise, accurately calculated from years of sneaking around, to the point they were as silent as the footsteps of mice. He hurried down the alley way, glancing around suspiciously. He knew better than to let his guard down, for only a mere second of distraction could mean the difference between a night of riches well spent and a cold eternity behind bars. 

Soon, he had reached his destination, the house of the tailor's family. The small, fogged windows emitted a warm, soft, yellow light, and he jumped up, hooking his fingers on the window sill, to wipe some condensation off and peer in. What he saw made him catch his breath.

Inside, in front of a blazing fireplace, was the tailor and his family. The old tailor was chuckling joyously with his elegant wife, while the younger of the two daughters was giggling, spread out on the floor like a butterfly. The elder sister was smiling to herself, while carefully working on some embroidery. A silk handkerchief of sorts. 

Absentmindedly, he thought, "A piece of silk like that would sell well."

He spent the another lingering moment hanging in front of the window, watching the love-filled sight fill his mind with curiosity. How did it feel, to be in a family? How did it feel to be in front of a fireplace like that? 

He was slapped out of his revelry at a stray bird's croak off in the distance. Hopping back onto the stone path, he thought, "I'll steal from them tomorrow."

And, with that thought in mind, he slunk back down the path.

After all, it was too dangerous to steal from a whole family while they were all wide awake.

He would steal from them tomorrow, he promised himself.

But that promise never got fulfilled.

__

It was now months since that fateful one-sided encounter, and he still found himself peering in through that small foggy window each night, without ever taking anything from that house. He was beginning to believe he was losing his touch. (But that just didn't make any sense, because he could still steal from the other houses, no problem. So why was this any different?) Night after night, he would hop up, wipe the window with his tattered, frayed sleeve, and just watch the tailor's family go about their lives, without ever realizing he was there.

It made him begin to wonder why, (even though he knew the answer). Why did this one house make all the difference in his own survival? Crime was his air, stealing was his blood. Why couldn't he just take the riches and go?

But, at the end of each night, he still found himself stalking away in the shadows, thinking to himself, "I can go one more night without bread. I can go one more night without a bed. I'll just take the silks and stuff tomorrow."

And, of course, during the daytime, while he was hiding from the many swarms of guards that marched around town, he would stare up at the clouds and the bright blue sky (if he could see it, for desperate times call for desperate measures), and his thoughts would wander.

What would it be like to have a mother with soft, silky hair, and an even softer voice?

What would it be like to have a father who spends his days snipping away at bright, beautiful cloths?

What would it be like to have an energetic younger sister?

What would it be like, to have her smile at me the way she smiles so lovingly at the rest of her family?

What would it be like, what would it be like?

And thus, the seasons passed, and he found himself in spring, still clutching that window sill, and peering in. 

He refused to admit that he wished he was in there too, with them.

__

It was a few more months or so, (he didn't count, because thieves don't count the days, they just live), when all his dreaming got smashed by a cold, cruel (handsome, smart, rich, honorable) iron fist.

By now, he could admit to himself, yes, he wanted to live in a family like that, yes maybe he had a slight crush on the older sister, yes he wished he could be married into the family, and sit in front of the fireplace with them.

But he's a street rat, a thief, a scoundrel, and criminal, and heavens know people like him don't deserve to have such a wonderful life.

He had leaped onto the ledge like usual, but when he peered inside, there was one extra person in front of the blazing fireplace. 

It was a well-dressed young man, decked in the finest of cloths (or at least, the finest he ever saw in his miserable, wretched life), and bejeweled with emeralds and sapphires and diamonds. He was laughing with the tailor, and his wife, and the younger sister. He was holding the hand of the older sister, who was not working on her embroidery, rather, leaning on the man's shoulder, and smiling lovingly up at him.

On her left hand, was a sparkling emerald ring.

Something in him clenched and jolted in agony, as a sour feeling spread throughout his chest. Because, oh, how that strange man fit so well into the same picture he himself wished to be a part of. For some unknown reason, his vision blurred, and he dropped down onto the pavement with a loud, careless, heavy thump. 

Stumbling like a drunk down the alleyway, he thought, "That ring would make quite a fortune."

A sneering voice at the back of his head mocked him, saying, "No you won't, You couldn't steal from that family if your life depended on it."

His chest squeezed painfully, yet all the same, a numbness was spreading through him.

Because heaven knows a thief doesn't belong in that picture. No matter how much he wished.

And, bitterly, he thought, maybe he deserved this punishment, for all his crimes the skies frowned down upon, and for ever letting his guard down. (What happened? What happened?) He was simply getting taught a lesson, and he was fine with it.

He was a thief, his life was the steal. He was fine with it.

But as he trudged down the road, his heart no longer bleeding, rather, rattling like broken shards of glass instead, he could have sworn he heard a pitying voice, so similar to his own, tell him, "No, you're not."

Path Made New Each Day

Just a quick side note: Sol in here is the Latin word for sunlight. Also, I chose the name Eve, to represent the evening. 

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At the edge of the horizon, where the sun gets eaten up by darkness, and shadows lurk during the day, is a peculiar town that goes by the name of Eves. It's isolated, and hidden from society as a whole, and a strange place the lost and the stragglers who came down the dusty grey path of twisted dead trees called home. 

It was this path that Eve's dark olive eyes skimmed down, tree by tree, as the van thumped and bumped towards the town. She gave a heavy sigh, watching as her reflection was temporarily fogged up. 

Such a dreary place.

An unwilling move to a terrible looking town. Such was her fate, it seemed.

The town floated into view, grey wooden two story house by grey wooden two story house. A sharp, pointed clock tower stabbed into the fog ahead. 

One by one, the dull houses passed by, until they reached the one she would call home. 

Hopping off the van, she vaguely called back, "Going to go venture around. Be back later."

And thus, began Eve's journey.

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Fog was everywhere, and all one could see, from the nonexistent sky above her head to the muddy ground she was squelching on. It seeped into her socks, and under her torn sleeves, tickling her with cool tendrils. 

It spiraled up and it danced down, twisting and turning into a ribbon, swaying in the air, as though to tell her, "Follow me". Curious, Eve followed the lively mist, eventually stumbling into a stone fountain that she could have sworn had not been in front of her before. 

Looking up at the crumbling stone fountain, void of water, she mumbled to herself incoherent words of confusion. 

Click.

Suddenly, with a snap of someone's fingers, the fog vanished. Blinking rapidly to herself, Eve looked around at the change of sight. Now, she could see in front of her, as clear as could be, all the broken glass windows of the circle of seemingly abandoned shops circling the dry fountain. Shivering a bit, Eve gulped in a breath for courage, and brought her foot forward.

One. Step. Forward.

Click.

In the blink of an eye, she collided with a warm body, and tumbled back against the fountain, only to be splashed with icy water. Shaking her head, she brought her now wet hand up in front of her face, and swung around to see the fountain gleaming with vigor, the crumbling grey stone now shimmering marble, and crystalline water pouring into the bowl below. 

"Are you alright," a whisper sounded behind her. Flinging back around, she found her face to face with a slim figure exactly her height, that was wrapped in a deep burgundy cloak. The hood was flipped, shadowing the person's face so only soft strands of hair and a sleek black ribbon could be seen peeking out from under the cloth.

Choking on stale air, she strangled her shock before it could surface, and managed a jerky nod.

"Good," the voice continued, reached a slender, pale grey hand out from under the red cloak to tug the hood down, "because we wouldn't want our precious Eve to die just yet, now would we?"

She gave out a hoarse scream of horror at the sight, for the sight was not hideous, but rather, haunting.

Flawless skin and a beautiful face was accompanied with eyes that were all black, from what would be the white of the eyes to the iris, save for the blood red pupils that began to glow brighter and brighter.

The creature, monster, thing, ignored her continuous screams as it reached a hand out to gently place on her head, and muttered, "Now now, our fallen angel. It's time to go back to sleep again."

Click.

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Gasping, Eve jerked awake, giving a yelp of pain as her head hit the glass window of the moving van. Clutching her chest, she felt her heart fluttering and her mouth sucking in breath after desperate breath. 

Black eyes. Red. Red. Water.

Slowly calming down, she turned her head to was tree after twisted tree fly by. 

Sighing, she thought, "Such a dreary place."

Black eyes. Red. Red. Water.

An unwilling move to a terrible looking town. Such was her fate, it seemed.

Closing her eyes heavily, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep, with a single haunting whisper echoing in her mind before unconsciousness. 

"It's time for another new day, Sol."

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At the edge of the horizon, where the sun gets eaten up by darkness, and shadows lurk during the day, is a peculiar town that goes by the name of Eves. It's isolated, and avoided by society as a whole, and an eerie place the forgotten and the defeated who came down the dusty grey path of twisted dead trees called home. 

And it is here, where the sun get's swallowed up by another world, as the gears of time keep clicking forward, preparing for a new start, a new day, and a new story.

Click.

Once more, the path is forgotten, and walked down till tragedy at sunset.