Best Intentions

I want to know if I was wrong. I want to know if I made a mistake when I was trying to help. I had the best intentions, but it’s all gone horribly wrong and I can’t help but feel that I’ve caused it all. Am I a bad person?
His name was Brand, and he was always the quiet type. He kept to himself, and all of my friends didn’t have much to say about him. Cassie didn’t even know who he was, but she didn’t seem to know who the rest of us were certain nights. When he was picked to answer in class, he kept his answers brief and focused, and usually correct as well. He was clearly intelligent, just not a great socialite. Me and my friends, on the other hand, all we could do right was talk. Lira was the most intelligent of our little group, and even she failed tests sometimes. Cassie hardly even turned up to tests, and even fewer times totally sober. We could help him, and I could initiate it.
So I did start it; I found him one lunch and introduced myself. Our first ‘conversation’ was mostly me talking about me, and I felt bad after half an hour. I did ask about him, but much like the teachers I was met with single-word answers. Nevertheless, I felt like we were making progress, and I decided that the next time I’d bring Lira along to try to stir some real conversation. She was the smartest, making her the best match with him, and I thought they’d have something in common.
The next day, Lira found him before I did and greeted him with her usual cute smile. She was the prettiest of us, at least to me; she had long raven-black hair and bright brown eyes. She was slender too, and her skin was pretty much flawless. I know I was always jealous of her, but I could get over it. Not like Cassie, she regularly complained to me and Rosa about not being ‘hot enough’ for whatever boy bought her alcohol that week. Regardless, Lira found him and actually managed to get more than a single word out of him. She got three, in fact. ‘Leave me alone’. She came to me and had clearly taken it more personally than most would. Her eyes weren’t bright and happy, and she was quiet. I held her and we left him that day.
After a night of thinking, I decided I needed to tell Brand what I was trying to do. He hurt Lira, and he seemed to do it pretty quickly. I found him in his corner and apologised for bothering him. I said I thought he seemed nice and that I wanted to be his friend. He apologised for snapping at Lira and I told him to tell her himself. I called it a good first step, at least for him. I took him to Lira and sure enough he apologised to her. She accepted it and we all actually started talking. He was surprisingly nice, I’d even forgotten how quiet he was normally. Clearly I’d forgotten a lot, because the next day I brought Cassie.
She was awful. Lira and Brand were talking relatively smoothly about school, and Cassie shattered the calm atmosphere with her loud greeting to Lira. Brand immediately looked nervous, and Lira sighed in irritation. She replied quietly and turned back to Brand, and I sat next to him and apologised for Cassie’s volume. She didn’t, however, and she continued to loudly discuss how she ‘hooked up’ with Jacob, the typical sporty jock type. He was as bland as they come, and couldn’t be more of a polar opposite to timid Brand.
In the background to Cassie’s ravings about how great her latest guy was, Lira turned to me and asked to ditch Cassie. I quickly agreed and told Cassie to introduce me to Jacob, and before we got to him I pretended Lira had asked me to give her something back. Luckily, she wasn’t too suspicious and let me go. Lira, Brand and I spent the remainder of the break together. I thought I’d fixed it all. So where did he go?
I came into school today and Brand wasn’t here. Lira was in his spot with streaks of makeup down her cheeks, but she wouldn’t tell me why. She told me it was Cassie’s fault and then stayed sobbing. I stayed with her until Cassie passed through the hall, though with no elegance. She stumbled over and fell near Lira’s feet. She was clearly drunk, and Lira tensed near her. She started crying again and buried her face into me.
I still don’t know what happened. Lira’s still crying, and Cassie hasn’t even moved. Jacob texted Cassie with some angry words, so I assume they’re not a thing anymore. Lira has muttered that she should have been with him last night, but I can’t think. It’s happening too fast.
I just wanted to help.

A Survivor’s Journey

Sat in my tent, I watch the moon come up. I remember when I planned this journey, I had expected to make so much more progress during the night, without the sunlight beating heat down on me. I clearly wasn’t aware of how cold this desert gets at night. My tent tries to keep me warm, however I cannot say it works. The hairs on my neck stick up through a small hole in my jacket. I brush the hair out of my face and unroll my bedroll, however I doubt I will sleep tonight. Tonight, it will have been a year since I last saw my father.

I can still return to that day, if I close my eyes. I can still recall how a year ago I lost everybody I’d ever known, and lost nearly everything I called mine. I close my tent; I’ve seen enough of the moon tonight. I lie down on my roll, and like every other night it begins.

It was a bright morning, and my father woke me up in his usual manner – cold water from the icebox with a small but satisfying breakfast. Then I staggered into the main room, still not fully awake. The sunlight soon let me adjust my vision, and through the window I could see Chloe and Marcus flirting outside Chloe’s house. I sat at the table and sipped on my water slowly. The town had built a new pump next to the river opposite our house, and my father certainly reaped great benefit from it. He came into the main room, ruffled my hair and told me to have a good day in his usual bright manner before leaving for his work. He was one of the builders on the wall, making sure no wild animals could break through and steal our food or break our equipment. The rations we got from it weren’t the best, but the two of us could manage. I spied Marcus slowly letting go of Chloe and grabbing his rucksack as he had to leave her, and I saw the lack of affection in her eyes contrasting with the total adoration in his.

I sat for a short while, until all had settled outside. I packed my writing supplies and headed for my Sweet Spot, a withered old tree a few minutes south of the residential area. At about halfway up the tree, there was a solid branch that somebody light like me could sit on and watch the town buzz during the midday hours. I’d written many poems and stories on that branch, and confessed many feelings too. I’d dreamed about the world beyond the gate, and written little descriptions of what animals I thought lived out there. I knew about the rats, they were our biggest issue along with the spiders. Chloe would argue that the spiders were worse, yet I didn’t think she really understood much for her age.

I climbed up my tree and unpacked my pad and splintered pencil. I scribbled a little in the corner and began thinking of what to write about. I’d talked about Chloe and Marcus already, albeit I’d changed their names for my own sanity’s sake. I’d written about both a peaceful town with a loving mayor and a hellish place run by a cruel dictator. I’d even tried to make my tree the leader of a settlement, however I didn’t mention that story much. I tried to listen in on some conversations beneath me, yet nothing came. I thought a change of scenery might help, so I left my tree and went in search of a new place.

I arrived at the Hole in the Wall. It wasn’t actually a hole, yet I knew how to make it one. My father had fixed it the day it was found by Jones, one of the guards. He told me all about it, and so I knew just what to move to have a look outside. I’d done this before, not out of any desire to leave, just to see something new. There was nothing moving outside, just dirt and dead plants. I remembered Jones talking to the Mayor at a party some weeks ago. “There ain’t one direction I can look where I don’t see no dang scorpions or rats or other pest!” I was disappointed after looking through that hole.

I crawled through the hole a little, so I could see further out. A little layer of dust swept over the dirt, and the scrap in the wall shifted in the wind. Metallic creaking droned around me, and I soon stopped shuffling for fear it’d all cave in on me. I was quiet for a moment, and as soon as the creaking stopped it was dead silent. Not even the guards and their footsteps could be heard. Not one conversation filled the silence. The town had stopped entirely.

I shuffled back in the town walls and replaced the parts of the wall I’d moved. I headed back to my tree to start writing a story about a world frozen in time when I heard a gunshot in the distance. I ducked behind a rusty metal fence and peeked over. In the distance, in the town square, I saw a large group of armed men rounding up the Mayor and his staff. Jones was there – I saw his hat slightly tilted on his head. Marcus must have been there too – one of the men was shoving a young man my age, snatching a rucksack from him. He was pushed down to his knees and he nearly hit his head off of the ground.

One of the men was saying something, but I was too far away to understand. I assumed he was threatening the Mayor to give them supplies, yet he didn’t ever look at him. I wasn’t sure what was going on for a short time, they seemed to just be standing around. Then a lot happened very quickly.

Jones looked at the men. The leader who’d been talking the whole time turned his back during his speech. Jones shook himself free of the man holding him and lunged for the leader. He tackled him down to the ground and tried to choke him. One of the other men dragged him off of the leader and threw him out of my sight. Another gunshot rang through the air. I feared the worst, and the solemn silence from the other hostages confirmed my thoughts. I swallowed and choked on it. Fear had a hold on me; I couldn’t move away.

A group of other people were shoved into the area. Chloe and the other young people were at the back of this group. They must have been at the park, or perhaps in the mess hall. That’s the only way they held out for so long. One of the boys spat in the man’s face, and they kicked him to the ground. I looked away, expecting him to end up like Jones, however there wasn’t a shot this time. I shuffled away from the fence, and grabbed my bag. I finally had a grip on reality, and I knew I had to run.

I tried my best to contain myself and crawl to safety. I climbed in through the nearest house’s window, figuring I’d be safe now they’d found everybody else. I searched through all the drawers and storage containers – I grabbed a tent, a bedroll and a bottle of water. I heard a scream from outside, and I swallowed back tears. Out of the window I saw a blaze forming around the town hall. The leader was shouting at the Mayor, waving his pistol around. One of the older women cried more than the rest – the guard next to her stopped that with his rifle. She hit the floor harder than even the man expected, and he picked up her corpse and threw it in front of the Mayor. The world became blurry, and I stumbled back through the window and back to the Hole. I needed to get out. Smoke didn’t help the choking; I used all my energy to hold back a scream.

I was starting to remove the wall when I heard steps. I ducked behind the fence and looked out to see two guards taking Chloe and two others away from the rest. I hugged the fence when they got close. I overheard them threatening Chloe to tell them where our food, our water, our anything was. She screamed for Marcus – I guess she did have some feelings for him after all. Her voice cracked like I’d never heard before, and I winced as she fell to the ground. The group walked past me, and I slid open the wall. I crawled through, and looked back to the blaze. It’d spread to the residential district, and it was a bright orange. I closed my eyes and ran. I didn’t think twice about it, I panicked. I regret it even to this day.

I know that my father was among those they had. I never saw him with them, but I know he was with them. I stumbled across a caravan after around eight hours of wandering the dusty plains, and he let me follow him to the next settlement after some persuasion. I slept in a dark corner of the town that night, unnoticed by the locals, and in the morning I headed to the well. I asked around about my home town. Some hadn’t even heard of it, some ignored me, and eventually I was brought to the town hall by an older man who didn’t recognise me and thus considered me a thief. I spent that night in a rusty cell as they considered what to do with me. I remember falling asleep in that cell and thinking I was dying. It was far worse than anything this desert has thrown at me.

In the morning, their equivalent to a Mayor opened up my cell and asked if I was the prisoner from the burnt town north of the settlement. I nodded and he gave me a little water. He told me another caravan had arrived, along with news of increased bandit activity in that area. He’d sent search parties to look around for supplies or survivors, and they’d returned empty-handed. I fell to my knees and tried to cry. When I couldn’t even create tears, I looked up and saw the Mayor’s face. He had concern and pity all over his face, and he told me I could stay in his settlement until I figured out where to go. I waited until he left and laughed at his use of “generosity”.

The next day I took all the supplies they’d given me. Small amounts of food and a canteen of water, along with a small curved knife. The man who gave it to me reminded me of Jones and I nearly cried again. I left the settlement and wandered in the direction I’d been told was east, as that was where the next settlement was apparently. They didn’t lie.

Since then, I’ve drifted from place to place. Some places welcomed me, and even offered to let me stay for a while. I never felt comfortable accepting that offer. I felt like a liability; I felt like I should have died too. I felt like I was on borrowed time, and so I kept moving. Some places shot at me when I got within 10 steps of their walls. One time I stumbled across a scavenger and he tried to rob me. He soon regretted that, of course. I dropped my bag on the ground and waited for him to come close before kicking him in the stomach and taking his gun, just like Jones had shown me. I’m looking at that gun right now. I’ve never fired it, but I’ve checked. It has three shots still in it. It scares me, honestly, but it reminds me of how dangerous this world can be even in the most stable of times.

About a week ago, I was in a larger settlement when a man ran into the mess hall. He cried about a bandit raid and I remembered the day I lost my town. I saw a little girl tear up, and I told her to hide wherever she felt the most safe. She told me she had a corner of the wall where she hid from a bully named Ryan. I told her bigger bullies were coming and she nodded in fear and ran outside. I watched her turn a corner and move a metal sheet. I had flashbacks to my Hole in the Wall.

The man who had warned us had ducked behind a table and warned us all that one was coming. I ducked near him and held my knife. A single bandit entered and aimed his gun around the room. He came near my table and I held my breath. He turned away, and I saw the man shake with fear. Everything moved quickly again. The bandit took a step and I lunged over the table and tackled him. I ripped off the bandit’s mask and recognised Marcus’ eyes, this time without any adoration. I froze on him, before another man in the room took Marcus’ gun and aimed at him.

I stood up and told the man to drop the gun. He aimed at me, yet his eyes were filled with fear, not anger. I stared at him for a good few seconds and he dropped the gun and ran. I held my knife and looked at Marcus. He told me that he thought I’d burnt to death with the town, and that he, Chloe and the rest who weren’t killed on the journey to the bandit camp had been forced to work for them. Marcus had become a raider, and Chloe was a scavenger. I remembered the scavenger I left writhing without a gun. Marcus said they had a small camp minutes away, however their main place was days away. I asked about my father; he knew he had been at the main settlement in the earlier days, yet he didn’t know if he was still there. I asked for a direction, and he said north-east. I took the gun that the man had dropped and threw it to a settler before leaving the mess hall.

I climbed over the wall as I had done before. I spied the girl cowering in her corner, far from the violence. I heard shouting in the mess hall and a gunshot. I’d become used to that treatment. I knew that the gate was facing south, so I faced what I worked out to be north-east and began to walk. I’d taken my share of rations that day and figured I had enough for a few weeks.

I’ve been in the desert for a few days now. I hope Marcus didn’t lie to me about their main camp. I was so confused that it was him that I never even once questioned him. He had no reason to tell me the truth. Marcus wasn’t the least bit devious, though – that much I’d learned from watching him and Chloe. I stare at the gun again, with its slightly rusted barrel and worn grip. I don’t know what I’ll do when I find the camp, I’ve never thought about it. If there’s a chance my father is there, however, I’ll find him. He’d do the same for me.

I remember the gunshot from the mess hall. Marcus is dead, I know it. So are a lot of other people. They all died instead of me. I’ve thought many times how close I came to dying that day. I can’t help but wonder what I could have done. I never come up with an answer, but I always end up asking why I’m still here. I always ask if this journey for my father is a death wish. I never answer myself – I’m too scared.

I open my eyes. The moon is shining through my tent, and it’s silent outside. I roll onto my side and think about the magical world I used to create beyond the gate. I think about how that burned with my home. I think about how many other dreams burned that day. I sob a little for the first time in months. I close my eyes again in search of a new dream.

Mind

The short handle of the train station’s door was cold to the touch. The day was warmer than normal, however the tall clock tower of the station left the main door in the shade. A few steps inside the station resulted in the light reflecting off of the clean floors and walls directly into my eyes. Even the light blue sky and fluffy clouds were obscured for a few moments. A shame, as these weren’t common in England.

Through squinting eyes, I found the sign for the platform I needed. I had come to meet somebody who would be getting off their train here, only they wouldn’t be expecting to see me. We’d become distant after I had been motivated to leave him in the middle of our efforts. He and I were writing the poetry book we’d been dreaming of for around three years. We were going to blow society’s mind with it; that’s what he kept telling himself when we were working away.

Around three years ago, I was attending a meeting of my local writing group. I say local, yet the journey still took me half an hour – I couldn’t arrange anything closer to home. This particular evening, the group was going to be discussing “Lyrical Ballads”, its impact on poetry today, and finally what the group would work to write next. For the few die-hard poets in the group, this was going to be the highlight of their weeks. For everybody else, we’d be lucky if we got a word in about any of the topics.

I’d been waiting in the meeting room for a few minutes before the first people arrived. Among them was a young man around my age, whose hair was perfectly neat and unaffected by his glasses. He took a seat next to me and took out his writing pad. I introduced myself, as I didn’t remember speaking to him before. He smiled, and told me his name was Samuel. I believe I joked about the relevance of that name to our meeting, but maybe I just pointed it out. I like to remember things more fondly than some.

After the meeting (in which I had been correct that nobody but the central people would have a say), Samuel told me that he had an idea to compile a book of poetry centred around the feelings of jealousy, greed and lust. He believed that by pointing out these central flaws in the human mind, he’d unite the separate sectors of society and bring people together. He was certain humans needed an issue to focus on to avoid becoming more divided. “Don’t you think that humanity will only achieve total world peace when we all have a common enemy from another world?”

I was unsure of his aim with this work, however once he’d shown me a couple of pieces he’d already written I was convinced that I would support him, perhaps even chip in with the writing. They were recent, too – he’d written the dates in the bottom right corner, and they were but weeks ago. With that, he told me where he would be working (a studio he’d rented that happened to be ten minutes from my home) and we left the meeting place.

For around six months, we would meet twice a week and discuss ideas for poetry. We wrote drafts for two poems, “Betrayed” and “Chasm”. Both were about Samuel’s past with a woman, yet he’d not been cheated on or used or anything. In fact, from the way he told it to me, she hadn’t done anything wrong at all. She had asked him to go out with her more often (dinners, films, the usual places) and he said it became irritating and “needy”. I hadn’t thought of him to be a socialite, however my estimations of his social skills dropped sharply upon hearing this. Whenever I pursued the subject, he shot me down with a sharp glance and refused to talk.

We’d travelled to another meeting and were leaving his car (this time about natural image and love in literature, something Samuel had already expressed a dislike for) when Samuel stopped in his tracks. A red-haired woman was entering the function room, and he seemed almost startled by her presence. He stepped back to his car, and started the engine. I held his door open and repeatedly asked why he was leaving. “She can’t be here right now, that’s not possible.”

I raised the subject of the woman when we next met. Samuel had been more anxious that morning, unable to even order drinks at the diner. He exhaled before responding to me (for perhaps the first time for a tough question). “We were close about five years ago. She was with my brother, however she left him and travelled to Australia volunteering.” Hard to imagine Samuel being close with anybody, yet I didn’t judge. I asked why she couldn’t have been at the meeting. “I don’t know what I was saying, I suppose I had a moment of insanity. I’ll be fine once we start writing. It’s what we need to do.” I never asked him again. I didn’t think I’d get anything else.

After a year and a half, we’d finished our first poem and had drafts for several more ready for people to see. I suggested sharing it with the writing group, which Samuel had stopped attending several months ago. In fact, he had stopped going anywhere after “Chasm” had been completed. His writing desk was covered in scribbled notes. The corners of his room were cluttered with dried pens and crumpled paper. I’d been bringing him summaries of the group’s discussions; I have strong doubts that he ever looked at them. I read through one of the papers (a draft for an untitled poem) and was on the last few lines when Samuel entered with a mug. He saw me reading and grabbed the paper from my hands. He yelled that he threw it for a reason, and I didn’t need to see it. I often think this moment was when I started to contemplate leaving Samuel; his tidy appearance from when we met was just a memory, and his mannerisms had become filled with anxiety and stress.

On the other hand, the red-haired woman seemed keen to integrate herself into our group. She managed to speak amongst the enthusiasts, and received all in the group with warm smiles and words. I even spoke with her sometimes, until we often ended up talking over drinks after the meetings. Her name was Lily, and she had a large interest in fantasy worlds and magical creatures in mythology and literature. Her bright blue eyes contrasted with her red hair, and her smooth voice meant I listened to her discuss the dullest topics with great joy. I’d forgotten about Samuel’s episode regarding her; I sometimes forgot about Samuel and his poetry book altogether.

I was travelling to Samuel’s studio when Lily called me. I pulled over and answered to discover that Lily wanted to meet up at a coffee shop. It would have killed me to turn her down, so I agreed to meet in an hour and drove quickly to the studio. Samuel had slept there that night, and perhaps that fuelled his enraged response to me asking to write later that day. “What could be more important than bringing the people together? We will blow society’s mind with this!” He grabbed a decorative inkwell and threw it against the wall, triggering my move to leave. As I jumped in my car, I saw a painting fly out of his window.

I told Lily about Samuel’s rage. She knew that I was working with him, however now I think about it she never seemed to recognise his name. She advised me to never go back there, or at least stop going for a while. “What if he throws his desk at you or something? You can’t help him alone, you need to get him out of that studio.” I still don’t think she was right; I was right to go see him that evening, at least in my eyes.

I slowly opened the door to the studio and a pen was scratching away. I called out for Samuel, assured him it was his friend, and got no response. I walked into the main room to see a dishevelled Samuel writing faster than I’d seen. When I saw bottles in the corner, it clicked in my mind. I had always thought he left for home when I called it a day, yet it seemed like he’d been living with this dark poetry in this cramped abode. I picked up a bottle to recycle it, noting the alcohol content of his drinks. I asked Samuel when he’d bought all this alcohol and (again) he didn’t answer. He handed me a creased sheet and told me to read the final stanza for him. Just like when we met, it was incredibly evocative and truly captured human greed in words. He was confident about this piece; he’d dated the poem in the corner.

Lily agreed when I showed it to her. She was so into it, she brought herself along to the studio next time I went. As I’ve stated, I’d forgotten about Samuel’s panic – that was two years ago by this point. She stepped into the studio and introduced herself to the dazed and exhausted Samuel (once I’d woken him). His eyes opened wide and he screamed as he fell into a crouched position. I asked Lily to leave for a moment as I held Samuel. After around five minutes, Samuel looked me in the eyes. “I’ve been so alone you know.”

That line stuck with me all week. Lily noticed I was troubled and took me to a music show she was attending with her friends. At that music show, I remembered how loving poetry could be. I remembered how it used to be before Samuel’s poetry. Finally, in a moment of drunken logic, I resolved to stop meeting with Samuel. Lily seemed much happier after I announced that to her.

I woke up with a dry mouth and pounding headache. I sat in my bed, Lily fast asleep next to me. I found my robe and went to find some water. As I poured out two glasses for myself and Lily, the silence was broken by a knock. On the other side of the door, a tired Samuel shoved a stack of papers into my arms. “I’ve cracked it, I swear to you. It’s so simple.”

He explained how he channelled his anxiety and rage into words. He claimed it had all come so easily; he felt he was at his poetic peak. His grin pierced my peripheral vision as I read what (to this day at least) I call the most confusing, esoteric piece I’ve ever read. I asked him what he intended to evoke with this work, and his grin shattered into a face of pure frustration. He snatched back his papers, yelled several unintelligible words at me before slamming my door. Lily was sat in bed wide-eyed, holding the duvet over her body, peeking out over it. I brought her the water and held her.

Months passed before I saw Samuel again. Lily had moved in, bringing a myriad of plants and colourful cushions. I grew attached to a certain flower, which was a lily (no surprise). She was arranging light pink cushions on the couch when Samuel called again. I opened the door and asked him why he was here. He opened his mouth to speak, however he stopped when Lily crossed the hallway carrying two coffees into the living room. He said I was blinded by love, and left. I turned to Lily after closing the door and she immediately told me to follow him. “You need to sort this out now. I can’t have a man coming and yelling at you every few months.”

Samuel was storming into his car when I opened his door. I asked him to talk to me. Samuel pushed me away and chastised me for leaving his studio with Lily when he had admitted his loneliness. He criticised my night at the music show over a night writing poetry. “You were never dedicated like I am. You don’t care about art.” He smiled a sly smile and I looked away. I simply stated that he was unstable and I couldn’t handle his work now. I told him how much worse his recent poetry had become, and how he’d lost sight of the end goal. Samuel spat and left in his car. Lily saw my hurt expression and comforted me.

That night I lay awake. I thought of my failures. Ones as small as being moments late for a meeting with Lily, followed up with big ones such as leaving Samuel alone again. I blamed myself for his insanity. Yet he was unstable before…right? Or did I imagine his panic attacks before then? Lily never mentioned a past with Samuel. She wasn’t the woman from his past. I had never asked who that woman was. It would have been an excuse for my actions.

A letter from Samuel five months later announces that he planned to leave for the United States. He would take a train to London and fly to the East Coast – he never stated where. I told Lily I was going to London to meet Samuel before he got to the airport. She refused to let me go alone, and we drove for hours to the capital. We were forced to leave in the small hours to catch Samuel. I left Lily in the car as I approached the station door. I was blinded by the light, which I hadn’t noticed until now.

I sat on the platform’s bench for an hour. I kicked stones, I paced, I must have read the emergency line information a thousand times. A train came past, and my eyes lit up. Businessmen bustled around me. Musicians carried their gear with them. Families left the station together. Samuel was nowhere to be seen. I remained for half an hour. All was quiet after the train left, and I was alone on the platform.

Lily’s steps broke the silence. She handed me Samuel’s letter, and pointed to the bottom right corner. I’d forgotten his habit of dating his written pieces. I looked closely and realisation hit me. “This letter is from two weeks ago. He’s already gone, sweetie. I’m…I’m sorry.” She sat next to me and let me lean on her. I remember muttering something about how I’ll never understand Samuel. She lifted my head up and whispered to me. “Sometimes the truth is better left unknown. It makes the art more beautiful.”

I write this late at night. Lily’s fast asleep in bed. She drove us back home after that realisation. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her for a lot of the journey. I opened up after we passed the meeting hall. I told her how I blamed myself for his episodes. I told her how I shouldn’t have left. I told her how he was right about the fact I didn’t care about the art. I probably exhausted her with my self-pity. I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t get past it in my mind. Lily just stirred, so I’ll have to finish this up.

Samuel, I wish you the best. You’re a unique mind in poetry, and the world needs to hear your voice. If you ever read this, I want you to know that I’m right behind you. I’m ready to support you again. I want to see that work of ours published. We’ll blow society’s mind with it.

Turning Point

I had opened my black duffel bag, which didn’t contain weapons, money or some uniform like I had always thought they had. At least, that was how they appeared whenever I had seen the other kids carrying them over their shoulders. I had spent my afternoons as a young girl exploring the park in the centre of the town, far from the louder crowds of the other children. From one particular tree in that park (one I affectionately called “Oh” after its oak wood) a brave child like myself could spot the steps into the Town Hall, which is where everybody went to receive their bag upon reaching the right age. 16 had seemed so far away back then; for me right now, 16 happened yesterday, as had the acquisition of my own bag. My heart had stopped upon seeing the name label, “Willow Rivers”. It was so unreal.

My father had sat me down a few weeks before my thirteenth birthday, and I can still remember how solemn he looked. He was never the happiest guy, don’t think that he was, yet he was quiet even for him. I asked him what was up with him, and he leaned forward and told me that my mother had been killed in the street by a gang of kids in my class. It sounds so cold and clinical when I say it like that, yet that was how he said it to me. Just like that, half of my close family was taken from me. You may have expected a stronger reaction to the news that thirteen year-old kids were killing grown-ups; you’re used to a more civilised world I suppose. Around here, there are no orphanages or homes for children whose parents weren’t around for whatever reason. There aren’t nearly enough resources around for charity to exist on that scale. No, the governors decided to let the children roam free in the streets instead, and as a result there’s a huge issue with gangs like the one that killed my mother. They like to make themselves known to the higher-ups with statements like that, so I’d heard of so many by then that I wasn’t even surprised that it had happened. Mrs. Hardy from down the river was impaled on her own broken fence post. Mr. Abrams fell into the lake after the kids broke the rudder on his boathouse and led him into a rougher section of the water. Oh, I was distressed that I had lost my mother, of course. I just wasn’t surprised. The next day, I heard that Briony’s brother Tobin had received his bag, and had to leave town. I didn’t know why,  but I never spoke to either of them, so I never asked.

So, I received my sixteenth birthday present from my father (he gave me a slightly scratched silver necklace of a raindrop; it was sweeter than it sounds) and he offered to walk me to the town hall. I’d been awake all night dreading that question, however I accepted his offer simply because I didn’t think I’d go through with it on my own. The large neon sign of the town loomed over the door to the hall. “Stonewall”. Not terribly creative, yet it was true – we were the only settlement I’d ever heard of with a stone wall. I was ushered inside by my father, and the empty grin of Governor Steele met my fixed stare. His voice sounded scratchy, and the dust from the worn interior of the hall clogged my throat. My father didn’t mind either of these; he merely greeted the rasping man and told him I was sixteen. Steele knew already, of course; he’d been keenly interested in my quiet isolation from the other children. I recalled some time ago, he told my mother to take more actions to get me to talk to others for fears I’d wind up on the streets with the gangs. If  mothers worry too much, this guy is a new level. When I coloured my hair purple after my mother found some hair colour, he became really concerned. In case you can’t tell, the bag policy is his idea and method of controlling the amounts of idle people around Stonewall.

Anyway, Steele invited me into a storage room to get my bag. I’m fairly sure I blanked after this point; next thing I know, I’m standing outside the town hall with my duffel bag. It was actually lighter than I expected, yet there was a strangely shaped object inside. I snapped out of my trance when my father said he would walk me back home. I collapsed into my bed and woke up the next morning. After that, I stared at the bag for a while before opening it. That’s when I saw the strange object.

It had a glowing, green screen, with a map to the arid desert north of the town. I found a note inside, presumably written by Steele or his pompous secretary Dolores. I was to relocate to the desert and set up a camp. Then, I was to scout around the area (a radius of 20 miles initially) for new sources of supplies for the next 4 years. I was not to contact my father, or any of the town’s people for that matter, unless I had found something. A tent, bedroll and binoculars were also in the bag, as well as a small pocket knife. Steele’s untidy signature ended the note; doesn’t prove he wrote it, given Dolores had faked the signature before. I folded up the letter and went into the main room, where my father had left me alone in the house. And then I acted in the most hysterical way I had ever acted.

I ransacked the cupboards, gathering what little food I figured my father could live without. I filled up two bottles at the pump just across the river, and folded all of my clothes so they fit inside the bag with my name on it. I threw it over my shoulder, and closed the door to my home behind me. I walked out of the town, and went to walk north as if controlled by a greater power. The corner of my eye spotted trees to the south. Burnt and dying, but trees. I then acted in the second most hysterical way ever, and jogged south. An hour passed, and the ground became dusty with dirt. I scanned the horizon with my binoculars, and found Oh’s kind five minutes due south-east. I set up my tent underneath Oh Two, a much lesser tree than Oh but it had marks in its bark that reminded me of Oh. I lay on my bedroll and thought of the river through the town.

When the air became warmer, my map device beeped at me. Four twenty-two in the morning. My eyes couldn’t focus. My head ached. Leaves blew past my tent. The heat was tolerable, yet the glow from the north wasn’t. Orange and red colours lit up the horizon. Green entered the mix suddenly – my map lost connection to its server. Then it clicked in my mind.

The run back seemed quicker than the journey down. The bottles rattled in my bag. My binoculars revealed the truth. The glow had died down, but smoke drifted in great amounts. The stone wall remained in place, yet the buildings had disappeared. My black boots became grey with ash as I reached the gate. The river to my left ran black with charred wood and stained metal. None of the ruins were feasible to repair. None of the streets held the buzz of happy people or the violence of the gangs. I don’t know what happened, no. I searched for my home, or at least remains that looked like my home. I couldn’t tell it apart from the rest of the ash. Everything had been consumed by the fire. I thought back to Briony, and how upset she was that Tobin had left. Then I thought how lucky Tobin and I were that we just happened to be old enough to leave.

That night, I sat awake in my tent. I was now without a purpose. I cradled the obsolete map in my hands, and occupied my mind with empty thoughts.

 

The Single Willow

It was as bright an afternoon as anybody could hope for; the sun blazed a vivid platinum, and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The grass of the fields glistened emerald, and the trees shook gently as beaten bark revealed its cracks and splits. Patches of golden and yellow flowers could be spotted around the fields, and the odd bee could also be spotted upon those flowers. In the centre of one particular field, a small group of young people were staring up into the clear sky. One was resting his head on a thin and dark hooded jacket, which he’d removed to alleviate the heat of the afternoon. His t-shirt clearly displayed his affection for both rock music and the colour black, and his blond hair was longer than average. The knees in his jeans were worn slightly, and the canvas of his shoes were discoloured slightly. Next to him was a slightly shorter young man with dark brown hair, whose plain sky-blue buttoned-down shirt allowed him to blend into the sky on this particular afternoon. His jeans had been cared for much more intensely than his friend’s, and they led down to a pair of short-heeled shoes. To his left was the final member of this small group, a young woman in a black leather jacket worn over a dark purple vest top. Her dyed hair was a vivid dark purple as well, and her black skinny jeans led into a pair of riding boots. Together, they formed a row of relaxed individuals.

Eventually, the blond man sat up. His hair fell over his left eyes, and as he turned to the other two he blocked out the sun slightly. The other man met his look, and the woman remained watching for clouds. “What’s the matter, man? Too cool for cloud-spotting?”

The light-haired man laughed and stood up. “It’s the best day we’ve seen all summer, and what are we doing with it? We’re turning into these flowers, that’s what.” He picked up his jacket.

The other man sighed and sat up. He rubbed his eyes and rolled up his sleeves. “You got a better idea? Anyway, it was Super-Punk who brought us out here.” He nudged the girl, who didn’t move, but let out a groan.

“Are you guys serious?” Her darkly-glossed lips matched the irritated tone of her response, and her eyes finally revealed themselves behind her dark liner and shadow. “Black doesn’t equal punk, and neither does purple.” She smiled.

“Listening to alt-rock in your spare time doesn’t either, but you needed a nickname, so deal.” The man’s rolled-up sleeves fell slightly as he stood up. He nudged the girl with his foot. “Come on, D’s right. I’m done here.”

She groaned and joined the two standing. “What’s your big alternative plan then, Nicky?” She winked and stretched out.

“You’ve got a plan, don’t you Dane?” Both Nick and the girl stared at Dane for a response.

Dane’s gaze faltered slightly, and he stepped backwards a little, crushing a few blades of grass and letting the sun through to the others again. “Gimme a sec to think, guys, jeez…you still have an empty house, Willow?” Optimism filled his eyes.

“You’re making this up as you go. Come on, grab your stuff, I’m taking you boys on a hike. Seems like I’m in charge.” She started off without them, heading straight for the wooded area. The two men paused as if she was bluffing, then gathered their things as they quickly realised she wasn’t.

The sun seemed to intensify as they approached the trees. Willow’s short bobbed hair moved due to the wind, and her fringe covering her left eye bounced with her walk. She pushed through the trees, and disappeared from the boys’ view. They ran after her, and the world seemed to slow down as they moved.

As she got through the bushes, the world came to a halt. Willow closed her eyes, and in an instant she found herself on her roof again. She’d brought the easel up with her; she frequented the roof for her art. The view she could get here was well worth the effort of carefully negotiating her way along the steps up. A few clouds had appeared to block the sun slightly, and Willow checked the time to discover she’d lost three hours and twenty minutes. She placed her brush next to her supplies, and two small figures frozen in runs caught her eye. They seemed to be yelling at the trees; one even looked like he’d lost his footing. She smiled slightly and stood up to leave the roof.