A series of oil paintings depicting a variety of species of birds.

The pale lady intertwined her auburn hair in a tight bun as she flipped through the pages of the book, ‘The emperor of all maladies.’ The air around was humid, and the whistling and hooting of people around hampered the creation of a pleasant studying atmosphere. But, for little Flora, scanting her from reading was something not a soul on the face of Earth could not prove efficient enough. The stripped lightning over her was quite harsh; it illuminated the belle nurses who tread briskly past her, barely giving her a second look. “We are receiving patients excess enough to brim all our passages and rooms, and the nurses over here are busy dressing their hair every day. I need everyone in the main hall in 5, or does anyone prefer boxes of ears instead,” The doctor coaxed while sniffing his morning tea. “En route, professor,” said the lady intern as she shoved the book on the shelves. The nurses shuffled their duties and traced their way to the restrooms. “Any updates from the war?” She gave her an exaggerated eye roll. “Seriously, I need to buy minutes to breathe; how on Earth would I be checking on the gossip of the town,” The other responded briskly. “Flora, she’s the new intern. How would she be nursing patients? She needs to nurse herself.” She whispered in a sibilant voice to ensure not a soul hears them. “She’s from an influential family in the west. I’ve heard that her family is among the richest in the state, yet she chose to live in this screwed-up mess. Patients die every day. If we encounter a living soul escaping this hospital, it’s quite bewildering.” "I suppose; she’ll prove to be one of those fashionable girls, who’d turn on our gates for a sneaky break and later dive back into the wardrobes for they realized it isn’t their cup of tea,” The nurse collapsed into a creepy giggle. “You girls, right there. Cease the twattling and get back to your dorms. My grandson achieved divine peace for you, don’t throw the minutes you live on so easily. The day you’ll be lying on a hospital bed unattended isn’t far,” An elderly lady tucked her few strings of white in a tail and scolded the women in the rooms. The nurses carried their trays and headed to their quarters, a few chattering along with the others and a few self-possessed in dressing their twigs. ***** A general dressed up in a Hindustani attire had been brought in from the battlefield, his wounds were grave, yet they remain obscured. He lay unattended, a few doctors shifted past his bed, but none gave away an eye. The lady. inched closer. She felt a queer inexplicable bridge; his fingers were thin, bruised, wounded, and burnt yet alive. She interlaced them with hers, tears dripping from her eyelids; a glimpse of his wounded self was enough to rip her apart. Flora, composed of flowers, she’d spent her days amidst the thorns, but this seemed to be not as blunt as the others. The night lamp next to her glistened as tears sprinkled on it. “Never fall in love during a war. It’s a beautiful way to make everything fall apart,” The elderly aunt claimed “What if the power that breaks us is, virtually, the spell that stitches the torn pieces back together,” Flora responded, shielding his broken arms with slings “I lost my family to the war. I don’t recollect the last time I met or touched them …My duties as a nurse stole all my hours. All I have now are dreams of sunbathing by a peaceful beach with my family, a family that no longer exists. I’ve seen my daughter in you. Delicate, Soft, and Brave.” The lady took a deep pause, clearing the catch in her throat; she held Flora’s fingers and continued. “She always yearned to be a nurse. But I never permitted it; I didn’t want her to risk all the happiness she deserved. So, promise me, don’t take any step that’ll nudge you to jeopardize your life.” The lady declared in a tone of power and honor. “I won’t give my word. I came here solely to jeopardize my life and save those of others. If I yearned for a content vie, I would have rather stayed back at my palace and been a fashionable young lady my family wished me to be,” Flora claimed, her eyes settling on the rippled aids of the youth. Her eyes had the gleam that would suffice to convince an elderly person of a torn heart. “The archaic closet in the room, midway the central hall, where lies the doctors’ canteen to the right. You’d find all the necessary medications and accessories, even the injections and sedatives. Rob is from the section at midnight. I’ll borrow the keys from the senior doctors for my night duty. He would never be treated here. Stich his wounds and send him back to his motherland. Not a word should be out in the mains.” There was something in Flora that forced her to say this. She blurted all of it with an electrifying impulse and sans a pause. “Thank you,” She raised a petite smile; she wasn’t sure what else she could do. ***** The young man bled incessantly, his arms were fractured, and severe wounds adorned his back and chest. Flora traced her fingers through and saw something she never even fathomed to know; it stole her breath away. She held the bewilderment to herself. “Promise me; you won’t convey the same to anyone. I sacrificed my life, guarding my secret,” The general uttered a few words so silently she was forced to carve them from his lips. "I won’t. It’ll die with me in my grave. But look at these bruises and the grave cut marks. How do you bear this unceasing agony?” Her eyebrows intertwined together. "Why would they ache? These are the red jewels of pride, of fading away for your motherland.” He intricately explained. “Why do you even do this? Do you not care about your family?” She enquired with a sudden rage. "I do, a lot more than you’d ever contemplate. And, it’s for them I do so.” “I told you never to fall in love during a war. You lose it in a blink of an eye. It’s quite common for nurses to fall for soldiers. However, it hardly lasts for over a week.” Grams explained, holding her fingers in hers. “Our love story was the queerest. Probably, because even if the soldier survived, our flames to reunite would be blown away by the prejudiced society,” Flora sighed. "We all consider our tales to be exceptional. However, that may often not be the case. Your family’s quite influential; nothing could ever prohibit them from giving their only daughter what she desires,” Grams suggested, hope deviating from Flora’s eyes. “What if I say the influence of my family would scant me from fulfilling our surprisingly uncommon tale,” “What was so peculiar between him and you?” She raised her white brows “Stop summoning the general by the pronoun ‘Him.’” She took a deliberate pause and uttered in a stroke, “I loved her.” “I hope you do realize what you just said. You don’t mean it, right?” She straightens, attempting to pull herself together. "I swore to her; I’ll keep the secret safe and bury it in my grave,” “I envisaged my daughter in you, but my daughter would never take this step. It’s my error; I let you have the keys,” She refuted, but the tone martyr dug deep in her voice "You should have permitted your daughter to be a nurse. You’re alive, but she’s….” Flora brutally uttered, her voice trailing away. “Stop, Flora. Is that all you felt for me in all these years?” Flora could hear her babbling away, but she wasn’t giving heed. ***** 9 days ago "Our tale stretches back to my 21st Birthday, my brother served in the British army for seven years, and the army conquered its borders across my motherland. Yet, his survival meant a trifle. It was 5 years since the date we met; his soul was treading on his homeland after half a decade. Divas were lit across the lanes of my village, the hay cottages engulfed in the chains of light. I was curating soils of colors on the ground the moment he paved into it. Ma and Papa embraced him with the warmest of hugs. But, I didn't speak a word to him and chided about his promise. A word, a wish that devastated our lives in a way we could never curate back together. Bombay, the city, was a dream for me; its architecture, its sites, its way of life...reading about it in novels gave me immeasurable joy. He was going to drive me through the city a year ago, but he kept serving his duties. Rage spun within me, condensing to cries, and he held me and took me through the city three days later. Heaven wouldn't be in comparison to the highs I experienced during those moments. I stood by the lanes, the structures, the trains, and everything I read in my textbooks. I scribbled all of it in my sketchbook, tales of my day beside it. We ate a spicy snack, and its drops are still on my tongue. On the last day, of our visit, with the clumsy bag on my shoulders, we left our temporary residence. Riots broke out in the city, fire enlarged in various streets, and citizens ran on rules for safety. The train station busted, and blood drops on every wall. My brother caught hold of a cycle rickshaw and drove into the thickets. We made it into the station, but that was the beginning of the worst showdown; our train stood on its tracks for a minute before it would run away. We swiftly juggled through the street, catching hold of its gate; he helped me climb in. And, it seemed like heaven froze the minute, he urged me to take a step, and a grave flash thundered in my eyes and an explosion that lit up my ears. A gunshot, amiss, clung to my brother’s chest. Blood draining from every ripple of his green coat. The train had measured its miles before I could breathe and comprehend the event that occurred. Men from all walks surrounded him. Surprisingly it takes death to curate unity. My senses numb, I fell, with no shoulder to cry upon; I spent the rest of my journey with only half the realization I may never see him again. I was retreating with a conscience ripped apart to my home. But, the letter at the entrance blew away all the winds that held me together. Respected General, Your leave was unexpectedly extended during the hours we needed you most. You didn't give us a trifle of your energy, so we won't consider posting you unless we see you at our residence tomorrow morning. I hope you aren't oblivious that your village's fields and hay cottage are mortgaged with us. They are quite futile to us, but they are worth diamonds to your family. Tomorrow at 8, in the mansion, right to our seniors' headquarters. She didn't exhibit any words further. Her eyes conveyed the message, and so did the name carved on her jacket. Prapti Singh became Pratap Singh on that day; she battled two wars daily, one on the battlefield and one for herself. Flora swore to herself she’d gift peace to Prapti only in her homeland. She battled across the seas for her motherly soil for years but didn’t even deserve a peaceful death by its shore. But, she’ll treasure her peace in the waters that bred her. “Flora,” yelled an elderly nurse from the heart of the structure, “She looked ghostly pale. She lifted her gaze as Flora trodden in, revealing shadowed eyes, reddened with grief. It was a ridiculously mundane sight. “Mrs. Forbes, what is it,” Her eyes tightened like two buttons of anxiety. “Your Grams, Kelly, deceased in her sleep,” She slurped down, tresses of tears fiddling down her eyes "No, that can’t be. Which kind of merry sport is this?” Flora refused to comprehend the upturn of events. “It’s true,” The doctor came in midway, “the dear soul served us for half a century; let’s bid her a memorable farewell, ignite this place with candles and lamps on every corner, and we shall see her smile, one last time,” “Flora,” He continued; he flung her fingers in his and passed down a ring. Flora scrutinized the object timidly “Monsieur, this ring’s grams’, why will you? “It’s her only possession, and you were the only child who lived. Keep it well.” ***** The waves of the sacred waters of the Ganges touched her feet and penetrated her soul as she felt peace. Her left arm engulfed the ashes of her, and the possession of her grams adorned the right. The soul-tweaking crescent of the Asian sub-continent poured its reflected light on the heavenly waters as her skin touched the sea and drowned deeper and deeper into its bosom. She’d never see the solar god again but sought peace. “Pappa,” The little boy yelled. His body refused to be pulled into death by the wild waters of the Ganges. He battled for breath, and his legs fought for life. The deeper the water god pulled him inside, the fainter his breathing was reduced. "Mohan, you promised me you wouldn’t drown yourself in those waters again. The last person I wish to lose is you,” “I longed to hunt pennies which we’d use to buy momma’s medications. The doctors in the city are quite upscale and profound. However, I found this emerald ring in the waters. They probably belonged to the deceased found drowning yesterday. Are we going to pass it to the government?” "Hop into the cycle and skid to the highway hospital. Your mom will be home really soon. Tell them we arranged all the monetary requirements,” Dawn twitted in the sky, and the sweepers played the dust into the bins. There scarcely lay a soul on the banks. However, a letter gleamed on the floor, but too dull to be noticed, it soon found its way into the bin. **** Dear skies: The pale lightning, and the gloom in the sky, reminisce me of the day I lost her. Her eyes twinkled with courage as they always do, and I felt as if I had no more left. I looked down at our hands, which were entwined… I found myself gazing at them, trying to revise how her touch felt against mine. It was nice to feel so wanted, to find myself at the focal point of someone’s thoughts after months of semi-detachment from the overly pale world. For the premiere hour in my life, that minute, I tried to remain oblivious to the future. I wanted to be myself, and I let the evening pass through my skin as I wasted hours gazing at her. I could touch her strengths, vulnerabilities, scars, and scents. However, she, perhaps, couldn’t feel any of it; she had commenced retreating toward somewhere I couldn’t reach. A weird panic brimming in me. I didn’t long to let her go; I wanted to squeeze her in mine, But I felt gravity flinging her in a queer direction as all the threads that tied her to earth loosened up. She kissed my fingers before letting go of my hand, but how would I let go of her? I read tales of exemplifying love by setting it free and craving to belong to someone in that way that their jubilance was all that meant. However, after experiencing every surge of emotion I wished to feel, I craved no longer be there. I suppose we all fall in love once to realize why we should not. I had a million words to yell in her ears, but none could exhibit my tongue. “Flora,” She pulled a lock of my hair, and I felt my face crumple, "we’ll meet soon, again.” I held her tight. Before I’d change my mind, I said, ‘Bye.’ It sounded more like a sob or a cough, but that was the last she heard of me. Is this how a farewell is supposed to be, or was it not one? Love, Anonymous.

As a kid, my family was financially struggling. We sometimes went to the mall for a grocery run, and my sister and I begged my mom to go to the local bakery. As we were a bit behind in rent, etcetera, we couldn't really afford more than necessary, so we usually had to share a pastry. And the case was I wanted willow bread while my sister wanted twist bread. And so, the story emerged. Here is a story of a kitchen boy So used to stealing leftover pastries From tea gatherings Kicked out from the foster house He is On a journey to find ingredients To make a willow bread But he stumbled upon people struggling Seven abandoned, hungry kids And so he struggles Internally When he realized The dough he made can feed ten kids If he were to make a sourdough instead But all the boy wanted Was a willow bread And all he ever wanted Was just willow bread. So he chose to feed the kids And starved himself instead When asked, “why?” he said “Willow bread is just bread .”

A dead vine in the winter, almost losing its foliage, Left with brown wood to get through the dark months. Losing its elegance as the fireplaces quench, but it still seems, A poet coming from far away to be comforted by the evergreen. The poet writes, "A winter wisteria coming back to existence, Rising from the cracks and overshadowing the barricades ," The runoff of snow begins as the sun softly shines, Signing an end of an era, And the beginning of a new. Aurora Her hands frozen By the snow Celestial lights Fell on her cheeks As she looked up, Her life tarnished Into the darkness, The place lit up. It was mother nature Telling her to get up, To stand up on her knees, It was mother nature Telling her not to be defined By someone else's deeds. A melody Not far away In a distant land, The sun sets Just in time. For now, It's darkness's reign. Under a leafless hazel tree, he sits The sound of a mysterious train echoed. Crying and burying followed. "Let's go home, sire." The Watchmaker looks up, It's his nephew He came to pick him up. The angel sings a melody The smell of roses in the snow The nephew was long gone, he thinks They disintegrate into a yellow glow.

This poem is significant to me because I believe that the first step to solving any problem is to acknowledge it and create awareness about the depth of its negative impact on its victims, and it is also a fitting way to take power back from the people or circumstances causing the problem. In my case, while life has always thrown its challenges at me, my primary caregiver holds me to these absurdly high standards. To them, achieving anything less is a moral failure, so I'm treated at my own home accordingly. My present domestic environment is suffocating. Writing this poem was my desperate attempt to temporarily loosen its clutches on me while trying to convince myself that I deserve better. There once was a little child Who was walking on a string– High heels clamped to their feet, With ends sharp and pencil-like, Stabbing the walking rope into a bend. Arms straight up in the air, Their eyes flickered between down and ahead. Determined to stride the rope Like it was a cakewalk instead. Nobody could see, nobody could know; They had to keep walking and walking. Little did they know That everybody could see, But all of them had, by preference chosen To perceive that string as flat land. So they walked, walked, and kept walking, Intent to find the illusive balance Between self and so-called perfection. Then, in a moment, it happened all at once. Right as they had begun to see The delusion of a finish point close nearly, One step, one slip, and that's all it took For the cruel balance to be broken. Leaving them burning On the rusty, rocky ground. The kid looked up, panic clear in their eyes, Only to find themselves in a pit; Mountains, mountains all around. Lifting their body, bloodied and bruised, They groaned and climbed up the steep slopes, Until… they spotted a hand. An open palm, outstretched and inviting, That the kid grabbed onto it quicker Than a trap snaps on a fly. Do you know what would happen If that very hand Would pull, then push the young one back inside? It would be a great fall, a cry for dear life, They would hit rock-bottom With both ribs broken and a heart. "Why did you betray me?" They would shout out upwards. "Not me," the hand owner would tell And watch the child shrink as they'd further yell, "Why did you lie to me? You said you couldn't keep walking on a string, But all I see is flatland."

Writing has always been my way of embracing my emotions on the concrete ground. This poem is about my personal experience where my expectations from people in my life aren't validated. This explores a part of my life as well as the system of relationships between individuals in the lives of many. all the vessels in the world at the risk of explosion holding bombarding chemicals and sophisticated reactions with your inside rusted your hollow mortified I wish I could tell you "explode already" but don't because too many consequences mainly a hazard of owning a label after all this is a land of narcissistic humanity

My work is generally based on my personal ethics about being a person but also an artist. All the things I know about life, I have learned from art without even noticing. I choose small sized artwork that demand an intimate reading. My materials are pen, colored pencils, sumi ink and watercolor. These materials have prevented me from being able to fix mistakes. They rarely come out from precise under sketching, as I find very important that I preserve the element of inner connection and natural creation with every piece. https://www.instagram.com/ffolie.adeux/

This submission is significant to me because it explores my fear of things ending before I am ready. This fear is present in many aspects of life, whether it is something small like a vacation or much more significant such as relationships or milestone events. To explore this fear, I wanted to anchor it in a lighthearted tone of nostalgia and friendship because anxiety often creeps in delightful moments. If I am not careful, it can build to an overwhelming amount and sour what should be a beautiful memory. In this piece, Milo can throw off this fear and enjoy the moment for what it is. I hope to embody this state of mind as well, be present rather than focusing on the quickly approaching finish line. The steady trill of the river mixing with the hypnotic light of the campfire enraptured Milo. She watched the tiny sparks dance to the heavens to find rest among the stars. The heat of the fire was a warm cat purring against her shins while the twilight air nipped at her neck. Milo snuggled into Indi and pulled the quilt tighter around them. They probably should have grabbed sweaters like the boys, but it was too late to go back now. Besides, she refused to let a little chill rob her of this moment. For a few hours, they managed to shrug off the responsibility of cabin leaders and bundle up in each other's company instead. As soon as their little campers were settled into the bunks, each cabin leader extinguished the lights and slipped out of their cabins. Usually, they only left for a few minutes to get ready for bed. But on the last night of camp, they concocted a plan. Instead of heading to the washroom, Milo and Indi used their kitchen key to smuggle some leftover desserts. Earlier that day, Casey chopped extra wood during the smores activity to avoid the risk of thundering cracks late at night. And Jasper brought the key to the wood shack, applying minimal effort as usual. Reed didn’t have much to offer besides keeping their secret from the camp director, his mom. Somehow he had caught wind of their plan, but at least he was tolerable compared to the other junior leaders. Otherwise, everything went perfectly, and they indulged in the fruits of their labor, well, the brownies and layered jello of their labor. Surely the junior cabin leaders could handle the campers for a few hours. The terrors of the day couldn’t harm them while they were asleep. “To a perfect summer and the best cabin leaders I know,” Jasper said as he raised his cup and slurped up the jello. “Well, almost perfect. There is one more tradition we haven’t finished yet.” “If you mean star-tipping, forget it, Jasper,” Indi said. “Chef Carly’s brownies are too good to end up as vomit.” “No, I’m talking about the customary skinny dip in Kelpie Corner.” Milo scrunched up her nose. “Gross.” “You can keep your clothes on.” “Still, gross.” Kelpie Corner was a deep bend in the river, making it a perfect but dangerous swimming spot. In an attempt to discourage young campers from wandering too close, the staff named it Kelpie Corner years ago. They even created the legend of Lil Kellie, the camp's resident kelpie. But hardly any campers understood the reference now. After all, kelpies weren’t popular bedtime stories. Instead, the campers lovingly dubbed the bend Pee Corner since at least one boy cabin always found it hilarious to pee off the ledge into the river below. Last year, Casey’s cabin poorly timed their attempt during the scavenger hunt. “You’re allowed to have your opinion, but it's an honest tradition,” Jasper said, selecting another jello cup from the tray. “Just ask Reed.” “Mom discourages it, but it is pretty common.” “Fine, then what are you waiting for? Go take a swim, Jasper.” Casey said as he threw another log on the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. “I would, but,” Jasper waved his neon purple cast. “Can’t get this bad boy wet. And we all know Reed can’t swim. So that leaves you three.” “Actually, two,” Indi said. When Milo glared at her, Indi leaned in and whispered, “Our favorite Aunt Flo visited this morning, so….” “How fitting, our childhood sweethearts will carry on the tradition,” Jasper said, causing Milo to blush. Of course, that stupid rumor still clung to her. When she and Casey were little campers, they had disappeared in the middle of capture the flag, and naturally, their cabins assumed they were somewhere in the woods kissing. No one cared if it was true or not, and, to Milo’s chagrin, the story surfaced every year. “If you don’t, we’ll be cursed until next summer.” “What is this, some pseudo-sacrifice to appease the camp gods?” Milo said. “Pretty much. Look, I don’t care what you do over there, whether you make out with Casey or Lil Kellie. As long as you take the dip.” To Casey’s credit, he did begin to protest, but Milo’s voice was louder. “Fine,” the blanket fell from her shoulders as she stood. “Let’s go for a swim, Casey.” As she stared at their wavering forms in the water, Milo knew this was a mistake. Compelled by her stubbornness, she dove headfirst into this ridiculous dare, disregarding the consequences. If it were only her, that would be one thing. But with Casey? Alone? No doubt, more rumors would sprout. Or she would manage to embarrass herself, and this would be Casey’s last memory of her, circling in the back of his mind like the bitter aftertaste of burnt coffee. She dug her bare toes into the cool mud, wrapping them in an earthy blanket. Next to her feet, Casey’s white university sweater lay with their discarded shoes. Rightfully so. It would be a crime to soak it in the murky waters of Pee Corner. Milo considered pushing him over the ledge and running back to the fire with Jasper’s tradition fulfilled. But she dismissed the thought at the prospect of more ridicule from the boys. Because who was too scared to take a small dip? No, she couldn’t live with that mark on her reputation. The only way out was together- both jump or both leave. “This is stupid. Jasper’s just spewing his usual bullshit. Let’s make a splash with some rocks and head back.” “We won’t be wet through,” Casey said. “We’ll jump in quick and climb right out.” Milo crossed her arms and wished for Indi’s quilted embrace. “You seriously believe Jasper’s prophesied curse?” She tried half-heartedly as Casey matched her obstinacy and rarely backed down. “Not at all,” Casey said. “But it’s the last chance to do something stupid and harmless this summer? Do you really want your last memory to be chickening out?” He held out his hand and wriggled his slender fingers expectantly. Milo knew this wouldn’t end well. And she locked her hand in his anyway. His skin held the lingering warmth of the fire they left behind. With no countdown or warning, he pulled her along, and the mud squelched as her feet tore free. She tried her best not to, but a small squeal escaped her lips as they fell. Their flight lasted mere seconds before plunging beneath the water. It was colder than she expected. Silly, she’d taken this plunge many times before while the summer sun kissed the water, and it was fucking cold then. But the water pinched her cheeks, and her limbs sat in shock. Eventually, the chill soothed her nerves with a lullaby, and peace washed over her. The water distorted the starry sky, and Orion’s belt danced teasingly above. Despite her previous aversion, Milo wished she could stay here for a while and let the water freeze at this moment in time, preserving a perfect image of summer. The moment shattered when her focal point of warmth slipped from her hand, and Casey left her for the surface. With a mental sigh, Milo followed suit and kicked up into the night. A few feet away, Casey smiled giddily and swept his dripping hair out of his eyes. It had grown a touch too long without his mother around to trim it. Milo felt the sway of the water by her legs before she saw him shift closer. Oh god, was he leaning in? The sour scent of earthy river water already coated his skin, and her nose crinkled as he brought it closer. But his childlike joy radiated vibrantly, and Milo conceded to reflecting his glow. Until it faded. In an instant, Casey’s smile fell flat, and his eyes widened. “Did you touch my leg?” Milo frowned at the question. In a lake, almost anything could be brushing past their limbs - the snotty strings of algae, clods of dirt churned up in their wake, even a curious fish. But the night had a funny way of steeping familiar sensations with fear. And while Milo knew for a fact not an inch of her skin touched Casey’s, it also was not her own hand wrapped around her ankle. Exchanging a look of understanding, Milo said, “Lil Kellie isn’t real.” While she stated it as a fact, the words tasted absurd on her tongue. She stared into the depths, unsure if she hoped to spot the culprit or not. Milo flinched when Casey’s hands landed on her shoulders, his fingers clawing at her soaked shirt. Before she protested, he pushed her forward and cowered behind her like a shield. He extended an unsteady finger, and her eyes nervously followed its path. The water rippled and shook, disturbed by something beneath the surface. Something dark. Something fast. Something… small? Milo cocked her head as the creature approached them, its beady eyes glinting in the moonlight. Shrugging off Casey’s grip, she snatched up the creature before it swam any closer. Holding it out at arm’s length, she spun around to proudly display her catch. “It’s just a garter snake.” The snake writhed in her grasp, and its red tongue flicked in protest. To her surprise, Casey shot back with incredible speed, reacting like Milo’s campers to a boy taunting them with a handful of worms. "You’re still scared of snakes?” “No,” Casey said indignantly. But his tense muscles melted into relief when Milo tossed the snake into the bushes. "Maybe.” Unable to contain them, nervous giggles spilled from Milo’s throat. To her surprise, Casey joined in. Laughter seemed to be the only appropriate response to such a ridiculous situation. Better than focusing on the unknown, still tickling their feet at least. “Don’t mention it to the others?” “Only if you stop telling your campers I’m secretly Lil Kellie.” “Deal.” Before something else could twist around their legs, they clambered out of the river and mud-caked onto their knees. While Milo squeezed the fowl water from her hair, Casey unsuccessfully shook himself dry like a dog. Gathering their things, they ran back to their friends with giggles still bubbling out. In the corner of her eye, Milo thought she caught the shadow of a deer or maybe a horse trotting through the pine trees. But she chose not to mention it. When they finally reached the fire, Milo realized too late that she had accidentally pulled on Casey’s sweater. She chastised herself for opening the door to more rumors. But maybe that was ok. If this started a rumor, at least it also placed the ammunition of a secret in her own pocket. The soft fabric stuck to her damp skin. The sweater only smelled marginally better than the river water, and it was hard to tell if it was Casey’s sweat or the baked-in scent from a cabin full of pubescent boys. Though Milo doubted any of her clothes smelled like roses and vanilla at this point, either. Slumping back into place under Indi’s quilt, Milo shared a smile with the group, and the night went on. No mention of the dip. No teasing comments. Only the sweet smoke of the campfire and the intoxicating laughter of friends. Maybe Casey’s mood towards her shifted. But between her lingering shiver and the dark of night, she couldn’t really tell, and it didn’t matter. Summer’s curtain was quickly falling. Soon they would part ways for a normal life. If they were lucky, they’d all return in a year's time. Maybe next summer would last longer, and its warmth lingers far past its initial touch. Milo settled to solve the puzzle Casey then. Now, all she wanted was to soak in a healthy portion of joy to carry her through to next year.

https://vip.chinawriter.com.cn/member/index.php?uid=fromreb “Oh, could it be that stiffs are in the river?” A fellow joked, and everyone recollected the same old story three decades ago. It’s said that a weird cloud first appeared over downtown, slowly covering our sky and forming the shape of “人”, which means “man” in Chinese characters. There was also a tail of cirrus behind, rolling out the shape of “死”- “death” in Chinese, and linking them together meant: “someone is going to die.” A local prophet sighed that heaven was short of angels and would pull dozens of people to fill that gap. A porous bridge stood still under the moonlight, like dense bones or a piece of the shroud as we rowed through it. It’s said that the tragedy occurred on this bridge. There was a grand lantern festival that night. But as many corrupt officials issued scalped tickets at will, it was extremely crowded and eventually caused a severe trampling accident. About dozens of people fell off the bridge into the river, drowned, and died, confirming the clouds’ prophecy. And the survivors recalled that something in the river was pulling them down that night. It was not human at all. “Oh, there were still some spirits who had no destiny in heaven. They became the water demons. Once someone told this story on this river, they would pull those people into the water, too.” The fellow lowered his voice, and everyone quieted down. The boat heaved us fiercely.

This is a prose piece inspired by the Winter competition prompt. In this piece, I try to explore the concept of fear, how it can be towards the unknown and the supposedly scary (a dilapidated house in the middle of a forest), fear of an abuser, or even fear of the loss of something that one holds dear. I find it fascinating how fear can be both crippling, rendering one immobile while simultaneously spurring one to take action. This was a terrible mistake. With every crunch of leaf under my sole, I am further plagued by the sense that something terrible was about to happen— a feeling so palpable that it is almost a physical pain. “Wooh.” I hear a sudden rustle of branches behind me and stifle a scream. At the whip of my head, an owl flies past my head, brushing the top of my head with a caress horrible enough to shock the hairs on my neck. My heart pounds against my ribcage, a prisoner begging to be let out, and it takes every working nerve in my body to stifle my flight instincts. No, Kaz, you promised yourself you would not turn back. Watching the silhouettes of vines and lichens sway in a dance of their own, I could feel my anxiety strangling me with tendrils of their own, each one tighter and more suffocating than the last. As the house slowly comes into sight, the tendrils worm their way into my brain, draining the thoughts within. I could still turn back… But then the image of my father hurling his beer bottle toward me resurfaces amidst the mind fog, and an involuntary spasm shudders through me. I’m doubled over, hugging both knees. It feels like I’m 7 years old, skinning my knee on the pavement and bawling my eyes out for my mother. But my mother is no longer here. I turn around, biting back the tears, trying to pry their way out of my eyes. This is where the path ends, and my decision begins. Do I leap into this abyss of wilderness, praying for a safety net? Or do I turn back on the path I know all too well, into the Venus fly trap just for it to suck the life out of me, little by little, until I’m nothing but a soulless, hollow shell? I take a deep breath and step forward into the house. As nightfall approaches, the chirping of the crickets intensifies. As the forest descends into darkness, the symphony crescendoes. A cacophony of insects and the percussion of trees; a backdrop to my thoughts. It’s surprisingly calming. I feel enveloped in a small pocket of time, where only the forest and I exist. Perhaps because this is where Mother used to take me hiking, on her good days. There was a bed frame in the house. Lying upon the hardwood, I could watch the aluminum\ roof above tremble under the pressure of the winds. It was rickety too, like a wooden tent that would collapse if the wind got strong. But ironically it felt safer than the bricked square I had escaped from. A low whoosh sweeps across the undergrowth, and the trees bow at the beckoning of the wind, bestowing their foliage as offerings. As the first few raindrops land, I realized that I was not alone in my trepidation. The storm was a mirror to my soul, reflecting my inner turmoil. And at that moment, I found a strange solace in knowing that even the elements were subject to the same emotions as I. There’s something blissful about peaceful sleep as a storm rages on outside. For far too long, I had been caught in the storm. I awake to the buzz of mosquitoes in my ear. The little buggers must have had the feast of their lives last night; my arms and legs were flecked with red spots. I run my fingers gently across my face, the only part of me the mosquitoes had deemed too worthless to eat. My left eye still feels tender, and my nose still sore. Was this my father’s way of telling me I could never get away from his clutches? “Screw you,” I whisper, relishing in its reverberation in the empty house. “Screw you!” I scream. Faint light-headedness seizes me and all of a sudden, it feels funny to be screaming at an empty house. The house feels different now, as though miffed at me bringing my personal drama into their quiet space. It feels strange to stay so I escape into the forest, basking in the mix of warmth and green. If I stand still enough, could I dissolve into the ecosystem? Could I crawl into the mud and kneel at the roots of the flowers, or would they deem me unworthy? Oh dear forest, it would be an understatement to say I fear you as much as I love you. Your trees stand solemn, housing the secrets of the planet and now I feel safe in knowing, that they can house me too. But O Revered forest, what is it that you think of me? Alas, it seems the forest has many more important things to think about. The birds chirp, the creek bubbles and the trees sway to some mysterious melody that only they can decipher. Perhaps the day I can sing the same tune as them, is the day I can truly call this place home. It must be History class by now. Would the school call? Would they even care? Probably not any more than they would care about a tree collapsing. I’d be a small headline in a newspaper, a passing remark, and little else more. Breathe in, breathe out. The crisp air greets my nostrils like a long-lost friend, an escape from the air at home, polluted with the stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer. It wasn’t always like that; There was a time when the thought of going home did not drench me in dread. There was a time when the house was a home, the kind that enveloped you in a hug that you never want to get out of. There was a time when Mother was still alive and Father was not an abusive alcoholic. There was a time when the water running in these creeks was clear as crystal, unpolluted by the factory-flushed chemicals. There was a time when the forest could go on with its symphony day in and day out, without the roar of the bulldozer in the distance, slowly peeling back the floors to reveal tidy porches and perfectly grazed front lawns. All this while I have been escaping, from one home to another, watching them crumble as I lie helplessly next to them, a coward unable to save anything out of fear. But not this time. I walk on, far beyond the trees, far beyond the houses, all the way to the police station. Home is not just someplace that protects you, it’s a place you protect.