Another leaf falls to the ground, joining the other brown petals and pieces that litter my base. I feel the dull pat as it hits the dry dirt my body is buried in. No light can enter past the cracked window, except by means of one forlorn handprint left on the glass. It displaces the dust that is otherwise acting as a curtain, an ever thickening blanket of grime separating me and the outside.

Through the fingerprint ghosts of life, I can see the tattered outer world. Ivy has crept over the building across from me, leafy arms wrapping around the ugly edges of copy-paste urban architecture. The pipes have burst in the infinite identical cubicle homes, and mold has found those moist corners, eating away at what little real wood-corpse was used in their rushed foundations. Movement outside catches my attention, but there is only the maple molting its autumn leaves. It carpets the otherwise cold stone with glorious reds and fiery yellows, richer than gold. The concrete cracks under its persistent roots and the great tree breathes a sigh of fresh relief. Wooden fingers stretch cathartically, proud at the destruction of their former claustrophobic concrete prison.

Unlike that maple, my domestic roots have never known the feeling of a fresh world. I have never felt unfiltered light grace my leaves, nor known the taste of the clouds falling down on me. I do not know how it feels to grow without worrying what walls I will hit. From the first green to creep out of my cracked seed shell, I have lived my life in a ceramic bowl. I didn’t mind sitting prettily on this sill, waiting quietly to be pampered. But just across the street, the maple boasts of its hard fought freedom, and I’ve just been sitting here waiting and withering away.

The Earth has shuddered and the sky has burned. The streets have split open, revealing new depths of dirt for more life to sustain its reclamation. I can see the plants and creatures and world, finally free from the enthrallment of civilization, and still, I am left on this little ledge. At the beginning of the end, I still had hope the incessant rumbling would tilt my pot onto the floor, and there my roots would eat into the rotten wood, and miraculously I could live. But the Earth has stilled, satisfied she is cleansed of parasites.

Even if I had tottered and crashed my way to floored freedom, I know that I couldn’t have lived. I am only perched here, purchased and pruned half a world away from my ancestors. The only forest I know are jungles of concrete and steel. I am not like the plants I catch glimpses of outside, reaching for their independence. I am not strong and resilient like the dandelions, slotting themselves in what little room they have carved for themselves out of sidewalk streets, nor am I as eternal as fungus. I was bred, born, and raised for pretty softness.

I have clung to life long enough to watch the world bloom vibrantly and quiet again, but I know I will not join them waking up from dormant hibernation. I will not watch the world rebirth itself next spring, phoenix-like emergence from the fiery oranges and sunsets of fall. My one bare brittle branch has turned gray, the memory of color and chlorophyll and full stomach fading.

My gaze finally settles on what had caught my sight earlier: a newspaper fluttering in the wind, caught on a protruding nail. A reminder of before, a memoir to the methodic manufacturing of the world. The headline advertises the end of the world. But really, the world still turns. The Earth still circles the sun, and the moon still pulls the tide. She has survived meteors and monsters, seen the rise and fall of eons, the world will not end for this.

Past the creeping frost covering my window, past the ivy blanketed apartments and the yellowed paper relic, I see the horizon sun dip behind the skeletal skyline, painting the city’s remains red as the falling maple leaves.

I don’t know what just happened. They offered me everything and I ran out. I turn and let my back push the door open as I glance back at the front desk. The woman manning her post within her circular wall looks at me with mild interest but the late hour allows me to slip out with only a mumbled “good night.” The glass door slides closed silently with the smallest plink of a latch hooking, abandoning me out in the cold. After just a few moments outside, I can already see the air take shape. Like a phantom escaping from the silent farm fields, the fog lifts off the ground like a being from the underworld, untethered by the laws of gravity. My small car sits rigidly, ready to depart from this ominous bubble. Click. As my keys unlock the door, my headlights give a futile flash against the hazy, artificial lights above. As I shut my door and the turning of a key ignites the grumble of an engine, the fog lights try to fight the darkness. My car becomes a submarine, surrounded by dense unexplored ocean. “Well,” I think to myself, “might as well get going.” Exiting the parking lot is a treacherous endeavor, weaving through the faded white lines, precariously sloshing as I move the wheel. As I drive away, nothing changes. I could be driving in place, stuck in the thick dark for all I know. The fog encircles everything, draining the color out and replacing my world with its monochrome blanket. The evolutionary fear of the darkness is setting in. “What was that off the side of the road?” My palms start to heat and stick to the steering wheel and my heartbeat audibly thumps against my ribcage as my mind frantically lists all the worst-case scenarios. The unknown is closing in all around my flimsy, metal cocoon as I try to outrun it all. What would have happened if I agreed? Would I have everything I ever wanted? But could I live with it? “Oh great, I really can’t see.” All around me, forward and back, is dark and obscured, cloaked from me by time. Where I was a few minutes ago is gone and where I will be never comes. I am powerless in the face of the vast unknown. This present moment is all I have. I will never change the past and I shouldn’t wish to. The future will always be one step ahead of me as I trail blindly after. With this new clarity, my head clears focusing solely on the task at hand: driving when all I can see are the lines on the road five feet from me. The faded, white line of paint is my lifeline, leading me home and tethering me to this world. Familiar landmarks, twists, and turns begin to emerge from my dense surroundings sending signals that I’m almost there. As my house fades into view, my lone porch light grows clearer and clearer like a beacon leading me home. After parking and a turn of my hand causes the engine to mumble to quiet, my keys easily detach, unaware of the distance they just traveled. After my meditative drive, I have my answer. As I open my car door, the unknown unfurls its hand toward me. I grasp the cold, wet arm as I rise, steadying myself in its embrace, swathed in the fuzzy blanket of fog. 

Author’s Note: I just wanted to write a small fairytale-esque story. This story takes a classic scenario, of the strong prince saving the beautiful young girl, and alters it a tad to make the story more interesting and unexpected. I hope you enjoy this and happy reading. Also, TW: death and blood

…and they lived happily ever after. Usually that sentence comes at the end of a story, but for this one, it doesn’t work that way. Our characters live happily for only a small amount of time before the events of this story come into play. In fact, from this point on, everything gets so much worse.

The prince had succeeded in saving the damsel in distress, but at what cost? The moment after they had their movie worthy, cliché, and completely unrealistic kiss, the dragon that was supposedly dead rose again. It silently crawled up the grey bricked walls of the castle. A cold breeze whipped the damsel’s curly blonde hair and caused her to blink her long eyelashes. Her electric blue eyes caught the sight of the tip of the dragon’s tail curling around one of the cylindrical towers. She peered over the edge of the balcony to where she had watched the monster fall moments before.

It was gone.

The moment she realised that the dragon wasn’t there, she forced herself and the prince back into the building. He looked at her in shock, surprise etched into the confused lines on his olive brown face. But his features smoothened into a calm look as his bright hazel eyes looked deep into hers, love and admiration coating them, making him completely blind to the dragon that was slowly lifting its head above the ledge of the balcony.

The damsel screamed, a high pitched scream, that lasted for only a second. After she suddenly stopped screaming, she turned to the prince—who was still frozen there staring at her. 

“Well, are you going to save me or not?!” She asked worriedly.

“You are very beautiful,” was his response.

The angry beast clawed its way up onto the balcony, so the damsel pulled her and the prince further back into the room. She shook him by the shoulders and tried to direct his attention towards the dragon.

“It’s still alive! The dragon is still alive!” She practically screamed in his face. 

“No, I killed it, you don’t have to worry anymore, my dear,” the prince reached a hand up and petted her silky blonde hair, seemingly transfixed on how soft it was.

The dragon was slowly making its way into the room. It didn’t help that the doors were incredibly wide and the ceiling was incredibly tall. Who even came up with the design of the room?

Quickly, she grabbed at the sword that was sheathed at the prince’s side and shoved him out of the way. She couldn’t fight with a sword, but she still held up the blade and faced the dragon. It looked down at her in a condescending manner, a laugh twinkling in its eyes. She watched in horror as the beast slowly opened its mouth and an orange-y yellow light started growing brighter and brighter in the back of its throat. 

“Stay back!” She yelled at the creature.

“My dear, we must start planning our honeymoon!” The prince called to her over the low thrumming that was slowly growing louder and louder around them.

“Shut up!” She screamed back at him, turning to see his dazed look. 

Wait a minute. There was something off about him. He was laying there, on the fluffy carpeted floor, his eyes glazed over, and couldn’t even see the dragon for some reason. Even though a couple of minutes ago, he had been angrily facing down the winged animal with the very sword that the damsel herself was holding in her hands. 

The way the guy’s head lolled from side to side proved the damsel’s suspicions. He was bewitched! But by who? 

There was only one person who she knew who could use such powerful magic. It was her captor. The witch who had convinced the dragon to do her bidding. The damsel had completely forgotten about that woman. She had disappeared long before the prince came to fight the dragon, but the blonde haired girl didn’t expect for her to show up immediately after the fight. Then, another revelation hit her: the evil woman had revived the dragon, even after the prince had clearly punctured the monster’s heart. 

Suddenly, a burst of light came flowing towards her. The damsel, tucking the sword close to her body—which was covered in a now smoldering baby blue dress—rolled out of the way and waited for the dragon to turn and face her. But, it wasn’t focused on her.

Now that the prince had lost his weapon, which she had taken from his now useless hands, he was an open target, someone who would easily be taken down from one blow of fire. But, instead of cooking the dazed man alive, the dragon raised up a clawed finger and plunged it straight into his chest. 

The damsel just sat there, shocked. The sword fell limp from her hands as she watched life leave the prince’s hazel brown eyes. His blood seeped into the fluffy pink carpet beneath him. When the dragon removed its claw from his chest, his body lurched up in a nauseating manner. The dragon had a look in its eye as it practically sneered down on the man. It was as if the dragon was saying “that’s how it feels”. 

The moment the dragon turned to look at her, the damsel puked. She couldn’t hold in the acid burning in her throat. Quickly wiping her mouth, she looked up to see that the dragon was waiting patiently for her to pick up the blade that was laying on the ground. 

She sighed a big sigh. Leaning down, the damsel grabbed the sword and shifted it between hands. What could she do? She was face to face with an incredibly powerful beast, had little to no experience with a sword, and her saviour was dead on the floor. 

Dashing towards the dragon, she shut down her mind and let her body move. Before she had even started charging the creature, she knew the fight was futile, she knew she was going to die. But, she continued on, accepting the fact that if she was going to be killed it would be whilst fighting. So, she glared up at the dragon, her hair flowing and whipping behind her head like snakes, her electric blue eyes unblinking and focused on her target, and her beautiful light blue dress billowing behind her. 

The evening sun was setting on the horizon as she pushed forward, a cry leaving her lips, just before the dragon breathed a giant plume of red in her direction.

Author’s Note: This little short story was originally written in Spanish for a small short story homework assignment. But, I used google translate to switch it to English and altered it up a bit. The whole idea of this story is based off of a painting named: La flama. Its artist is Remedios Varo and he made it in 1961. This story is meant to touch upon magic realism, so hopefully it does…

The woman walked up the steps to the entrance of her town's temple where they worshiped one of their gods. The time for the ceremony had arrived. It was very early in the morning and the dewy grass shimmered in the soft glow of the rising sun. Shivering, the woman hugged herself before entering the temple. She was shivering, but not just from the cold, she was afraid. Afraid at what might happen to her in the temple. Her family and friends have talked about the ceremony and said it was an ethereal experience, that was what scared her.

           Slowly, the woman entered the temple, the candle in her hand flickering as a small breeze blew against her. She lifted her hand to block the flame from the breeze and continued down the hallway. As she walked further and further into the temple, she felt a tingling sensation that covered her entire body. She started to get colder than she was before and she didn't know what was happening. She looked at her hands and found that they were a sickly shade of grey.

She shook her head and ignored the numb feeling in her hands, continuing down the long corridor of the temple. She needed to complete the ceremony. When she looked ahead, she found a man who was seemingly made of fog and mist. He had a big smile filling his face—at least the small dark line, in what she thought was his face, looked like one—but it wasn't a good smile. It was filled with malice, not a single ounce of joy or kindness present. This man seemed like the God of Tempests from the books and stories her town had on their deities. How was it possible? How could he be there? It was a worshiping temple, but it wasn’t his temple. Besides, usually mortals wouldn’t be able to see gods, according to the town elders.

Looking back, at the entrance of the temple, the woman realized that the distance was very long and she would not be able to escape if the god decided to attack her. Instead of backing down, she squared her shoulders and stood there in the middle of the hallway. There were very loud alarms going off in her mind as she did this, but she needed to continue the ceremony. When she looked towards the god though, he wasn't there… he had disappeared.

Maybe that encounter was all in her head. Maybe it wasn't real. Shaking her head again and blinking her eyes, she tried to see if the man was real or not. There was no one in the temple with her, she was completely alone. When she walked past the place where she thought the man who resembled the god was standing, she began to warm up. Everything around her was very hot, heatwaves could be seen drifting in the air around her.

She didn’t want to stay in that sweltering temple, so she began to run through the large hallway. After a few minutes, the world around her was a blur and she was walking again, slowly. She was breathing very hard and she couldn't catch her breath. Looking at the candle in her hand, she nearly dropped the small fire. The reason for that was because her hand… was made of fire. Or so she thought. It really felt like her hand was burning and blistering due to the fire. She cried out in surprise, not pain, and looked down at the rest of her body. Her clothes were also made of fire and dark grey smoke was drifting off of them.

She started running again, hoping the fire would go out. But instead of that, the flame grew bigger and the heat in the ancient temple seemed to double in intensity. As she ran down the hall of the temple, she found the altar of the deity of fire. There was a statue of a woman, flames wrapping around her body, and was around the height of a toddler. Her hand was outstretched and was facing palm up. The statue of the goddess looked up at the woman as she burned right in front of the altar. 

Quickly, putting the candle in the hand of the beautiful woman that her people adored, she fell to her knees. She started to beg to the goddess, asking for her to put out the fire and spare her from any harm. But she didn't need to beg, because in reality, there was no fire. The woman saw that her body had no fire or burns. Had the Goddess of Infernos answer her pleas? What was happening? Not wanting to know the answer to either of her questions, the woman was officially spooked and started to walk back to the entrance of the temple. Half of the ceremony was complete. Majority of the ceremony was finished, she just had to walk back in the dim darkness that loomed over her. She felt unprotected when she didn’t have the candle of light in her hands.

When she walked down the hall, everything was cold again, but not the same cold she had felt when she thought she saw the storm god, because there was no wind. The cold she felt was just the normal early morning chill. She crossed under the archway and left the temple. Her fear immediately disappeared. She looked back at the temple entrance. There the woman saw two figures in the doorway, looking at her with fixed, unbreakable gazes. A woman of fire, and a man of gales. But with just a blink of an eye, the two were gone. The wind of the man had swept the flames up into the air as if they were intertwined in an intimate dance.

Something was calling her. Something wanted the woman to re-enter the temple. It was a magnetic pull that was tugging at her body, trying to convince her to return to the temple and be with those two gods. The woman didn't want to go inside the temple again. But, the force was strong and very compelling. Shaking her head for what felt like the hundredth time that morning she tried to get the tug from the temple out of her head. She felt as if her mind was divided and was itching to go back inside the stone building with the strange temperature fluctuations, but was also resisting the urge to sprint back under the archway. With that thought she felt her body begin to move.

Author’s Note: This was an English class assignment of writing a creative writing piece over the span of several days. There was a prompt that I really enjoyed writing with, so here that short story is. Enjoy. :) 

The plume of grey particles shifted as her hand whipped through the air. She reached out, trying to take hold of anything that might be in front of her. But, there was nothing. Nothing but grey, nothing but heat, nothing but the smoke that was clogging her lungs. 

Silently hoping that someone was near, she shouted out into the dark grey fog in a raspy voice. “HELP!”

The only response she got was the crackling of the fire that consumed the building. Everything around her was dull and colorless. Slowly but surely, the world around her dimmed—even more than it had been before—and she started to see fuzzy black spots creeping from the edges of her vision. With a sort of tunnel vision she stumbled around what she knew was her lavishly decorated living room. 

It had a large brick fireplace and wallpaper that covered the room in neat rows of red and pink flowers. There were two velvety armchairs and a large, also floral themed, sofa that faced the fireplace. There was a bookshelf along one of the walls that had books with spines of dark earthy colors. Lighting up the room, small lamps were set in each corner and there were small candles lit on the lip of the fireplace. At least, all of that had been there before the blaze started. Now the living room was slowly deteriorating to the hungry flames that were hidden in the depths of ash and smoke. 

As she nearly tripped on what felt like the edge of a rug, she tried again to have her voice heard over the creaking and crashing of burning objects.

“Help me! Help…” She called, her voice significantly quieter than it had been before. 

It hurt to speak, the fumes of the flames lined the inside of her nose and dusted her lips, causing them to become chapped within seconds. The taste of soot was detestable, but she didn’t have time to stop to dry heave. Her eyes were getting more and more blurry per minute and the black spots kept inching their way to the middle of her vision.

She swung her arms around herself to try and feel the walls, or anything really, to remind her where she was. Completely disoriented by the smoke, the loud crashes and bangs echoing around the house, and the slow obstruction of her lungs, she dove into her memory to help her find a way to the front door. The path seemingly lit up in her mind and she followed it through the uncomfortable haze. She kept feeling the air around her and squinted her eyes to try to get some sense of direction, but after a few short seconds she gave up, deciding to just walk towards what she thought was the door. She couldn’t really see it, but when the feeling of smooth paint reached her fingers, she stopped in her tracks knowing she had finally found it. 

She could tell, by the small grooves and indentations that covered the wall she had felt, that it was in fact her annoyingly over-garnished front door. Moving her hands along its surface, she searched for the handle. That glittering knob of freedom was right within her grasp and she was desperately trying to find it.

The moment she grabbed a hold of the doorknob, she yanked her hand away. A sizzling sound made its way into her ears. Biting her lip she hissed in pain. Bringing her hand up near her face, she looked down at her palm. Cradling her hand, she inspected the red burnt skin. The hot smoke that had filled the house must’ve heated up the knob, making it unbearable to hold.

But she had to get out.

With the same burnt hand, she grabbed the shiny hot doorknob, prepared for what came next. A searing pain erupted in her palm. Her vision was almost completely gone and swirling as she felt the world teetering and tottering around her. The arm of her injured hand started to tremble and shake as the sizzling sound grew louder and louder. That sound was ingrained in her ears within the first few milliseconds of holding onto the scorching metal. Quickly turning the handle, she tugged it open and burst out of the house. 

Cold air licked her cheeks and a soothing breeze caressed her skin. She took in a deep breath and cleared her scratchy throat. Taking a couple small steps away from the burning house behind her, she smiled and let the fresh cool wind blow over her. Closing the darkness engulfed her, the strength in her knees was gone, her thoughts jumbled and incomprehensible, and she collapsed on the ground. As she drifted into strangely comforting unconsciousness, she heard the crackles of the flames and the whisper of the chilly breeze that welcomed the calm dewy morning.

Author’s Note: This is a small little excerpt from a writing project I’ve been working on for the past couple of months. I’m not going to give any context, I just liked this section of it and hopefully you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 

TAKE BACK THE POWER, the voice erupted into her brain, albeit a lot quieter than before. Diana was a little nervous at what might happen if she kept listening to it. She was afraid what had happened a little while ago would happen again, but soon she realized that she didn’t have to worry about that because the echo quickly faded away as her mind transitioned her into a dream.

There was a dark gap in the base of the mountain. The rocks that were mounted above it were trembling and getting ready to fall. At least, they looked like they were shaking. Everything around her seemed to be shaking. The very air was vibrating in front of her eyes, making her dizzy to a point where her stomach groaned in distress.

Slowly but surely, she climbed into the dark hole and moved through the darkness, keeping a hand on the rock wall—realizing that the cave wasn’t actually shaking. As she made her way deeper and deeper into the cave, the darkness started to engulf her. Soon all traces of light from the entrance were gone and all she could see was pitch black. Continuing to make her way through the darkness, she felt as though something was calling to her, urging her forward. Then, as she rounded a wide bend, she noticed a purple glow a little ways  in the distance.

The closer she got to the light, the hair on her arms and the back of her neck started to stand up on end and the vibration in the air started to grow faster and more prominent. The more the air rippled the more she could see. The shaking and distorted world in front of her was overwhelming, she almost vomited, but kept walking. 

When she reached the purple light, the cave opened up into a cavern. Right in the center was an ancient pedestal, holding an ancient book. Tendrils of glowing energy and power were wafting off of the book. It was where the purple light was coming from. So, she could only guess that this in front of her was the Chronicle of Power.

IT WAS STOLEN, the voice appeared out of nowhere, causing Diana to physically jump—which was a small little twitch as she lay in the comfortable bed. YOU MUST GET IT BACK AND RETURN IT TO ITS THRONE.

She thought of that request. She couldn’t return it to the cave because she needed to get it to the Council for safe keeping. Clearly it would be safer with them than on a pedestal in a random cave that it had been stolen from in the first place.

Admiring the Chronicle of Power one last time she closed her eyes, taking in all the images that her mind had formed and were now 

flooding her brain. Then, she woke up.