I Don’t Know How Many Souls I Have

I was today years old. That is disgusting.

No Child Left Behind is one of the worst things to ever be incentivized in schools. It was signed into law when I was 14. Reading Rainbow was my show as a kid. LeVar Burton played a big part in why I became an avid reader to date. The joy of it. It's an adventure around the globe and through different time periods without stepping on a plane or time machine.

Children parrot behavior. In grade school, I always wanted to read the same amount of books as my teachers (50 books) and managed to double that each year. Before No Child Left Behind, book fairs and Scholastic catalogs were a serious matter like your grandma's Fingerhut catalogs. Libraries were (and still are) a wonderland.

Reading comprehension and proficiency in schools has been declining for decades. A crisis. The joy of books isn't pushed anymore and I'm always saddened by it. It's one of the reasons why I post my book reviews and recommendations on here, as well as posts from others to encourage reading and (novel) writing. Kids will parrot your behavior while the education system sadly fails to return as that example.

A charm for you: a lover's token, a handkerchief, stained with blood. It will turn aside a blow to the heart, but that's no mercy to me now.

No, you’re far past mercy of any kind now, aren’t you.

love as medicine (that only you can't seem to take) - judas h.

Hey Archivist, I offer you this pen in exchange for another one that isn't quite as...well, you know. I found this one on the floor of the Ancient Metaphysics section of the library, and it refuses to write down anything but questions. I tried to use it for my math homework and the ink rearranged itself into a pondering of existence itself. The ink is a nice glittery purple, though!

If we are trading pens that compel, you may as well take this matched set of mist-grey quills. Each wells with ink from no apparent source, and each one has its own quirks. The gold ink seems to project a vision of the words you’ve just written, hanging over the paper itself like an afterimage following a flash of light. The one that writes in turquoise ink keeps your inspiration flowing to a good stopping point: undoubtedly useful, but make certain you have cleared the afternoon just in case. The last, writing in a rather jarring green and purple, cannot write anything incorrect and may therefore be helpful with math homework (although after some initial testing on my part that seems to be restricted to the knowledge of the bearer, rather than a tool with which to determine the essential truths of the universe. Perhaps things you learned at one point and now can’t remember will still qualify?) They weaken kept apart, so I present them to you as a whole; I hope they are more helpful than the pen you give up.

Deafening silences.

Hey, don’t cry. Free online database of Japanese folk lore

Underworld Dreams

i feel the need to clarify that this isn’t fiction writing, that these are about real dreams and real events that happened to me, and i was just thinking of them and thought - i should write these down 

i don’t remember my dreams, generally, and i don’t tend to put much stock in the meanings of dreams, generally

but sometimes i have dreams that are stickysharp, that are very vivid, and that feel very real to me for the first few seconds after i wake up, and then i’m always filled with an embarrassing amount of relief that no matter what’s going on in my life currently, those problems aren’t my problems

my friends call them my underworld dreams

~

the first one i had was one i was very young, less than six years old, and i don’t remember much from my actual life from that age with clarity that i remember this dream. i was alone on the street, searching for someone, but everything was empty. i wasn’t scared. then i come across two dogs, fancy poodles, but they’re not right. they see me and immediately begin arguing. “what’s she doing here? she’s not supposed to be here.” “get rid of her” “she’s here now, she might as well stay” “she’s not supposed to be here!” and i try and interrupt, but then they’re looking at me, looming, so much bigger than me when they hadn’t been before, until they’re all teeth, and i’m running. all i hear is barking, and i’m not nor have i ever been afraid of dogs, but i run and my chest hurts but no matter where i look i’m alone. the dogs aren’t there, aren’t chasing me, but i don’t know where to go. i look around and i realize that everything’s in black and white. that the only things that hadn’t been a shade of grey had been the those two dogs. life isn’t shades of grey, i remember suddenly, and i bend over to pick up one of the grey bricks lining the sidewalk. i hold it in both hands and break it in half and liquid cement pools from the broken brick onto the ground. “oh,” i say, with relief, “it’s not real. this is a dream. i can leave now.”

then i wake up. 

~

my mother dies a week before my tenth birthday and i have a dream that i do not forget. i am in the front yard, looking down at the highway from the large sloping hill of our home, leaning against a birch tree. 

there’s a car slowly rolling down our long driveway. once, when i was younger, i was left to play in the front seat of the car as it was parked on top of the long driveway. it was an old car. i moved something i shouldn’t have and the car started rolling and i screamed and screamed, knowing something bad had happened but not how to stop it, and then my mother’s boyfriend, who i hated, ran and jumped into the rolling car and slammed on the breaks. 

i am not in this car. it is getting faster, no one to slam on the breaks, and then my mother is standing next to me. “i’m in there,” she says. “you could save me.” 

i understand that this isn’t real. that my mother is dead and so she can’t be standing next to me. everything else seems so real and normal, but my mother is here like she hasn’t been for weeks, and that  means this is a dream. i look at the car rolling down the hill and remember her casket getting lowered into the ground and i say, “no. you’re already dead. you have to stay dead, that’s how this works.” 

she’s disappointed, but not angry, she stands next to me, silent, as we watch the car roll into the highway, watch it crumple, watch it roll into a ditch. when i turn to look at her, she’s gone. 

then i wake up.

i’m not relieved. i feel guilty for not saving her, even in a dream, even when she was already dead. 

i do not dream of my mother again.

~

my grandmother raised me after my mother died. my grandmother dies when i’m twelve and i do not dream of her when it happens. 

i will, years later, but not then. 

~

i’m in high school and i have another dream. i am in something between victorian england and modern day. everything is gray. i live in a small apartment. 

children keep appearing at my door. i let them in, i feed them, i cloth them. i go to food banks and schools, searching for who these children belong to, but no one claims them, so i keep them. it’s so hard to keep them, but i can’t leave them. 

some of the children get sick. i do my best, but some of them die. 

i put the bodies in the closet and lock the door. i tell the other, living children not to go near the closet. 

i go searching. dead children don’t belong in closets. i go to the hospital, but they say they will not take random dead children. i go to the police and they laugh at me, saying no one will take them, that i’ll have to get rid of them on my own. 

i am angry and desperate but there is a part of me that is not surprised. 

i go home. i will have to keep the dead children in the closet. the living children ask questions, reach for the closet, and i stand in front of it, standing between my dead children in the closet and the living children in front of me, knowing that they can’t open it, that i have to keep it closed, because if i open it then my living children will walk into the closet with my dead children and they will not come out.

then i wake up. 

i do not have any dead children in my closet. the relief is sharp, but not sweet.

~

i have a loft bed in college because the tiny room i’m sharing in this small apartment is not big enough for us to fit two bed side by side. 

i dream that i wake up in this bed, in a place that’s not my own. there are children there, that i know but do not recognize. they cry out when they see me and yell for me to climb down. i do and they grasp my hands, pulling me outside. 

my grandmother is there. other people that i do not recognize but that i know are there. the children are my cousins. these people are my family. we are outside and it is beautiful and bright. the grass is green and soft. 

i sit and talk with my grandmother as the children play. the children run off somewhere else. 

“i’m so glad you’re staying,” someone who i thinks might be an aunt says, patting my hand. 

the first curl of unease is easy to mistake for confusion. “no, i can’t stay, i’m just visiting.” 

“visiting?” she says, pitying. “there’s no visiting. the dead have to stay dead. you know that.” 

i am cold. the grass is still soft. it’s still beautiful. i do not want to stay. 

my grandmother is sad, not pitying, when she says, “it’s too late. they’re burning the bed.” 

i am running. i do not stop to say goodbye. 

the house is burning. the children are tugging at the long legs of my loft bed, trying to to pull it to the ground, and all around me are flames. i run through them, ignoring the cries of my cousins as i climb into the loft bed, laying down and burying my face into my pillow that smells of smoke and heat just as the legs crash and i’m tumbling to the ground.

then i wake up. 

my pillow does not smell of smoke. 

~

it’s finals week and i dream that i’m in a cave. there are bars on the entrance, even though it just leads to even more cave, and guards and a warm yellow light coming from somewhere. 

i am with people i do not know. they are not concerned about leaving. i am. i get the gate open, the guards aren’t around. “come on,” i say to everyone. “let’s go. we have to go.” 

“it’s just a waste of time,” one of them tells me. “we can’t leave. where would we go?” 

i don’t understand. 

someone else puts a water bottle and a several packets of saltine crackers into my hands. “you’ll need this,” he says, not unkindly. “don’t lose them. it’s important.” 

i can’t force anyone to come with me. the guards will be back soon. they should be here now. leaving seems too easy, suddenly, but it’s not like i’m going to stay, so i go. 

the caves are confusing. it takes a long time to find my way out, and i drink most of the water and eat the saltine crackers. when i step out of the labyrinth of caves it’s too bright, brighter than it’s ever been. 

i walk for a long time. i come across a field that is a mix of golden corn and golden wheat growing side by side in a confusing, impractical mixture. 

i see a man, dark skin and greying beard, in grey overalls and a grimy henley that maybe didn’t used to be grey but is now. he has a scythe in his hands, leaning back and swinging it through the mix of corn and wheat. 

the wheat falls to the side and the scythe passes through the corn, leaving it unharmed. 

“can you help me?” i ask. “i need to go home.” 

the man startles, looking at me. “you shouldn’t be here.” 

“i know,” i say, “can you help me? i can’t figure out how to get home.” 

he stares at me for a long moment, then nods, digging a small hole in the ground with the toe of his boot. “here. you kept them, didn’t you?” 

he doesn’t specify, but i know what he means. i take out the mostly empty water bottle and the torn plastic packets of the saltine crackers. i shouldn’t have eaten them. but it was the only way to get out the cave. 

the man sighs, as if i’m tiresome, and takes them from my hands. he empties the saltine crumbs into the dirt, then pours the last of the water on top. he directs me to stand on top of the hole, and i do, and he kicks the dirt in around my feet. “they didn’t have to help you. you’re lucky they gave those to you.” 

i am. i would not have gotten out of the cave without them. i would not be going home without them. 

the man takes a step backwards, leans back, and swings the scythe through me. 

then i wake up. 

my bed is soft and warm. i wonder if i was the corn or the wheat. 

~

my cousin has been two years younger then me our whole lives and she is two years younger than me when she dies. it is strange to think that for the rest of my life my cousin will not age and i will. i live on the other side of the country to her. the last time i was home, i had a bus to catch and she was busy talking to her boyfriend, so instead of waiting to hug her goodbye, i left and said, “i’ll hug you extra hard next time,” and the pain is too familiar to be sharp. 

i dream we are in a beach house like we visited once as children, but we are adults. i am delighted to be here, with my family, warm and content and safe. my cousin is there and we’re floating in the pool and i look at her and my easy contentment falters. something is wrong. i put my arms under her shoulders and knees, like i’m supporting a child who’s just learning how to float, and she looks very still and peaceful until she cracks open an eye to grin at me. “oh no,” i say say, looking at her, remembering, “you’re dead.” disappointment flashes over her face. i wasn’t supposed to say anything. i wasn’t supposed to remember. 

then i wake up. 

i dream we at a garden we’ve never been to. it is bright and easy and the moment i see her, i know that she is dead, but she does not. i don’t tell her, i let her drag me to look at roses bloom, and try to feel for coldness in her skin, but it’s warm. i make myself smile and she doesn’t make me let go of her hand and it’s so very warm here. for the first time i want to stay, but it’s not even a choice. she looks down at our clasped hands and when she looks up, her lips are tinged blue. “oh no,” she says, and i’m reaching for her, to pull her in to hug her extra hard, but i’m not quick enough, “i’m dead.” 

then i wake up. 

can you forget you’re dead? i wonder. can you forget you’re alive? 

~

the last stickysharp dream i had was over a year ago, and it was this: 

i am at the beach with all my friends. i love them so much. it’s hot and and the sand burns my feet so we are sitting on the shoreline, damp and hot and laughing. 

there is a bright flash of light. it’s a bomb going off. i don’t know how i know, but i do, and i run. 

you can’t outrun a bomb, but i try, my first instinct to flee and the hot sand is burning my feet. it takes me too long to realize that no one else is running, that they’re all standing perfectly still, watching their death coming for them. 

my friends are still at the shoreline. the first shockwave is coming. i don’t have enough time to run back to them, even though i want to. 

i die alone 

then i wake up. 

~

i do not remember my dreams, generally, and i don’t put much meaning into dreams, generally 

generally 

ocean vuong / sandra cisneros / haruki murakami

Wait what it's been a year already? Huh, it didn't seem quite that long to me. Anyway, I see what you mean by cheeky - I like it, and that last part

"Are you decent?"

"Morally? No. But if you're wondering if I have pants on, yeah, you're good."

for some reason had me absolutely wheezing. Can't wait to see the next chapter 💖

<TEASER> No Harm List | Pt. 11

 Warnings: None, a lil suggestive ig

Rating: PG 13 

Word count: 577

A/N: wow okay. I really wanted to post an update in celebration of NHL 1 year anniversery! But that’s jusnot happening. So instead I am posting this short little teaser. I wrote this scene back in likee October, I think it’s so cheeky, so I hope you guys enjoy it when you give it a read. Please know this is very bold of me to post bc I do not have chapter 11 written or even drafter super well so I’m really commitmening myself to this moment here. But I hope it does spark joy! Thanks again for all the love and for making my first year as a writer so dang wonderful! 

———————————–

You groaned as you rolled over. Even with your eyes closed, you could feel the morning sun mercilessly shining down on you through your eyelids. 

You could tell you fell asleep without removing your makeup by the way your lashes seemed to resist when you moved to crack one eye open. They were nearly fused together by the clumped waterproof mascara you foolishly applied before going out. 

You went to nuzzle your face deeper into your navy blue pillow, becoming all too aware of how your throat was dry and your tongue felt too big for your mouth before you remembered you don’t own a navy blue pillow. Your bedding was grey. 

Your body went rigid as you took in the plush king-sized bed that was far nicer than the second hand full you furnished your apartment with, and smelled enticingly of a spiced cologne. 

This is Hoseok’s fault. 

You thought bitterly as you recalled his promise that he wouldn’t allow any one-night stands. He abandoned you and left you helpless to be lured by some sexy stranger. OR worse. 

You felt like cold water was poured down your back at the potential that you weren’t in a stranger’s bed but in one of the members of BTS. 

Oh god, oh god you had to get out quick. 

You hoped out of bed your head spinning and your sore body protesting as you made your way to the windows. Your smooth thighs brushed together and you looked down to see you were not in your clothes from last night, but instead, an oversized olive green tee shirt that hung just above your knees. 

You had to admit it’s more modest than what you wore last night. But being in a mystery lover’s clothing did leave you unsettled. You pat your bottom for a moment and smiled in victory when you confirmed your panties were still on. 

You continued your dizzying journey to the window now more bodily aware. Your hangover wasn’t the worst you’ve ever experienced, but that didn’t mean it was comfortable when you pulled back the blinds slightly to peer through the window to try to get a check on your location.  

You hissed at the morning light as you took in the familiar rose garden that lined the back of the Den’s property. Your stomach sunk at the view and you still don’t know if you rathered it be a stranger. 

Suddenly you became aware of a lack of noise. 

With a creak of a faucet handle and the groan of the pipes in the walls, you heard the shower come to a stop in the connecting bathroom. 

Your heart raced as the chances of you facing your dance partner of the night came closer. 

Ready to just bite the bullet and face your doom you made your way to the bathroom door and knocked lightly before pushing it open. 

“Hey I’m so-AHHHHHH”

“AHHHHHHHH” Taehyung shouted back at you as he struggled to wrap his towel around his waist. 

“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” you cried as you pulled the door shut. 

Your breathing hitched in panic, and you struggled to slow it in your flustered state. After a moment of hearing him shuffle around the bathroom, you knocked again, louder this time. 

“Are you decent?” You called hesitantly. 

You swear you could hear his smirk through the door as he responded, “Morally? No. But if you’re wondering if I have pants on, yeah, you’re good.”

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