To have your challenge entry recorded, please write your piece as a reply to this thread.
As a central theme of Consistency is the existence of time — ensuring that you are writing on a timely and daily basis — the theme of this month’s prompts will also be about time.
Today's prompt: [Belated]
Definition: coming or happening later in time than should have been the case.
╰┈➤ Write a piece about something belated.
Word Count: Minimum 250 words, no maximum.
I adorn her table with white chrysanthemums. A meal is spread out thinly, most for me, and the rest is for her to bring around.
"That was a joke," I tell her. "I mean, who knows? Maybe they'll learn to tolerate my omelet masterpiece."
Her voice rings in my head, "A disaster-piece is a better word for something like that."
"I can't believe you." A sullen snort escapes from me as I take a bite of the food. "Putting words into my mouth like that."
Her birthday should have been a week ago, and it completely flew over my head. Files still lay back at the office, filed in neat chaos, awaiting revisions and comments. Our previous celebrations were and still are a race against time, fighting against schedules and take each overlapping free moment to just... talk.
It seems like I've barely talked over the necessity these days.
I find myself poached on the porch at three in the morning begging for the warmth of my coffee to quench the Antarctic wasteland inside. It doesn't work. There have been no successful reports of caffeine waking up a dormant heart.
But I don't tell her that, not when she's in front of me, watching me enjoy my little feast and telling her about my day. She should move on with little worry and regret; she should leave it all behind with me.
"So, happy belated birthday."
The arc of the gravestone seems to smile down on me, and for the first time, I feel the eternal winter subside.
[WC: 258]
WordCount: 373
She did the right thing.
What else? The gallon of gasoline burned her hands, or was it the heat coming from the auditorium? She still had the feel of the trigger between her fingers, of the cold metal of the gun, of the tender silence between the two of them, of each of his eyelashes gracing his unmoving eyes from the gun in her hands. Oh, how beautiful it was.
But obedience closed her throat, muted her cries, and like an inert body, she raised her hand. She had no choice, only then could she save him from a life worse than death. As she motionlessly watched the flames in the distance on a hill near the school, Mara did not hear the footsteps behind her. A broad, warm hand moved slowly up her lower back to her shoulder, caressing the bare skin, her clothes had torn as she fled the scene.
"You did great, honey." A deep voice, coming from a man in his late forties, sounded satisfied, arrogant and pleased. "With that, we can move on to the next step. We'd better get back to the car, before the police arrive."
Mara didn't speak, she couldn't, or wouldn't. She had done so many things for this man, her savior, but there, watching the first moment she met her beloved burn, something in her mind tingled. The flames blinded her, but she could not look away, and dancing like the flames, memories of his voice whispered words of love. Before she turned, she managed to visualize a car arriving on the scene, a small figure stepped out of the back of the car, and ran towards the flames, but was stopped before she could enter. She almost thought she heard the piercing scream that seemed to suggest from the small figure in the distance.
She did the right thing.
That had to be the answer. She turned to the man waiting for her in the car. Every step she took felt heavier, sticky, painful. She did the right thing, and it had better be, or else remorse would be sure to get to her, and the bullet of love would pierce the heart that must have stopped beating on that cursed hill.
“Why did you come so late?”
Her voice hoarse, scratched and bleeding, the area a wasteland, gone up in flames.
“I - I’m sorry—” The tips of the boy’s boots barely touched the ground, his black wings keeping him afloat. He shifted his scythe uncomfortably, its double blades rusted over with blood. “There was just…so much going on. I…forgot about you.”
“Forgot about me?” She was on her knees, her hair tangled, skin dirty, clothes ripped and torn. “You’re Death, for heaven’s sake! You’ve been taking everything away from this world! How could you forget about me?”
“Erm…only one of Death.” He scratched his cheek, wincing at her wounds. “What happened to you?”
“I should have died long ago, that’s what!” She was nearly silent, yet her voice carried the weight of a scream. “The war, the famine, the pestilence, all of it! I had to watch and see everyone else, everything else, go before me, and I was left wondering when it would be my turn! I don’t understand how you could simply pass over me like that—”
The boy spoke, his voice quiet. “Usually, when one of us comes late, our, erm, customer, is usually quite happy to be immortal for a time being. This is the first I’ve seen, of someone having…gone through so much…”
“And even now you refuse to kill me? Do you hate me, and wish to keep me from your afterlife for as long as possible? Because there is no rest for the wicked? Please, tell me, I beg you, what have I done? What have I done to deserve this?”
As he lowered his scythe to rest around her neck his said softly, “You know, sometimes, there is not grand scheme or meaning to life. Sometimes, Death just forgets. There was the whole world to take, after all. Someone had to be last.
“But I am very sorry that I did not come when I should have.”
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤ hi uwu
“It should’ve happened by now”
Galena looked over at her companion, watching him frantically flip through his futurey-booklet while occasionally glancing down the valley. She didn’t bother asking knowing that he’d tell her without her actually needing to inquire.
“‘‘Four days later on the third Sunday of the month– that's today– hell’s fire rained down upon the forest, burning it to the ground before anyone could reach’” his finger traced over the text as he read before he abruptly turned to Gal. “So then why isn’t it happening? We’ve been here for hours!”
Gal shrugged.
“You’re seriously telling me it’s late?!” his stance slumped with a dramatic gasp. “I came all the way here from the future for it to be belated?! I don’t wanna wait foreveeeeerrr! We should go check on it”
Gal blinked at his sudden shifts in tone and attitude, his body perking up as he turned to look at her with beaming eyes.
“You want to check… on a natural disaster…?”
“Yes!”
“How?”
Tae was about to reply when he stopped himself, falling quiet. “Well– I– I just wanna see fire rain… We don’t get that where I come from.” His voice softened.
Galena sighed as she got up from the rock she was sitting on, cursing herself for falling victim to his pouty complaints yet again. “Did you ever think that you never experienced it because it never happened…?” she asked, sending him a exasperated stare.
“Impossible.” Tae waved her off, returning to his book. “Why would history books lie to me?”
Another sigh. Arguing with him was pointless, his skull is as thick as the very mountains they were on. Few times had Gal met such a stubborn man. “Fine, have it your way” and with that she walked off, slowly starting her way down the mountain side.
“Wait– we’re going?” Tae looked over in excitement but no reply came his way. He quickly grabbed his backpack and hurried on after his friend calling out for her to wait up on him.
WC: 335
Ronnie is my twin. At least, he’s supposed to be.
He came on a snowy night in a chilly storm just like me. The skys were dark and the clouds were a deep gray, at least that’s what Papa says. He said that Ronnie was supposed to be born on the same day as me.
We’re supposed to be twins. At least, that’s what people call us. Roxie and Ronnie, the daunting duo (though I don’t know what that means.) Roxie and Ronnie, the terror twins. Roxie and Ronnie, the petrifying pair. I don’t know why all the words have to have aliteration. Ronnie doesn’t either. And he’s not even my twin!
Apparently it doesn’t matter what moment we were born, how scary the night was, or how silent Ronnie was. Ronnie came late, you know. Late by just two minutes, 11:59 and 12:01 just apart. So it doesn’t matter how long he spent in Mama’s tummy with me, or how he grows when I grow. It doesn’t even matter that we’re basically the same person in looks, except I’m a girl and he’s a boy, with green eyes instead of my golden brown.
We both got Papa’s third freckle and Mama’s almond eyes. We got Papa’s long lashes and Big Mama’s glimmering smile. I got Pop’s right cheek dimple and smile lines, and Ronnie got his own special double dimple with no lines. But we both have our own personalities. We’re still one of the same. He’s got the height and I’ve got the bite, all of them say.
It’s a bit confusing but I don’t care for the words. Two minutes apart, he’s still half of me. So Ronnie’s my twin. No matter if he’s supposed to be.
“Breaking news: King Rajathas has been assassinated. The king was found with a jewelled dagger in his heart by his maids last night. Empress Bavani arrived only a few hours later. She revealed that it had been a visit to the Sphinx and that the Sphinx herself warned her something was happening. The entire nation mourns the loss of its benevolent king. ‘#peacesummitwasalie’ has been trending all over social media, claiming it was a Vina’adian assassin. King Jeyethas has given a public statement that this was a lie. Regardless, the hashtag is going viral as we speak. Now, a message from our sponsors—” I watch the TV keenly but am interrupted by the voice of my mother.
“Kanna, didn’t you say you have a rune class today with your mentor? I remember it’s… in five minutes. Oh, kanna, you’re going to be late!”
I whip my head around and look at the clock. Five minutes to five. It would take ten minutes even on a bike. Oh, Miss Vaishnavi is going to kill me. I dash to my room and pack my bag. A quick “Bye, ma!” and I’m out into the busy streets. It’s so crowded I can’t see anything but people. If only these magicless bags of meat would move. I could use a rune paper I have, but it would more or less be disastrous. Hazardously so.
Taking shortcuts, I’m standing at the front door of the scariest house, sweating and panting. I’d actually made it twenty seconds early. The door opens even before I knock.
“You’re late.” The sternest voice booms from inside.
“Sorry, Miss Vaishnavi. You know, the king died, so I was looking at the news because the king died. The news was… newsing it?” I start to mutter, speaking randomly.
“Coherent, my boy. Regardless, we have no class today. The kingdom mourns, and it would be disrespectful when two witches are magicking without care. But, that doesn’t mean you don’t have homework. Your homework is to write your own rune. You know the basic shapes and steps. Now, go home. Go to the public funeral. Honour your king.” She speaks without giving me a break even to say anything. Before I know it, the door slams shut.
Great. I ran like I was running from a monster just to be sent away. But you couldn’t argue with witches. Next to the doorbell, I draw a rune. The most simple, but profit-yielding rune. It turns the electricity off for an hour. I know I will be yelled at next week but how else would I express my disappointment? I run away just as I hear a loud groan.
(( ALMOST MISSED THIS absolutely not. content warning for: murder (not that graphic there's just pain descriptions and stuff) and implications of a toxic relationship )) Marnie, by all accounts, should absolutely have been dead by now. Every year, he thinks that he's so sure, SO sure, that he couldn't possibly make it through another year. That every birthday he has, every year he survives, will be his last, and that karma or bad luck will catch up to him if his own bad habits don't get there first. Every year, he proves himself wrong. Every ... every year, he proves himself wrong. “Y ... You ...” Not this one, though. It's interesting, when old information you were sure *must* have been true is abruptly rendered outdated. Obsolete. And you would never see it coming until it's already said and done. A searing, stabbing pain forces its way through somewhere in his chest. He isn't sure where exactly the blade hit, and he doesn't bother to check. He knows it's pointless either way. Marnie knows who did it, there's two other people in the room and only one could have possibly backstabbed him from where they were standing, and it's absolutely devastating. To know that this person, someone who wanted to befriend him, someone who gave him hope that maybe he *could* make it in spite of everything in his way, was the same person to absolutely destroy him like this and then kill him off when he wasn't useful anymore ... ... Hashimoto. If Marnie somehow made it out of this, he'd have the sense to never love anyone like that again. His vision blurs, and he can feel his hands starting to numb. The shock from the complete surprise attack hasn't given him time to react to what just happened, and he already had a hard enough time processing things at a “normal” rate ... ... he will never be able to get over everything Hashimoto did to him. And he will never get back to his family. Those chances were taken away just like everything else. And that's what hurts the worst.
The contact with the floor shortly following collapse doesn't harm as much as it does halt. All it really did was stop him from falling further or clipping down, which he's still half convinced he might be able to do. The fall *feels* way longer than it is, anyway, and it's incredibly disorienting. The hearing gives out last. Marnie doesn't pay attention to when everything else fades. ... Yelling. Someone's .. arguing? Why ...? He can't see. Marnie doesn't know. One of them has to be Hashimoto, definitely, but who's the other one? Lexi, maybe? Unless someone else somehow got in? Maybe it's all one person ..? What's ... happening, exactly ...? .. e ... exactly ... ... Well. He won't have to worry about it too much longer, anyway. And it doesn't really surprise him that it's ended like this. The only thing that baffles him is that by all accounts, this should have happened *so* much earlier than it did.
786 words
“You’re late.” Tired eyes greet Theresa at the door. “Where have you been?” Kiana stands before her, arms crossed and eyes glaring.
“I was working—I had to stay late for work. You know how it is,” Theresa explains, pointing her head at the folders she carried between her armpit and offers a weak smile. Kiana simply raises an eyebrow in disbelief, the blank expression on her niece’s face makes her stomach uneasy and immediately regret her choice of words. “Sorry, I'll be early next time.”
“You promised you would be early,” Kiana deadpans, making Theresa’s face cringe. “But it’s fine,” She sighs. “The party’s over anyways.”
Theresa pauses. She spots empty plates left at the dining table behind Kiana, crumbs and remnants of a frugal dinner shared with friends. Paper plates and plastic cups fill up the trash can by the fridge, with some garbage spilled on the floor. The floor is filled with streaks of paper from what Theresa could only guess was from party poppers, as well as more plastic wrappers and crumpled baking sheets. Pillows are scattered on the floor along with a blanket and game console in front of the TV. The couches have been moved and so have the dining chairs. Kiana and her friends had celebrated without her and enjoyed it.
“So it has,” She remarks awkwardly, hands clasped tightly on the box of cake for a party she had missed before she makes another pause, carefully stitching the words for her next response. Theresa stares at the floor, the walls, the tables—everything and anything but Kiana's eyes. Somehow, she feels that she’ll be torn apart if she did. “Did Hua come help with the dinner?”
“She did but it was Mei who helped with cooking,'' Kiana replies. “Don’t you know that already?”
Theresa finally meets her eyes, anger swelling up her chest. “I know that. I was only asking,” She nearly snapped, agitated. It surprises Kiana for a second, ocean eyes glisten under the moonlight, before her blank expression turns into a sour one, clearly displeased. The guilt washing over Theresa prompts her to sigh. “I brought you cake,” She says, changing the subject, and extends an arm to hand the box to the girl. “I couldn't find a bigger one and the shop you frequent to was closed but it’s vanilla ice cream cake with strawberry fillings—your favorite.”
She waits a few seconds before Kiana takes the box. The streetlights are barely able to illuminate the girl’s face, making it difficult for Theresa to read her expression, but Kiana moves eventually. “Thanks.” She says then scurries to the kitchen and Theresa follows, the door quietly shutting behind them.
They gather in the kitchen. Theresa takes a seat by the countertops, placing her folders beside the empty bowl of what was once fruit punch—or Theresa hopes was only fruit punch. Her niece searches the cabinets for a knife for a minute or two. “Sorry about the mess,” Kiana says to which the woman simply acknowledges with a hum.
Fruit punch, huh? She’ll have to ask Hua tomorrow.
“Do you want a slice?“ Kiana stands by the basin where she washes a knife for the cake, back turned at Theresa. “I'll save some for you if you want.” Clack! Kiana slices the cake. “You should have some… If you haven’t eaten.”
“I'm good,” Theresa says, lips pursed while she figures out a response. “I already ate dinner on the way. I want you to have the whole cake.”
Kiana stops to glance behind her back, eyes observing for a moment before it disappears into crescents. She finally smiles this time, it’s subtle and almost unnoticeable. “Thank you,” she says, then stops for a second more. “Thank you, auntie.”
“I'm sorry for arriving late to your party. I didn't mean to, you know that, Kiana. If I had known sooner work would take the whole evening, I would have come home by 9 and your party—“
“It’s okay, auntie.” It's Kiana's turn to sigh but it isn’t full of dismay. She smiles at Theresa, no disappointment, no anger, no regrets. She smiles up to her eyes and this time, she doesn’t turn away for Theresa to miss it. “You’re the closest one I have to a family. As long as you’re here, I'm glad. You know that.”
She reciprocates her smile, disappointment, anger, and regrets fading away into the night, and a short laugh escapes Theresa's lips.
“Happy birthday, Kiana. Belated happy birthday.”
Time may not agree with her but fate always brings her back home—back to Kiana. No time or fate can change the family she so loves, and Kiana's smile is enough to reassure her that everything’s alright.
(INSPIRED BY A Panic! At the Disco SONG: There’s a good reason these tables are numbered honey, you just haven’t thought of it yet)
Veronica Bardot wanted one thing: revenge.
And she was going to get it, even if belatedly.
A month ago she had talked her father into letting her host the fundraiser, and tonight, she was going to. The preparations were a little expensive, but she was sure it was going to be worth every last penny.
She was dressed handsomely, in her black-and-white tux. Her wife Vanessa stood beside her with a glass of wine, wearing a sparkly golden dress that hugged her hips. They waited until the first knock.
The doorman answered, and of course the first person to arrive would be Veronica’s father, Darius. He showed up with his own wife, Ronny’s horrid stepmother Heather, mistakenly wearing a white dress and black sweater with black jewellery to match.
Veronica gave them a sickeningly sweet smile. “Please leave all overcoats, sweaters, and top hats with the doorman,” she instructed them. Her father and stepmom did as such, leaving themselves looking underdressed. Just as intended!
“My, you’ve done a wonderful job of holding this event,” her father complimented her, taking in the streamers and gold balloons and round tables with tablecloths.
“Yes, a wonderful job,” Heather parroted him.
“Thank you. It’s been a pleasure and an honour to be in charge.” And she wasn’t lying; it was going to be such a pleasure to watch this fundraiser unfold.
His eyes widened at the sight of her wife. “Ah, and Vanessa’s here too.”
“Yes, Dad, why wouldn’t she be?”
That set him in his place. He fumbled with his words. “No reason at all, uh, it’s nice to see her again.”
“You as well,” said Vanessa and her smile, though her eyes told a different story. She hated Veronica’s father just about as much as Veronica herself.
More guests showed up then, and Veronica repeated her instructions to leave their hats, canes, sweaters, and overcoats with the doorman. Vanessa quickly finished her wine and placed it in the kitchen, out of sight.
The guests sat at the tables and helped themselves to the punch left out for them. Each engaged in happy chatter. A waiter passed around with a platter of cheeses of skewers.
After an hour, people started slurring their words. Veronica watched as one woman unsteadily walked to the bathroom, swaying side to side. Oh the plan was going brilliantly so far!
An hour later….
She checked to make sure her dad was drunk from the punch. Sure enough, his face was red as a tomato and he was gesticulating in a slow manner.
Veronica joyously made her way to the front of the room, stepped up on the stage, and took the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending. For all of your charitable donations to help cancer. May I welcome my father, Darius Bardott, to the stage to talk some more about that.”
Darius took a minute to get up. Veronica handed the microphone to him when he reached the stage.
“Hello.” He gave a shy wave. “As Veronica said, thank you all. Your money is going to a…good cause. We’ve raised…” He made a funny face as he thought. “We’ve raised approximately fifty thousand dollars that will help,” he said, pausing to gag, much to Vanessa’s and Veronica’s amusement and much to the crowd’s horror. “That will help children and adults fight cancer. So a toast to you all, you goooood people.” He raised his cup and swallowed. He raised a fist to his mouth forebodingly, and then…
He vomited all over the stage’s floor, fell to his knees and heaved.
The throng let out gasps and whispered. Veronica heard a giggle. No doubt they were making fun of his drunken state—not that they were much better, but they might not even know they’re drunk and thought he took a flask. People loved to judge.
She grinned, widely and openly. This was a beautiful, savoury moment. She’d waited a long time for this, and finally, finally, she had embarrassed her father as badly as he had embarrassed her.
And she would remember this moment for decades.
Escaping Death was no small feat and they knew that. Everyone had their birth and death date scribbled amongst the numerous scrolls Time kept and managed — each one decided down to the very millisecond. So the fact you were still on the run and continuing to outsmart Death and Time was unheard of and very, very dangerous. It’d been nearly a week now of constant confrontations and narrow escapes but somehow, despite it all, your heart was still beating. Rationally, you realized there would be an end to this belated death and that it would likely be excruciating.
Ducking behind a decimated building, you release a quiet breath and lean your head back against it. You weren’t sure why you’d made this decision, but you knew you had to see it out now that you were so deep into your mistake.
“Hasn’t this come far enough, mortal?”
“You know, I’d really like to think I could make it at least another week if I try hard enough.” You bit back, chuckling under your breath. The laughter made way to a string of coughs that left you spitting blood onto the gravel beneath your feet. A blur of black and purple flashed across your vision as you leaned against the building and another voice made itself known.
“... Do you truly believe you’ve been outsmarting us? That we haven’t simply allowed this game of cat and mouse for our own amusement?” This voice was darker, angrier than the first and carried a weight to it that made your skin crawl. “We have known and expected every single decision you’ve made until now. All of those narrow escapes were at my companions behest because it would’ve been too easy to let this game end so easily. However, we have deadlines to meet and yours is already a week past it’s due…”
“Who are you?”
“Who I am is of no consequence to you. You wanted your belated death to be memorable did you not?” At your brief sound of agreement, the second voice barreled on. “Then why are you hiding behind a demolished building with no escape route in sight?”
“Fuck.”
“Eloquently put.” You narrowed your eyes at the snarky response and peered out from your hiding place to search for the pair hunting you now. There was no one there, but that had been where the voices had originated from? Slipping back behind the building, purple flashed against your vision again as you stumbled forward into someone. Death towered above you with a knowing smile. His translucent skin seemed to glow as the souls he’d recovered moved through his body as though it were the blood in his veins.
“Hello, dear.” He leaned forward so his eyes met yours and tilted his head towards the building behind you. “Don’t run.” Spinning around you’re met with an even larger figure, moving as part of the shadows cast by the ruined structure. “You won’t make it this time.”
The larger figure reached a bony hand out, tracing it down your face and pressing one finger under your chin to force your head upwards. Your eyes met its, pulsing purple amidst the darkness and it was like you couldn’t look away.
“...The game is up, little one.” The grip tightened and it felt like the air was being torn from your lips as you crumbled to the ground. Death was efficient, even if his timing was a bit late.
walking in the rain
Word Count: 903
Summary:
Takuto didn't expect the trip home to be hard and lonely.
Sometimes, Takuto liked the rainy days. He adored the way that it cleansed everything it could reach, so that it could all start anew. As well as how it created a calm atmosphere around him, lulling his thoughts to silence and allowing him to focus on whatever he needed to. Yet for many times, he would merely sit quietly and listen to the secrets the rain wanted to tell him.
However, he wished the rain hadn’t poured the moment he left the school, and instead waited until he was in the comfort of his apartment.
He didn’t realize the hours that passed, cooped up in his office in Shujin Academy. His late leave from the school caused him to miss his usual train. He stood at the station, drenched and shivering. His brown coat was folded and hung over his arm, and his bag dripped with the excess rain. Thankfully, none of its contents seemed to be soaked.
Knowing the train would take a while until it arrived, Takuto dug through the contents of his bag, until his fingertips felt the familiar smooth texture of a small cardboard box. As well as slick metal, that of a lighter.
The worst part of smoking was how often the world smelled like tobacco and vice and regret and little else. The clear air was savored and quickly sacrificed.
Takuto took time in between breaths to clear his nose, inhaling the night air and breathing it out. How he missed the scent of rain sometimes.
He took his time to indulge it, before letting the nicotine fill his senses once more. The longing for a moment’s peace of mind would be traded for a different kind, and he knew that all too well. For now, he breathed it in.
The rain continued to patter outside of the station, leaving Takuto on his own as he waited for the train. Some of the air around him was heavy with the cold air, and the damp chill reached through his clothes and took hold of him. Though it was a gentle embrace that cradled him, reminding him of its company.
Takuto grew to crave the rain on his skin. It’s like the world would cry with him, but not in a pessimistic sense. It was like it could understand his suffering and at the same time, cure it effortlessly.
Takuto sighed. He couldn’t tune out the noise of the city above him, as it reverberated from the walls and echoed throughout the station. Sounds of cars and people, more absent than usual but still present. He didn’t want to get rid of them though, as at the moment, it put a silence to his thoughts.
The cigarette burned down slowly between his fingers. Flickering as if it would go out at any moment.
Takuto turned his heel, deciding waiting for the train would be a waste of time. He couldn’t stay there. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He still had his research to write, and dinner to eat. But frankly, tonight both of those were the least of his worries.
His shoes cut out a path in the water as he left the station, swallowed up as soon as it was formed. New droplets of water were swift to decorate his cheeks, and a new wave of cold air pressed against his body. He didn’t bother checking his phone for the time. It didn’t matter. He would stay up as late as he could and then continue with his routine with no pause. Maybe when it rained and the train was delayed again, he would do it all over.
It took him half an hour to be halfway to his apartment, but he didn’t mind having to walk through the rain. It astounded him how dear and familiar the streets had become to him. Although he could only do so much from admiring the city amidst his routines, it didn’t stop him from taking time to explore it. To have fun when he could.
A few drops of water on his shoulder were the only warnings he got before the sky opened up a little more. The current rain continued in an irregular beat as its intensity slightly increased. It wasn’t enough for Takuto to pull himself to the side for cover, but it was enough for lightning to arc over the dark ether above and left a glowing scar across the sky. A peal of thunder followed and it rumbled from somewhere deep and unseen.
Takuto inhaled, taking in a final breath of rain and cold air. The rain water lapped across his shoes like a timid tide. He kept walking, despite feeling his coat on his arm and his bag on his shoulder feeling unusually heavy. The water slipped between the folds of his clothing onto his skin.
‘Almost there,’ Takuto assured himself. ‘Almost home.’
He exhaled one last breath of the sweet, cool night, and smothered it under nicotine. The shot traveled straight into his mind.
His shoe hit the surface of a deep puddle and kept going. He felt the cold through the rubber material.
Takuto took the burnt out cigarette and sighed. His eyes clouded with belated concern and his voice lost its edge.
‘If I can get home soon, maybe I’ll have the time to admire the rain.’
The rest of the way home wasn't perfect, but it was enough.
Word Count: 283
Death has still not come for me. I expected Her to have arrived for me years ago. Before everyone I knew was gone. I still lay in bed and hope to not wake up the next day for the same pains, struggles and routine. Every night brushing my white hair, putting my creams and massaging my veiny legs. With no one to call, I write letters that will never be sent.
I tell them about my day. How the apples in the supermarket looked so red or of the black and blue bird I heard singing in the park. I tell my daughter of the beautiful young men that I crossed by and of her favorite cake I baked. After I am done, I put away the pen and paper, along with my heart, into a grey and white box that I keep under my bed.
I spend most of my evenings in the park. When the sun is mild and the wind is refreshing. I sit at one of the benches watching the children play soccer, the young couples kiss and those of my age walk hand in hand. I can feel her during those times. My wife lightly holding my hand and smiling at me. We had many years together before she also left. Proof of those years were in the photos scattered at home. Of both of us on our wedding day wearing white dresses, of us holding our sweet baby daughter. Vacations, new apartments, birthdays, new years and when we bought this house. So many memories, and no one to remember them.
Before I go to sleep, I welcome Her.
Death looming behind me, but ever out of reach.
Belated screams for belated dreams
Belated fears bringing belated tears
Belated regret, belated promise
Belated no longer, it is what it is.
Belated present over belated future
Belated past tense as belated suture
Belated once more, belated longer,
Belated forevermore.
Belated as child, belated as adult,
Belated growth into a belated mold,
Belated rage for being belated,
Belated regret, forgive and forget.
Forget the belation, belatedly,
Just after the time of relevancy,
Just late enough that it matters no more,
Belated as I am, belated as I will be.
Beration in the past comes belatedly,
Belated responses for the unneeded quirk,
Belated shame for the belated thought,
If belation is a sin then I'll no longer court.
Why please the devil when it's all belated,
Too late because the peace is taken,
Too late because I feel all alone,
God knows the devil always goes for the lone.
Belated joy at a belated friendship,
Belated because it's too late for the sins,
The sins against myself that fester within,
It can't take it out, it couldn't take it out.
Belated regret for belatedly leaving, again,
This time maybe for good, or we'll meet again,
God only knows, we were pretty close,
God knows I want to see you again.
But god also knows I'm misguided,
Belatedness is leading me astray,
Has led me I guess, again, belated,
Until I find my way again, then.
See you soon my friend.
Extra:
Belated regret for belated rhymes,
Belated words that make the wrong sounds,
Belated structure, afraid the verse will fracture,
Belatedly hoping it will capture.
NOTE: with the extra it should hit the word count, and I count the extra as part of my writing too.
The icy wind prickled the hair on the back of my neck, yet the heat that seemed to pulse from my head was almost unbearable.
I was crossing a busy road, blinded by the setting sun, which the bus shelter did not seem to hinder. Sitting on the hard wooden bench, I fiddled nervously. I was desperate to sit anywhere but this bus stop, mostly for the sake of my burning head. The bus was already a few minutes late. Usually it timed up perfectly and I would catch it with ease, but today the bus must have been up to other things.
I sighed and dragged my backpack over towards the grass behind the bus stop. A wide field stretched over towards a school where children were retreating, laughing and talking, the field rimmed with trees. I slumped down against the trunk of one of the closest. The tree’s shadow fell over my face, the chilly breeze easing the throbbing pain in my head. I sighed in relief while keeping a side eye on the road. I pulled my packed lunch from my backpack and opened the lid, the only remaining food a few stale pretzels.
So there I was chewing on stale pretzels, my head beating out a samba yet i felt oddly content simply sitting beneath this tree. It was as if it had been waiting for my company the way it bent its branches, its leaving creating a perfect canopy over my head. Yet something so mundane as this felt precious, like it wasn’t my own, as if I’d stolen the moment, it wasn’t meant to be. That is, if the bus had arrived on time.
suddenly it became oddly silent; The cars had stopped at the lights, the school kids dispersed in their separate ways. i could hear a few birds singing in the nearby trees.
As quickly as the silence came, it was broken. The light surely haven turned green, for I could hear the groaning and wheezing of the bus as it hurtled round the corner. Standing up, I ran to wave it down while keeping an eye on the gnarled and bent tree with the comforting shade. I smiled, tucking the small memory into the back of my mind (for safekeeping) before climbing aboard the belated bus, moving onto bigger but perhaps less significant things.
Dear Mr. Thompson,
I am Andy Theus. I do not know if you still remember me or any of my, at that time, friends. It has been several decades since then. I left not that great of an impression to begin with.
You should be receiving a packet at the same time; some books you lent to me when I was more curious and didn't really know how to handle it. The books are still un-read. I am returning it because I don't think I will ever finish them.
One of them is "Chemistry in a Bottle", you lent it to me in eigth grade when I had forgotten my book. That book has actually partially been read. On rereading it, I cannot remember a thing. I feel bad, leaving behind all that I learned, for no other reason than 'I forgot'.
I forgot so many things. The other one, I still am not sure if it was meant to be a joke or not. Gifting me "Time, a month" during exam month sounds like a joke, but I have not read the book yet to find out.
Gifting books in general is still something I didn't quite understand about you. At that time, I held nothing but contempt for books. They were there to instill tedious unimportant knowledge, to fit some professor's ego about how they taught children, or were dreamed up, and still on the exam.
Then I talked with people who couldn't read, couldn't write. I met Richard, whom, to satisfy his curiousity, I read books aloud to. We talked about things, eventually became best friends, and I don't think I'd have met him, had we not talked about books.
I still don't like books.
A few experiences later on in life made me re-think your lessons. For some reason I thought teachers to be superior to students. I wonder now if I could have a drink with you, had I asked at the graduation ceremony.
The graduation ceremony. For us, it only happens once; for you, it happens every year. It was not something that special, once in a lifetime thing. I was misled by my limited perspective and my limited mind. That's why I have resorted to questions. Please bear with me, Mr. Thompson, you don't need to answer if you don't want to.
How did you decide to become a teacher? Did you have a favourite student? What happened to your tie in 1999? One day you just stopped wearing them altogether, and I didn't see them on your funeral picture.
Rest in peace
Andy Theus.
Word Count: 796 words (I hope this entry counts for the prompt 😓)
“Huh? You didn’t know his flight was today?”
Speed limits. Flashing lights. Cars.
“I don’t think you’ll be able to reach him.”
Doors. Cold.
“He’s probably leaving for good.”
Panic.
I couldn’t think. Even as I pushed past crowds and ignored startled strangers. I searched, up escalators and past queues. Lightly tousled hair, square glasses, freckled cheeks—his face was all my eyes wanted to see. But where was he?
As I leaned on a pillar, catching my breath, my eyes wandered to the board, flight details flashing on the screen.
Vancouver. I squinted, denying what I saw. Vancouver, 18:30.
My breathing caught up but my heart rate had yet to. Reaching inside my purse, I cursed. Where’s my phone, where—
To my left was a clock. It read 18:32.
The world fell out of focus. Grays and shadows filled in the blurry spaces. Finally feeling the frigid pillar beside me, my legs gave in. I took a deep breath, or tried to, as I hid behind my knees.
“—you doing here?”
A ringing in my ear. But also, a familiar voice.
“You ignoring me now?”
I looked up. Stared. And hastened to my feet. A surge of vertigo. I held onto the pillar, grasping my purse with my other hand. Ignoring the way my head reeled and heart skipped several life-giving beats, I froze.
He raised an eyebrow, steaming coffee in hand. His hand clutched the handle of his luggage.
I noticed my gaping and stammered out, “I… I thought you…”
He sighed. “Well, whoever told you my flight obviously read the ticket wrong.” He busied himself with his backpack and documents as I stood by and watched him. I’d always been a coward, and, even after knowing him, I never changed. Yet there was an incessant push coaxing me forward, giving me the voice for a question yesterday’s me would never have been able to say.
Maybe all those nights he listened to me meant more than a friend’s sympathy, more than companionate pity. Maybe my presence had helped to relieve his worries, helped him see more than his dreams.
Maybe he meant his promises.
“Would I be able to change your mind?”
Maybe—
“No.”
—I was too late.
He didn’t even pause. Eyeing me, he sipped from his coffee, making his glasses fog. I tried not to feel anything, tried not to tremble as he stayed silent. And so as I spoke, I did so slowly.
“You’re not coming back, are you?”
He closed his eyes. “No.”
Is that all you have to say?
He turned to pull at his luggage, pausing as if to consider my presence. I couldn’t read his eyes anymore. (Was I ever able to?) The flashing reds of a nearby restaurant seemed a better place to rest my eyes on. The artificial cold of the airport began to seep into my coat, raising a shiver down my spine. Stepping back, I braved another look at him, trying to see past the fog in his eyes and the wall between us. “I see. Let me see you off, then.”
He nodded, stepping away. Towards the departure area, maybe. I followed after him, our footsteps falling out of rhythm. Letting my eyes stray to his luggage then to the floor, I hid my hands in my coat pocket. My palms were sweaty.
“If it’s worth anything,” he said, “you helped me so much, you know. More than you might think. But I’m sorry for not telling you of my plans beforehand.”
Past the lights reflected on his glasses I could now glimpse his eyes. Blue, solemn, yet kind.
“Well, what I’m saying is… thank you. For being my friend and seeing me off.”
It’s a miracle I could still hear him through the ringing in my ears and thrumming in my chest. As I couldn’t find the words to speak, I looked at the feet that passed by us.
Movements. Motion. The world moved on. I still wavered lost, as always, within its tilt and blurs, but… if all I had to do was walk with my own two feet past this, past this conversation, and past some airport doors, to return to the world’s motion then…
I faced him, met his eyes that bore right at mine as if waiting for my words. I gave him a smile; I didn’t know what it looked like, but it didn’t matter to me anymore—as long as he didn’t see my hands tremble within my coat.
As he stood by his flight’s gate, I stopped.
“Okay.”
I only vaguely heard my voice leave my lips. Still, if I managed to still find the strength to speak despite his words, despite the growing realization of my foolishness, then I could say—
“Goodbye. Stay safe.”
WC: 371
The last thing I imagined to see when I opened the front door to your apartment was another man getting the door for you.
“And who are you supposed to be?” I remember asking him.
“I should be the one asking you the same question. Why did you show up at my girlfriend’s house with a bouquet of flowers?” I remember his squinting eyes. He looked like he was half-ready to knock my lights out at any given moment but was just barely holding himself back.
“Girlfriend? I’ll have you know Stephanie is my girlfriend, and you’re not going to make me change my mind on that.”
The man looked down on me and I vividly remember his sinister chuckle. “We’ll see about that, kid. I’ll go get Steph.” I remember him calling you “babe” as he yelled for you, and you answering by calling him “dear”. I also remember the way the soul drained out of your eyes as you realized it was me standing at your doorstep with a bouquet of flowers.
“Ben… what are you doing at my house?” you asked.
“I was hoping we’d be able to patch things up and get back together. I lo--”
“Let me stop you right there,” you said. “You hurt me in ways I couldn’t ever have imagined you ever would. Not only that, you neglected me, you’d only hit me up to argue and recriminate me, and you refused to go to counseling when I gave you an ultimatum. If it’s anyone’s fault we broke up, it’s yours. Don’t even dare to try saying those three words to me anymore.”
“But Steph, it’s only been like 3 days!” I exclaimed. “I even gathered what little money I had to get you these flowers for our anniversary and--”
“Ben, when I said that what we had between the two of us was over, I meant it.” You gripped the handle on the door and huffed as she started closing it. Just as the door was open just wide enough for me to see one of her swollen, misty eyes, you spoke the last line you’d ever say to me with a choked voice. “By the way, our anniversary was last week.”
Word count: 262 😠
The wizard arrived at the woods of the orange trees on the 23rd of July — over five and a half years late. A lot had changed since his last visit, and not for the better: the magic there felt weaker, more of the upside-down orange trees had become sick and died, the lights seemed dimmer…
He had really messed up.
He had tried to convince himself that he was simply too busy to visit; he had other aspects of nature to protect. Still, he knew deep in his heart that if he actually cared enough, he would have come here a lot earlier.
Thankfully the path he always took was still well-trodden and easy to follow. It had rained the night before so there were still footprints pressed into the mud. Were they his son’s? He had no way of knowing for sure. Last he saw he was a little child of eleven. He’d have grown a lot since then. Would he be tall like his mother? Shorter like him? What colour would his magic settle on?
…How could he have let himself miss all this?
Eventually he reached the area he was looking for. The two strongest trees looked wearier, but were otherwise exactly the same as before. They stared at him in judgement, disappointment rolling off them like a mist.
“I’m looking for my son.”
The trees pointed down the path to the right. He bowed and followed it. Sure enough, there he was. Tall, long curly hair, furious green eyes.
…There was a lot they needed to talk about.
We had been friends for as long as I could remember. Growing up together, we had been there for so many of each others life events. We were practically joined at the hip. Friends and family would say if you couldn’t find one, just look for the other, and you would find both. We had been there for birthdays, anniversaries, sharing in each others’ triumphs, being a shoulder for the other to lean on through the losses. And in all those small moments, I slowly fell in love with you, each one making me love you more than before. But I remained silent, scared to change our relationship, scared to lose you and what we had. So, I kept my feelings to myself.
Months passed and soon the way you were with and around me made it seem more and more like you might like me back, maybe even love me as much as I did you. Each of those shared moments built up my courage even more, and I made up my mind to break my silence and finally tell you how I felt. I decided to do it after the party of my birthday, one that was being held the weekend of my birthday, since mine fell on a school night.
I had a whole speech prepared and I was bursting at the seams, hope blossoming in my heart, needing you to love me back. But then you walked into the party with her on your arm. And proceeded to spend the rest of the evening with her, barely acknowledging me except to wave hi. You never even came up to me to wish me. Even the actual day of my birthday, you had only sent a message, something I had attributed to you planning some surprise, a move you had pulled previously on my birthday. But it seemed that it was not the reason. She was the reason.
While you still shone the brightest in my life, in yours, she had replaced me. Seeing you with her, all the hope in my heart shriveled and died. Behind me ‘radiant’ smile, my heart wept. Wept for the loss of what could have been. Wept for the missed opportunity. Wept for the fact that I would forever have these unshared feelings in my heart and be left to wonder about what could have been.
I suppose this was my birthday gift. My punishment for not sharing and telling you sooner. For delaying it all. Happy belated freaking birthday to me, I guess. [WC: 423] *I wanted to post this, despite the belatedness of it due to tech issues, just because I did write it. I know it won't be counted but I still wanted to post it here.*