My boots splashed frigid brown water, thumped along sidewalks, and entered school, tattooing rough rhythms into a rug.

     Their purple soles squeaked along the route to my locker, neon laces dragging through the debris of scores of kids’ shoes heading to class.

     They lay, soggy, crossed on the classroom floor. 

     I stretched, yawned, greeted friends, did work.

     They pounded across the busy classroom as we heard gunshots pop-bang-pop-ing far too close down the hall, rushed to lock and barricade our door, and huddled in a corner, but far too late, it seemed, as my boots pulled tight under me, my head in between my knees, stomach churning and mind spinning as I heard footsteps, gunshots, were those screams? growing nearer.

     They scrabbled, bolted, and finally went limp when our door burst open and bullets riddled young bodies, my bright boots oblivious to “Thoughts and prayers” pouring out across the nation, the world, a pool of scarlet slowly spreading from me.

     My new orange and purple boots were the last things on me dry of blood as I was finally carried to my grave among weeping families and bright police car lights. 

Seventeen dead in Parkland, Florida.

Will we be next?

  He ran into her, but never saw her.

  The blur of his white hoodie came before Janice. Unguarded, the hopeful girl watched and waited for him to notice her. He walked behind her, a constant half foot away, talking softly with his friend in black. Hidden in the last shadows of the night he never approached her. Janice waited with silent intensity. Casually, she slowed her pace. Seeing that did nothing, Janice took a bolder approach. Coming from his right, she swung her lunch box and the right side of his slow-moving form. Giving a jocular greeting, her heart pounded in waiting for his hello. Under the cafeteria’s dimmed lights, Janice could see the indifferent look on his face. Tight-lipped, acting as if he never knew her. She did not know what changed between last week and then. All she knew was how high her humiliation levels were rising.

  While the low glow of the rising sun cascaded across the expanse of the Mary Stone High, Janice gradually rose above her embarrassment. If anything that impassive face was a clear indication of how out of her league he had always been.

Oh heavens forgive me! Cleanse my soul for I am wicked; depravity employs my body like million vermin feeding on its lone prey; hypocrisy dwells inside me and I slumber upon the mattress of the devil's cradle. She was my muse -- pure as the driven snow, innocent as the unborn child, but I have tainted her -- tainted her with these spiteful deeds; my unlawful act. Her purity begins to melt like the ice caps of the northern mountain; her innocence fade like the morning dew. Lay all the blame on me as I rest this deviant heart in peace.

Uncomfortably, I sat on the park bench, staring at the grocery store sign across the street. I studied its dark, colorless patterns, just like everything else in the world.

A couple walked by me, madly in love with one another.

I could only imagine how vibrant the world must look to them.

Bright marigold sunsets swallowing lapis blue skies.

Crimson roses covering emerald green grass.

Mom and Dad tried to describe the beauty of a painted world. From then on,

I wished to find my soulmate.

To see the eye candy of a rainbow-washed society.

I put my head on my lap and glimpsed into the achromatic, gloomy streets.

A few blocks down was a midnight black taxi.

As it came closer, I made eye contact with the passenger.

Their light grey eyes were suddenly consumed by a strange hue.

They stood out in the darkness surrounding them.

Different than anything I had ever seen.

They were blue.

An interviewer asks a famous singer, “How do you come up with your songs?”

He pauses, considering the question. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his wife spill some of her morning coffee on the carpet, and then sneakily cover it up with magazines. There is a hum in his ears, a melody that goes A minor, F, C, G.

The interviewer repeats the question, but the singer’s mind is elsewhere.

His eyes follow his wife as she bumps into the cameraman, spills her remaining coffee, and rouses their cats, Fish and Chips, from a deep slumber by stepping on their tails. After earning some loud verbal abuse from the two, she turns to look at him, sheepishly, like a child caught in mischief.

He smiles at her. Words run through his mind like lightning, fusing together with the melody in his head.

Love, is what he wants to say. When you’re surrounded by love, the music isn’t hard to hear. But his wife is standing close to him now, and he feels shy. So, he settles on:

“I think it’s my cats that really get me going.”

The girl

Who wakes up

And looks in

The mirror

And sees

Not the sharp jawline

The skinny body

The flat chest  

Of a man,

But the soft face

The curved body

The busty chest

Of a woman.

She can’t escape it

It feels like a weight on her shoulders

She mustn't tell

She can’t tell

All the sports bras

The loose sweaters

The black jeans

The messy hair

The dirty Converse

The lack of makeup

Isn’t self-neglect,

It’s an attempt to break out

Of her feminine shell

But she c̶a̶n̶'̶t̶ can.

The school

Is a place

Where he can be

Who he is

The love

And support

Is endless

And those who don’t know

Will learn

And those who don’t care

Too bad.

Everywhere he goes

A trail of happiness

Of love

Of individuality

Follows him

Giving everyone

A chance to be

Themselves.

Although some may be

Invisible

They are still there

Still alive

And kicking

Even he

Is invisible too

He carries the flags

Of pink, white,

And blue

Of green, white

Pink and red

The few

But many

Who stand out

And the ones

Who say

“Not yet”

They are brave

Like the boy

With the flags

            Life on Earth is amazing. The golden sphere above my head breathes its comforting heat onto my body. Cool spirits of wind fly past my cheeks. Curious emerald blades push themselves out of the moist dirt, gazing with me in wonder of the immensity of nature.

            That is what I remember of Earth. Before my ignorance, before I went astray. I lost myself to the indoors. Day and night were the same. My senses perceived nothing but the tack of a keyboard, the shouting through an earpiece. I hated leaving my games, despised the thought. I wanted to live the games that I spent so much time immersing myself in. And I could; I was old enough. It was so easy to find my supplies; not one person batted an eye. I couldn’t wait to live out through my body what I trained my fingers to do for so long.

            Life on Earth is grim. Slabs of grimy walls surround me, hold and choke me like Death itself, dealing rightful justice. Where is Earth, the one I remember from childhood? I have been abandoned, my games have lied to me. For there never was a prison in their world.

Her eyes wandering through the massive crowd of people. One glimpse. That was all it took for her to realize everyone was seeing something different. Something pleasant. In a world full of evil only she could see. One man. He seemed to be doing this treachery.  Black hair curling up at the tips of his ears. Pale oval face with big brown eyes that seemed to stare right through her. Questioningly. Standing out in the crowd of people, no one seemed to be aware that he was even there. He was gone.

“Did nobody see that?” she wondered out loud.

A sharp intake of breath, and she was strangled to the ground. A dot of pain. A needle pushed into the hollow of her ear. Everything went black. Awoken, she was on the floor.

“Where am I? What are you going to do to me?” she asked frantically.

The man chuckled. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“You are one of us. One of the Gifted.”

She had a gorgeous luscious hair with light to mid brown hair, with cool tones. Her eyes were blue as an ocean and there were lines of shining green surrounding the pupil. Her noes were small as a button and it was the cutest nose I’ve ever seen. Her lips were red as a cherry and her cheeks were always soft pink. When she was blushing hard, her cheeks became redder and redder. It looked like there was a flaming fire on her cheeks. Her whole face looked beautiful she had a sharp oval face like a shining diamond with no single pimple or acne. Moving down to her shoulders, they were the smoothest shoulders I’ve ever felt. Or was it because she took a long shower almost every day? She smelled like her shampoo and she always wore bright dresses with flower patterns on it. She loved bright colors because that’s what made her happy. Her smile was the biggest, sweetest, whitest smile ever. When I hugged her, she was so soft and gentle like a fluffy teddy bear. She was like a one gorgeous yellow sunflower standing straight with confidence with many other flowers in the field. That's how gorgeous she was. But I can’t see any of this anymore because I just describe my dead best friend who died 2 years ago.

     It was not until I had swallowed that I heard the footsteps.
    There I was, staring into an ocean of midnight, frozen in place, as if to melt into the colorless scene.
       I listened to the rain splatter onto the ground from the leaky ceiling, my eyes closed shut, longing to disappear.
       Drip.
       A gun barrel dug into the back of my head.
       Drip.
       I opened my eyes.
       Drip.
       A single tear silently rolled down my cheek.
       Click.
       I breathed.
       Drip.