The crowd was silent. Not a single person was moving. The energy in the arena starts to emerge as the people begin to realize what is beginning to occur. The arena is a madhouse, and the screams are deafening. A name on the big screen then appears and many emotions begin to pour out. Some were crying, some cheerful, but most blank. The kid next to me begins to shake knowing that his older brother's name may be next to come on screen. After a moment of silence, the people within the arena began to applaud. Me and the kid watch as the lifeless body is taken out of the arena. As the doors shut and the body can no longer be seen, the silence is now back and the people then wait knowing the process is bound to repeat. I then wipe away my tears and give one last hug to the kid next to me. The light slowly begins to creep in as I take my first steps into the arena knowing they will be my last. 

VROOM! The engine roared, into Turn 8. His heart beating like the cylinders of a car. He can feel his moment coming closer and closer. Passes Leclerc on the inside, he is so unbearably close. But he must wait, wait until the last second possible. Into Turn 9, he fends off Leclerc trying to get his revenge at the cost of a slightly damaged front left wing. Gets through Turn 10 and nearly passes Hamilton on Turn 11. Now everything seems to be in slow motion, with every part of the car ahead of him visible, and with pure instinct, he gets around Hamilton and into second place. Around Turn 15 and gets down the main straightaway, he hears the radio tell him last lap. His moment now feeling farther away than before. He stalks behind Verstappen around each turn to stay close and not get too far behind. 

Everything seems to now be speeding up, into Turn 15. He fails to fully get by Verstappen and now activates DRS down the main straightaway, wheel-to-wheel, sees the checkered flag, full-gas. He edges ahead of Verstappen and his dreams from his childhood are fulfilled, he wins the Formula 1 World Championship.

“Hello class” said Mr. Lowen, smiling out at the faces of his new 4th grade class. “I cannot know what you are thinking, but what I thought when I walked into kindergarten, my first year of school was ‘what a strange occupation to choose’. I was surprised that anyone would want this job, that of a teacher. Of course, at that point I had never been to school before, and yet was already 8. And at 8, I was already sure of what I wanted to be, I wanted to be rich.” This got some chuckles from the class, causing a frivolous smile to appear on the teachers face. “But after going to highschool, I decided to go into teaching school. That was one of the best decisions I ever made.” He sighed, leaning back into his gaudy, overstuffed chair. “Now, your math is on the board. Please come see me if you have any questions.”

I’m drowning and I can’t breathe.

     When I found out they were gone, I didn’t believe it. Surely they’re just around the corner, at work, running errands. My mind was in shock, delusional. Then I realized - they’re not here, and they’re not coming back. 

     Death is a funny thing. It lingers everywhere you go, omnipresent. You don’t realize it’s there until it slaps you in the face. It’s cruel. It shows no mercy. 

     Finally, it sunk in. They’re dead. 

     The people who gave me life lost theirs, and I couldn’t save them. They rescued me so many times and I wasn’t there to save them.My parents are dead, and soon I will be too.

Before every good sports game, there’s a time of utter anguish, for me at least. Before every solo sport (swimming, track, etc.) you know if you do a lousy job, it’s on you.

The day of the said event, you can think of nothing but what your team will say if you do badly, how people will think of you, what the coaches will think, but deep down you know they won’t actually say anything. They’ll just say the same old thing; “Good job” or “Nice finish.” You think about the reality of what people will actually say, nothing nasty, so you try to calm down.

-1 Hour

You try to focus on your stretches but the sickening feeling in your stomach is soon going to burst if you don’t do it soon. 

-30 Minutes

 You look around and try to see if anyone’s feeling the same way you do, but they’re messing around and laughing like it’s going to be a breeze.

-5 Minutes

You’re taking constant sips of water, making sure you’re not dehydrated for the run or swim.

-1 Minute 

The despair is overwhelming.

+1 Minute

You realize it’s not bad, you can do this.

I prance around the plant section of Home Depot, hoping to find a hidden jewel among the shrubbery. Near the seed isle I spot a pile of them just laying on the concrete. It’s not considered stealing if it was already opened right?  I just saved myself three bucks. Look out, Mr. IQ148 coming through. I smirk at my own ingeniousness as I shove the small collection of seeds deep into my pocket. Satisfied, I begin to go search for my mom through the rows of flowers.

These seeds saved me three dollars, three! After a long period of contemplation, I decided. I’m going to grow a money tree. It’ll grow so big, all my friends and I will be able to save hundreds of bucks. Thinking this was a good enough reason, I placed the seeds inside a makeshift bowl I made from one of my precious dollar bills. That sucker got planted right in my front yard for all to see.

I was innocent at that time, but I got two things right. The plant did grow big, although they were just lilies, and they saved my family and friends some money at my funeral.

It was happening.

The line played over and over in my mind until it no longer sounded like actual words. My stomach twisted with anxiety and my throat felt dry.

It was happening.

I ran my shaky hand over the cobblestone walls of the abandoned subway track. This was my home. The metal tracks cut my bare feet as I ran over them, but I didn’t mind. I jogged up ahead until I was met with a familiar iron gate. I knew these tracks like the back of my hand, yet I still hesitated before wrapping my hand around the bars and pushing it open. I sucked in a breath as I entered.

It was happening.

The second I was inside I saw Astrid, the leader of this place looming over me in inspection.

“Isla you’re here.  I take it you’ve heard?”

I nodded, my voice failing me.

“Well, I’ve made a decision. The food ration is running low and now that the war is over we have to assume that it’s safe in the outside world. So, I’ve decided to send someone out to test this theory.” She paused, “namely, you.”

My chest tightened, I couldn’t breathe.

It had happened.

Snow fell softly from the night sky, drifting down into a dark alleyway.
It was deserted, except for a figure dressed entirely in black, prowling along the cobblestones. Despite the cold, she didn’t shiver. 

Nyx had no time to waste. She had a job to do.

A noise caught her attention, and she ducked into hiding. Her breath formed white clouds in the icy air, and she hoped that they wouldn’t give away her presence.

Finally, a man staggered into view. The man she’d been waiting for. Nyx smiled, and silently unsheathed a long, thin blade.

He never saw her coming.

The girl places herself upon the thick slab of a carpet in the living room, legs stretched over one other, dwarfed by the Christmas tree in front of her. The plasticity of the fake leaves sends darts of light across the room, reflecting off the charmingly tacky ornaments. Her body, folded on the floor, is permeated by a lukewarm sense of contentment as family members fill up the furniture.

The girl's grandmother sits in the chair in the corner, pulling her scarf around her waxy skin. She perches, a distant matriarch, a wise owl yet a deft sparrow, quick-witted and hyper-aware.

Back under the neon tree, smiles are copy-and-pasted from one gift-opener to the next. Grandpa gently undoes the wrapping on his present from the girl, agitating her slightly more with every leisurely movement, every whisper of a tear in the tape. The girl’s aunt collects the wrapping paper and creases it into the preexisting pile at her feet, and the grandmother’s neatly trimmed fingernails snatch and smooth out the ribbon with neurotic glee.

At the fireplace nearby, a faded cloth depicting an ancient Santa grins nervously at the plastic-fringed living room. Tough crowd, the girl imagines he is thinking.

        Lackadaisically sitting on the patio of his medium-sized house, a forty-six year old writer fiddles, ineffectually, with a piece of rope to tie a noose. When one commits to the end they do it with a particular blankness of mind. Depression is not being incapable of getting out of bed. Depression is living a normal life without any emotion or even a real longing for emotion: depression is wanting to want to want something. He felt the heat of the setting sun on his forearms.  As the writer tied the noose to the door frame, his mind wondered off to the other artists in this particular circumstance. The twenty-seven year old painter sticking a needle in his arm for the last time. The thirty year old poet sticking her head into an oven. The sixty-one year old literary-titan opening his mouth just wide enough to stick a shotgun barrel into it.  He then thinks about the irksome asymmetry of not involving the verb “sticking” anywhere in his own death, how rude of him to ruin the pattern.

        Snap.

        There, swaying in the wind, hung David Foster Wallace with the sun reflecting off his glasses to show an oil-slick rainbow.