Day 124

The sad truth dawned on the poor child, at last.
They weren't actually that good at playing hide and seek.
The others just didn't look that hard for them.
So they stayed hidden but never sought, never found and never given a chance to seek out others.
The game would eventually end, but they are hiding still. Waiting to be found.
See how cruel some games can be?

Day 123

The scene is a simple one, but it require a little setup.
So:
Miles is a bigger guy. He looks imposing and is actually very strong. Also tough.
But he's a gentle giant, who would rather beat himself up, than let anyone else get hurt.
Probably why he's a professional wrestler - entertainment: not Olympic.
Miles is a jobber, he takes falls and gets beat up by hero characters in order to help get them over in the eyes of the fans. Miles is well practiced at taking a bump from smaller guys.
So Miles found this cat hiding from the rain, and brought it home.
After drying it off, he realizes the cat wasn't a cat, it's a shape shifter.
But the shapeshifter isn't a shapeshifter, either. They're in a shapeshifter's body, that used to belong to a body snatcher, who took their body, which was that of a warrior mage. Now, they need Miles' help to stop this body snatcher, before a terrible curse is unleashed on the entire town.
. . . fast forward to Miles fighting this shapeshifter, who chooses to swap bodies with Miles, due to being bigger and stronger.
Something kind of snaps in Miles ...
A man who has allowed himself to be beaten down all his life, who makes his living taking hits, now finds himself face to face with . . . himself.
He's confused, out of body experiences do that to a person.
He's no longer himself. Because he's starring at himself.
He's seeing himself as others see him.
All he can do is ask why? Why does everyone want to hurt you? Why do you let them? Why don't you tell them to stop?!
None of this is said aloud of course. 
Words can't fully articulate this odd mix of inward outward loathing.
He strikes the face that was once his own. Then again. And again.Striking down the shell that was once his own.
His crooked teeth, his lazy eye, his bald head.
Every blow is a release of his own self loathing.
Why are you ugly?
Why are you fat?
Why are you the way you are?
He stands over his own body with fists raised, finally able to see himself as all the bullies of the world have seen him his entire life.
Why don't you tell them to stop? Why don't you want them to stop?
The fire in his new eyes are extinguished by tears.
Just tell me to stop . . . tell me to stop hurting you.

Day 122

AMAZING INVENTIONS!!!

Swords that turn into candy, that way every time the fighting is about to get out of hand, we eat candy instead.
Sleeves made from the same material as all our childhood blankets: every hug becomes softer and warmer.
A universal hand signal that everyone on the planet knows, that says we can skip past the small talk because I have something very important to say to you and my anecdote about the Victor Hugo inventing the first text message is not going to suddenly make me brave enough to possibly hurt you . . . or myself . . .
Lullabies for adults, that still make us feel like everything's gonna be okay.
Motivational posters of friends and family members, instead of strangers.
A color coded sensor telling me if I'm actually uncomfortable at this party and want to leave, or if I'm just trying to leave before becoming uncomfortable.
Paper mirrors that you can draw on and everything!
A record of all the advice you've given to the people you love, recorded in a video diary, which will play when you're in a rough spot.
A chocolate drawer. Not a drawer made of chocolate. A drawer full of chocolate. And it's self filling. And the chocolate isn't messy!
A thing that will make me less selfish and not overcompensate by being kind to people from a distance . . .
that last one might just be therapy and practiced mindfulness . . . so that but in like a pill.
A beautiful garden with time vortexy doodads, so I can introduce the flower to the seed it once was, and the seed to the flower it will one day become! ... and maybe the gardener me can chat with gardener me if I'm ever wondering about my growth?

These inventions aren't really practical, and their uses are far too singular to be feasible for mass production.
Some of them aren't even inventions, just concepts or frustrations I have.
I suppose that is how inventions do begin though: the displeasure with life's little struggles give rise to the need for tools to overcome them.
I'm not sure what I want to make. Or even what I want to overcome. I haven't identified it.
I just know I want to move on.
So . . . maybe a weekly writing exercise to get in touch with the things in life that are most frustrating you as a means to identify them ooooooooo I see what you did there.
Oh subconscious. You truly do operate sub ... conscious ... ly? ... I'm tired.
End transmission!

Day 121

Though a storm threatens to break all around you both, all you can focus on is her.
With adventure in her eyes, she wears a mischievous grin to match, and stands before you.
Arm outstretched.
Hand offered.
She doesn't even need to speak, but the words come out all the same:
"Where to?"
Your answer will come without your meaning it too.
Blurted out, like the schoolchild, eager to provide answer to a test question they had successfully studied for:
"Everywhere!"

Day 120

On a quiet afternoon at the local market, a man shops for the finest ingredients.
The man knows he is being followed and that his situation is dire, but it cannot be helped.
This may vert well be the most important dinner party of his life.
And he intends to do it justice.

Day 119

Though they thought her dead, she emerged from the wilderness more alive than ever.
With ambition in her eyes and certainty in her step, the heiress strolled back into civilization.
She would set out to claim what was hers by right.
Comparitively, the wilds would likely prove more accommodating than the bureaucratic jungle she was about to venture into.
Yet, her pace remained steady.
Just as the air is still before the storm, so did her outward shows portend.
Whirling machinations lie beneath her surface.
Dark gears propelled the terrible design within her.
It was neither justice, nor vengeance, which motivated her now.
She sought a reckoning.
And her storm would pluck the guilty and the innocent alike . . .

Day 116

So she poured a single drop of rain into his ear.
The boy slept through it all, of course.
He was a heavy sleeper.
But had he not, he might have glimpsed the cause of his stormy day after.
Why his every step shook like thunder. Each angry howl found itself accompanied by a frothy drizzle.
For the dream witch had planted a storm seed in his head. And his soggy dreams would only feed it throughout the night.
She, the dream witch, was growing a breaker. A blower. A billower and a shaker. One who cannot see a thing without wanting to destroy it.
This one would grow into an investment landowner and seek out neighborhoods to tear up and down. And true to the storm he would strive to become, he would ignore the cries of adults and children alike.
He would never be satisfied by serenity, nor calm.
It would always feel a prologue to his work yet to be done.

This is the reason people break the world.
Or at lease, its the only sense I can make of it...