Writing

I saw a post on Pinterest today about how they want people to love the mundane things about them, and I crave that from deep in some cavernous region in my heart.

The stars are reflected in the glimmer of the headlamp's light on the snow

And the air is frozen-- it feels like the sensation of holding your hand under water so burning hot that

it begins to feel cold

somehow.

There’s a lot I wanted to do,

but somehow my feet stayed still.

Days slipped through my fingers

like sand I forgot to hold.

People ask where I’ve been—

I tell them I’m “fine,”

living in a city I built

Kael’s stone blazed blue in his hand, steady and unyielding. He grinned at me, even now. “Three… two… one—”

I unfolded the fragile page, Kael leaning close as the lantern light caught the writing. My mother’s hand—sharp, deliberate strokes—spread across the paper. I swallowed hard and began to read aloud:

Kael paced the length of the dorm, muttering to himself. “No, no, no, this is bad—this is worse than bad. Purple blood? Orange Luminor? This isn’t random, Ryder. This is connected.”