ESA is putting on one the first literary works of feminist literature by Nobel Prize Laureate Henrik Ibsen.

Everyone should come as it is a guaranteed suave soirée featuring our very own talented students.

For more info and for tickets visit:

http://theatrecentre.org/?p=4263

Carleton University Creative Writing Contest

The timelines are kind of tight but…  Carleton University is currently accepting entries to it’s Creative Writing Contest.

• This year’s theme: Passages: Transitions Between Worlds
• Two age categories:
  18 and under; over 18
  Two writing categories: Poetry and Short Story
  Canadian and International Entries Welcome!
• Winning entries will be featured in a peer-reviewed anthology of prose and poetry published in spring 2015 by In/Words Magazine and Press. They will also receive a $300 cash prize.
• Second-prize winners will receive $100. First and second-place winners will receive books donated by House of Anansi Press.
• Postmark Deadline: February 15, 2015
• Winners will be announced March 15th, 2015.

Find all the details here.

Writers Conference 2015

This free creative writing conference for youth 17-24 gives young writers a chance to meet and interact with a variety of professionals, students and other young writers, and celebrate the diversity of Toronto's writing community.

Work with award winning poet, storyteller and writers, including George Elliot Clarke,J. Torres, Trevor Haldenby, Farzana Doctor, Andrew Westoll, Daniel Tysdal, Nino Ricci and Richard Scarsbrook.

Hosted by the University of Toronto Scarborough Students of English Literature & Film (SELF) in partnership with the Toronto Public Library. 

When: Sat Feb 07, 2015 from 9:00 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.

Where: Toronto Reference Library Bram & Bluma Appel Salon

Register: Here, now.

Quote of the Week:

''What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.''
-J.D Salinger

Hey y'all! 

I hope you all have had great flows this week. Seriously, my hair has never been so on point... Anyway, this month I am very proud to present three new awe inducing literary works by some talented ESA folk. Have a read if you are so inclined. 

Go with the f.l.o.w

E.S.Say Creative Writing Team

Chains

By: Alana Staszczyszyn

Oh, I remember that night...

A crisp and cool New Year’s Eve,

I remember.

We’d thought to make it another memorable night.

Yes, I think we accomplished our goal.

I remember...

Amidst that grimy, grooving beat,

Beneath the blaring, blazing lights.

A night beyond all other nights,

For, I discovered, you had my heart in chains.

You had hooked my heart

and reeled me in.

Brought me time and time before,

time and time again,

to our eternal paradise.

And here we were again that night,

dancing beneath the foggy lights,

you brought me home to heaven once again.

I think that, there, that night, they fell:

my chains of liberation.

You held my body,

we moved in time,

I thought, perhaps, you might be mine,

and just then a shadow appeared,

whispering softly into my ear,

that I had your heart in chains.

I remember then, my heart broke free,

as I ripped the chains that bound me to my fears.

They whipped into the air,

and soared across the floor,

and there I was, dancing,

dancing with the chains of liberation.

You watched me weave them round my arms,

between my hands, my fingers,

my neck, my lips,

and just then I felt your desire,

thick within the room,

to grab me there and hold me down

and draw me close to you.

Yes, my darling, I was free,

No longer a pet of some distant fear,

but rather a pet to do your bidding.

And I remember when you wrapped me up in chains,

and I gave myself entirely to you.

You tied my hands

and bound my feet,

Leaving only my lips free to caress your neck...

Oh, you treated me so well,

Tending to every gasp and moan and sigh,

And as you held me down and kissed my neck,

You whispered such pretty things into my ear.

I wasn’t sure if you said “I fucking love you,”

or,

“I love fucking you,”

but, truth be told,

I think the message was merely the same in those frantic moments anyways.

And oh, it really doesn’t matter which one I heard.

For those moments we shared were so much more than just words;

I remember how we lay for countless hours,

Never making a noise,

Never uttering a word,

For words could never do the moment justice

to describe the way I lost myself to you.

We’d lay, our faces buried into each other’s neck,

for several seconds or minutes or sometimes even hours...

and I think we both knew what we wanted to say.

Those sacred words,

hanging so silently over our heads, oh,

you could feel them in the air, whispering,

“I love you!”

Yet, in the end, I’m not so sure it would have been necessary.

No, truthfully, we’d said it time and time before,

Time and time again,

Through the way we’d rock our bodies, in time,

to the designs we’d etch on each other’s skin.

The truth is, with every breath we breathed together,

and every careful, tender touch,

and as you listened to my every movement,

my every silent thought,

my every emotion,

we said “I love you,”

again and again,

yes, as you ran your fingers along my skin,

and felt me move beneath you.

But you see, my love,

This is the mistake they all make,

as they watch me bow before your feet;

To them I am a slave,

to them I am not free,

to them I ever wear your brand

and have lost to you my dignity.

But the truth is much more gracious.

What they do not know is that

within your chains I roam so free:

free to live,

free to love, 

free to be the highest I can be.

No, you see,

I love the way you love to own me,

and I love the way you show your love to me,

through the way you cradle me in your arms,

and the way you pull me close
and kiss me in your sleep.

And I love how you bite my neck when we make love,

and I love the way you love to possess me,

and within your iron grip, your chains,

I reach far beyond what they care to see or believe.

And you see, my darlings, that this story does not have just one side,

for I too have His heart in chains.

You see, the taboo you have created,

creates destruction from severity,

but overlooks the powerful infatuation we have

of sensuality and sensitivity

through the medium of sexuality.

Through His effort and His care,

He wins a prize so sacred:

an undeniable, irrefutable trust,

a loyalty that does quell all lust,

and the submission that shall be entrusted never to another.

And through my trembling skin,

and ecstatic sighs,

His gentle hand is guided;

He knows my soul,

He hears my call,

and He stands guard,

on the line between my pleasure and my injury.

And I wear my mark of Him with pride

through the dangling bell beneath my chin;

For never is it a mark of shame

to be owned by Him, and only Him.

And the truth is, my dear,

as bold as I do appear,

I’m not the best with words;

I take this moment to admit to you my gratitude.

With you I move in a way I cannot be moved,

with you I’m shown that love has truth,

With every punishment comes every care,

Of my own power I become aware

And I want you to know I acknowledge your being in its entirety:

your heart,

your body,

your soul.

I bow to your power,

I admire your grace,

I yearn for your warmth,

And am awed by your strength.

To you now, my heart is ever enslaved,

for you hold the chains of liberation.

Let it be universally acknowledged that to you I gift:

my heart,

my body,

and my soul,

For I find my highest powers

through submitting myself to you.

Short Story

By : Athanasia Walters

It's June 7th, 2093. I’ve been on Okinawa for 2 months, fighting against the Japanese. 148 years after the second world war came the war I'm fighting in. The world’s third world war with the Russians, Japanese, Germans, and Italians against Canada, England, France and us, the United States. I’m Daniel Sam Krieger, a corporal in the United States Marine Corps. My buddies and I are machine and plasma gunners.

Right now we’re sitting in our mess tent, eating MRE’s or Meals Ready to Eat. My great grandmother had told me about her time’s MRE’s. They used to be powders and packages that you mixed with water and heated in a fireless heater. Now all you have to do is light a lighter and heat it for 10 seconds and it’ll turn from virtually nothing into a 3 course meal. Wheels and Madman are my best buds, who are currently throwing rice and beans at each other only a few inches away from my face. “I’m going outside.” I say. Outside past the hustle bustle of the camp there are the skeletons of Japanese and American structures, still standing from 148 years ago. I come out here sometimes to think. Usually the other marines don’t venture out far from the safety of camp when we’re not fighting but one other marine and myself come out here. She’s out here right now. She's someone no one talks to. No one even knows her real name. We all know her as Talkback. She has long blonde hair that is always out of a regulation bun, normally tied in a tight ponytail that swings when she walks, grey green eyes and tanned olive skin.

I sit down a few feet away from her. “Talkback.” I say nodding at her. “Warrior.” She says nodding back, the hint of a smile creeping onto her lips. She looks back to the green and we both fall silent until Kill Billy runs down the path. “I thought I’d find you two here. We’re moving out. We got vehicle assignments. It’s me, you two, Wheels and Madman. Let’s go. We need to get our gear.” We both hop down from the rock. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Kill Billy shouts. “Do you ever SHUT UP?” Talkback asks, smacking him on the back of the head. We walk down the path together to the makeshift barracks and set about packing our stuff.  

…

We're in the Humvee 130.0. Wheels drives, Kill Billy's next to him manning his plasma gun, Talkback sits behind Kill Billy with her machine gun (her idea; in case she needs to slap him in the back of the head), Madman's up on the top in his armored compartment, manning his plasma/50 caliber machine gun. I'm behind Wheels, manning my machine gun. We drive through the jungle, hoping to God we don't get shot up. I feel a tap on my arm. Madman lightly kicks my arm. “Relax Warrior. We’re going to our camp not the gas chamber. Lighten up.”

“Little hard in enemy territory.” Madman swings down into the half-seat in between Talkback and I. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little stuffed pig. “It was my little brother’s. He gave it to me and told me it would keep me safe. It makes me feel relaxed. I know you have a little sister. Pretend this is something she gave you, it’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks man. But it’s alright. You hold on to it.” I say, smiling at the generosity you don’t frequently see in this wasteland.

…

The jungle is full of life with a slight aftertaste of death. Insects are chiming and you can even hear the occasional bird, but the air is thick and hot and you can smell the decay of wet wood and bodies of the Japanese. Every now and then you can see one sticking out of the tall grass or tied to a tree. They are gruesome and gory, their hands tied or cut off, their eyes gouged out, long gashes spanning the length of their bodies and signs hanging around their

necks with “Beware of the J**s” or “Suck my c**k, you J** pigs” in red or black ink.

I step on something squishy and look down. It’s the arm of a fellow American soldier. His eyes are open and glassy and his chest is covered with blood. I kneel next to him and touch his neck. It’s still warm to the touch and my eyes widen. “Everybody down, NOW!” I yell, ducking.

Everybody begins to duck as the shots ring out through the clearing, just beyond the trees. I aim at where the noise is coming from and fire a few times. I hear a shout of pain and then the gun fires again. Madman stands up and starts firing towards it. “Madman! Get your a** down!” I yell at him.

“I can aim better this way, Warrior!”

I crawl over and pull on his leg, trying to get him to sit down. “Madman, you’re gonna get your fool self killed. GET DOWN.” I tell him.

Suddenly, I hear him yell. There's a spray of blood coming from his mouth and from his stomach.

He falls, only a few inches away from me, a blood spot already growing on his fatigues. “Someone take out that sniper. I need to get Madman out of here!” I yell. I rip open an antibacterial packet and shake it over his stomach, then wrap a bandage around it.“Don’t worry, man, you’ll be fine. I’ll get you out of here, no trouble.” I put his arm around my shoulders and lift him up. The other marines fire towards the Japanese soldier. I assume I have enough covering fire to make it out of the field to safer ground.

I begin to run, dragging him along. I have Madman on my right, and both his and my packs strapped to my back. A dull throb begins in my arm and spreads to my back.

The noise from the machine gun gradually dies down, and is replaced by a thrumming in my ears. I run by Talkback. “Talkback, take him out.” I say, barely able to form the words.

She aims carefully and fires, and the machine gun is silent. She turns and grabs Madman away from me. “I’ll help them back to base. They’re injured. You finish the patrol.”

“You go with them, Talkback. I’m fine taking him alone.”

“Warrior, you’re hit. You’re not going anywhere just the two of you.” I look at her, smile, and nod. Then the pain kicks in.

I hadn’t felt it before but now it is overwhelming. I can’t imagine what Madman was going through. “Come on, let’s go.”

…

We practically run into the medic’s tent. Talkback puts Madman down on one of the cots. The medics come and begin yelling and bustling around, grabbing things off of shelves.

“Is he gonna make it?” I ask.

They hook him up to a heart monitor and stick an IV in his arm. “We don’t know.” They reply.  I feel like a weight has been dropped in my stomach upon hearing those words.

“Warrior?” Madman groans, looking around blindly. He looks feverish, his forehead spotted with beads of sweat. “Dude, it hurts so bad.”

“I know, I know. Come on, man. Stay with me. You can do this. Come on.”

His heartbeat on the monitor slows.

“Come on, come on, come on.” I feel him push a little lump into my hand. The medics push me away and I drop his hand. “Madman, come on! You can do this! Come on buddy!”

“Clear.” The medics say, placing 4 silver patches on his exposed chest. The patches emit a shock. They all look at the monitor, then clear him again for another shock, and again it does nothing. His heartbeat on the monitor remains a flat line. They put a blanket over his body and cover his face, pulling off their gloves. “Find him in the system. Notify his parents and find his will.” One of the medics says as if it were rehearsed, as if he’d said it so many times the words had lost meaning. As if it was as casual as talking about the weather, and a sudden wave of nausea washes over me at the thought.

I take a step back, straight into Talkback. “Come on. Let’s get you fixed up.”

She guides me to a cot and takes my pack, and then Madman's, off my back. As she calls over a medic, I look at my hand and see the little pig, a little spot of blood on his ear. The medic comes and cuts off my shirt and tends to the wound on left arm and my back. Talkback holds my hand as the medic stitches up the gash, without the help of morphine, as I asked. Right now, all I need to do is feel something, as if the pain is the only tie I have left to the earth. The medic tells me I need some sleep and even when I protest he forces it on me.

“I’ll go.” Talkback says standing. “I’ll check to make sure no one else got hurt.” I sit up quickly and grab her arm with my good one. “If it’s not to much to ask… Could you stay here?” She nods and sits back down. I lie back and close my eyes.

…

I wake up to the sound of the few crickets this god forsaken island still has left. Talkback is half asleep, her head resting on my cot. I quietly slide out from under the blanket. She stirs and sits up.

“Where ya goin’?”

“Outside.”

She follows me to the flap of the tent. I open it and walk outside. The world is dark, the only light coming from the stars and the moon, a white sliver on a dark background.

1,000 Word Story

By : Rhiana S.

The wind scoops up the leaves with a certain determination, thrusting them into the clear blue sheet above. Bold reds, warm yellows, and fiery oranges scatter across the ground in mounds that lay awaiting the satisfying crunch and crackle. My voluminous dark hair sweeps down my back in protective waves, shielding me from the biting wind. I skip, full of energy, kicking up the leaves as I go. A smile spreads across my face, green eyes bright with excitement. I continue joyfully, ignoring the dynamic laughter that follows. I know it’s aimed at me, but I also know why. They’re bothered by the parts that define me. The tangled locks that tumble wildly, my joy in being outside, the skips I take along a concrete road. Rather than attempting to slip into the moulds created, straying away from the un-originality of the images I’m surrounded by. I find my thoughts preoccupied with the rushing ocean and the smell of pine. The freedom of outdoors and doing what I wish, being who I want to be. Unbothered by the icy glares they aim at me; the jeering remarks and heartless laughter, I disappear along the path and into the distance ahead, humming contentedly as I go. Strong enough to hold myself high.

    Drops of rain plummet from the sky tauntingly, as I knowledgeable of the defeat they’ve achieved. They shimmer faintly in the grey of the outside. Raindrops slide along the window, pausing for moments before plunging downwards in a suicide attempt. Stuck inside, I sit alone at my desk in the classroom. Laughter screeches across the room, and I can feel the heat of their laser-like eyes on my neck. I sit straighter and toss my head back, letting a waterfall of hair ripple down my back.

    I hear my name, “Lola,” muttered by several people, followed by a chorus of hysterical laughter. Curious, I bounce over to the circle gathered by the blackboard. As I approach, the group parts messily and I wade through. In the centre is a boy. He tosses his head back and skips around the circle, wearing an idiotic smile that makes his eyes bulge. My stomach churns as the realization comes crashing down on me. I stumble out of the circle, brushing against people who jerk their shoulders to shake me off, my feet tripping over each other until I reach the edge of the circle landing flung across a desk. I look back. Seeing all the laughing faces, the girls who swivel their heads side to side. Neat bobs shaking back and forth before returning to their perfect shimmery form. At that moment, my confidence stripped away, I feel the pressure of being accepted forced down on me.

    Walking home I place one foot neatly in front of the other, no bounce left in my step. Bright lights flash in every direction, people hustle past, their footsteps like assortments of metronomes that tick past me. I walk through puddles carelessly, feeling the water slosh around my feet, the cold damp feeling left on my toes. Trying endlessly to distract myself from my real troubles.

    At the end of the street the bright lights of a sign capture my attention. Luminescent reds and whites surround the words, “Hair Salon.” My eyes fly to the large posters. Girls with shimmery perfect hair, arms linked as they smile in mid-laughter. I wonder what they had to do to become accepted. Were they accepted as they were, or did they have to alter themselves to fit in? I fish in my pocket for the crumpled bill I’d forgotten about weeks ago. I pull it out tentatively, watching it twitch back and forth under the force of the wind. I cautiously shuffle through the salon’s open doors and up to the front desk. A perky lady with choppy blonde hair records my name. I sit in the waiting room, crossing my legs to keep myself from running. I had lost my strength today. I’d fought the moulds for too long, and now it was time to fit.

    “Lola,” the lady at the front desk calls. My legs shake and I struggle to sit down in the chair she gestures towards. Her preparations becoming a blur as I tell myself again and again. “This is what it has come to.” When asked, I motion towards the area of my hair above my shoulders, my arm falling back into place limply at my side. I wince at the sight of the scissors, glistening soft silver in the dim light of the small room. Their jaws clamp down on each individual lock of hair. The sight painful to watch as dark curls fall to the floor. I observe the transformation as the thick bush that hid my face disappears and shoulders and neck emerge, my face formed by short wavy wisps that end before they brush my shoulders. But, what I notice before any of this is the glint in my eyes, gone. I no longer glow with the confidence and freedom I once held.

    The next day at school, I walk in even steps through the front gates. I feel exposed, yet also as though I fit in more than I ever had before. When I approach the girls who’d only a day ago, taunted and laughed at me, they barely notice. They welcome me, slightly hesitantly at first. But, when they realize I have no intention of skipping through the schoolyard, or climbing the rough branches of the school’s oak tree, I’m accepted for who I have become. I never feel the freedom I once did. I know I’m not being seen as who I really am. Instead I am a fraction of who I could be. But, I hope that one day, the mould of the person I have changed to fit, will become who I really am. That I can be at peace with who I am now, and no longer yearn to be my true, unaccepted self.

As the cold winds of January slap young students faces, they take shelter by the fire armed with cups of cocoa and wise words. So E.S.Say readers, though you may be suffering from from hypothermia, might I offer you some poetry for comfort? This month we have some wonderful work lined up as per usual. Please have a sit, warm up and read on. 

Seventeen
By Sauvanne Margaux
I remember being seventeen.
I remember running down the street in my bare feet. It wasn't even summer.
I remember holding my best friend's hand until our palms were sweaty.
I remember the lingering feeling of kisses on my lips. I would look in the mirror to see if they were blueish, because sometimes these lustful bites left bruises. I remember riding my bike like there was no tomorrow. The wind rushing through my hair, because of course I did not wear a helmet. Who did? Not seventeen year old girl trying to conquer the world... or at least trying to make it to dance class on time. I remember not wearing a bra. The bumps on the road when riding a bike gave extra exhilaration. It was just enough pain to cringe but never enough to cry.
I remember the feeling of being desired, in a way so passionate I thought I must have been Juliet. Thankfully I wasn't, because Juliet would never be able to remember being seventeen. I remember drinking rhum, closing my eyes and swaying to the sound of my friend's record player. We were just another pair of girls pretending to belong to another century. But hell, did Alex Turner's voice make us feel godamn sexy. I remember pretending to be in love. It felt like the first taste of a sugar cube. Then I remember being in love. That felt like the sugar cube was coated in ginger and then got in my throat. A feeling of both pleasure and discomfort. Seventeen was bittersweet. I remember this feeling of invincibility paired with feeling of hopelessness. I remember fights with my mother, ending in tears. I remember my friends pulling a few of my heart strings as they drifted away from me. I remember not wanting to go to school. Not wanting to talk to another person about who slept with who, or how much they hated math, or what they wanted to do later on. I didn't know. The world was a great unknown. An ominous globe of possibilities and all I had to was pick one. Well that's fucking hard. I remember being seventeen because I am. And I wont be always. I'm nearing the end of my forever years. The years where life feels endless and yet certain moments feel so brief. Tomorrow someone will turn seventeen and tomorrow someone won't be. I hope they remember being seventeen.

What Do I Smell Like

By: Dove Byrd

What do I smell like;
Cayenne pepper
a teardrop yet to be licked
rolling down an unknown cheek
a small breath
taken in an instant when the subway car comes
my fathers Caribbean cooking
a song I can't remember yet loved as a child
a lovers sigh
the tangled knots in my hair
a dragonfly floating on a summers breeze
a kiss on the nose
a dream while awake

Trembling First Aid Kits

Rachel C C

“You hurt me.” I say, keeping my voice controlled, eyes cold and distant.

The cold night air is brisk, stinging my skin like a fresh wound.

I am not unfamiliar with the sensation, thanks to the man in font of me.

“And then you hurt me again.” I repeat, finally uttering those words, recognition.

Giving voice to the things hidden, things I had done, I had caused and let be.

“And again, and again, and again…” my voice fades, a whisper into the night, too many times to count, too many broken tables,  smashed pictures, butterfly stitches quickly applied with shaking hands.

I tighten my cardigan around my body, a child clutching a security blanket.

“I know, baby.” Frail words from this terrible, weak man who once stood before me as a god, now fidgets as a schoolboy being reprimanded.

“I’m so sorry, I just…” His voice carries the pungent smell of his companion, Jim Beam across to me. His travelling buddy, accompanying him across the hundreds of miles he drove with a miraculous lack of accident. Almost as if this was needed, the cosmic powers that be decided that this meeting must take place. That we must end this. The night coaxing out what only the sun and moon have seen deep inside of me. This night in a place far from where we began.

“I just miss you, how we were,” he spouts as if we were okay, as if how ‘we were’ wasn’t me becoming skilled at using a first aid kit, making up perfect excuses in the hospital and at work for bruises that would take long to fade.

“The way you’d laugh” he continues, that nervous, shrill sound that erupted out of me, the sound desperate to play pretend. I hated it.

“You waiting for me at the end of a long day,” preened and prepped, ready for go time. Keeping on my toes with the precision of a ballerina and the nerves of an ex-marine.

Steeling myself, I take in a breath, the night sharp on my lungs, I welcome the sensation. I feel the power of the night, clinging to the oxygen cells now entering my blood stream. I loved science at school. Maybe I could study that, once I’m free.

“You need to go.” I really need to stop shivering.

“Baby, no, c’mon let’s work this out,” his eyes plead with me, to be his ‘good girl’. To be his security blanket. His punching bag.

“You really should go, we’re over. We were over the moment you first touched me.” Keeping a firm hold on this foreign bravery, this feels good.

He makes a quick jerky movement, his eyebrows knitted, almost as if he doesn’t believe what he’s doing.

“Baby…” His eyes are confused as he looks from the gun in his hand to me, and back to the gun. I tense up. This is the second time I have seen him with this weapon, the first when he thought I was trying to leave him. We moved in together a week later.

“Honey, no.” My voice is shaking slightly now. A leaf feeling the first breeze that tells of a storm. “Think about this, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

He stands taller now, his shoulder broader, eyes no longer pleading but apathetic, I know they will later be vicious, relishing my begs.

“Oh, I think I’ve thought about this for a while now.” His voice is a razor sliding across my skin. The gun shines in his hand, rubbing salt on my wounds.

“You’re my life, and my love. You’re my belle, my…” His voice fades aways, the whole world fades but his eyes, those eyes that drew me in when I was younger and more foolish.

My eyes are drawn to the gun in his hand, I’ve never known much about them. I hate the idea of them, but there is no denying this is a beautiful, expertly crafted weapon. There’s a voice in the back of my head, reminding me of a statistic that I heard long ago, when I thought that people in abusive relationships were weak and stupid, not worthy of saving if they couldn’t save themselves. Oh, Darwin would be proud.

Most of abusive relationships end when the abused is killed trying to end or leave the relationship.

It makes sense, how he just can’t stand to let me go, see me anything without him, he even had to decide what I wore, why not how I die?

His heavy staggering, faltering, fated steps interrupt my thoughts.

“Baby…” Such a loving voice, a beautiful mouth, quick fists, and flashing eyes, my wonderful, wounded, troubled darling. If only I could have been the one to save him.

The gun is cold against my flesh, between my eyes, a merciless, painless death. I have to assume. After all, no one has lived to say whether it hurt or not.

“I always loved you.” I say these words, my last sentiments those of love, I will not let this define me.

Looking back, I would say the change happened there, his eyes shadowing that little bit, but brightening with the realization.

Looking back, shuddering,  I would say that is when he decided to save us. Both of us from this nightmare of his making.

When guns are fired, the air expands to let the bullet fly, faster than the speed of sound. The night was full in a second, bursting with the new wound now dripping,

gushing,

   from my love’s head.