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Second Chance - Chapter 5Once again, Andrew had been left alone. Grandpa Toby had called for someone to talk to Cameron, remove him and to calm him down. He had left shortly afterwards to check on him.
So as to avoid upsetting Mavis and distracting her from her work, he’d drifted back outwards through the forest and away from the clearing, not really paying attention to the direction that he was going in. It didn’t seem to matter much, he didn’t really want to bother anyone. Everything seemed to be centred around calming down Cameron and waking up James and Chris. He couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t worried, but it seemed to be in his experiences from life that if he kept out of the way, and did as he was told things generally went smoother and there were fewer hiccups in the process.
Plus… it gave him time to think. A lot of things had happened. It’s not every day that you wake up screaming, having your soul torn out from inside of you and the next thing you know is t
Second Chance - Chapter 4Family? Welcome to what family? Andrew was confused, that much was clear. Grandpa Toby was adopting them? Was that what this meant? Or was this family something more metaphorical, not a literal family connected by blood but the family of… something else? Was he supposed to move in with another collection of ghosts now? What did all of this mean?
Groaning distracted Andrew from his train of thought. He turned back swiftly, seeing the first movements of one of the bodies. A little helpless writhing on the floor, groaning, from a coffee haired, mahogany-eyed male. His groaning appeared to contain depths of frustration and not understanding, like he didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t get up, why his limbs weren’t moving properly, where he was or what was going on.
If Andrew still had one, his ghostly heart would have sunk. How was Cameron supposed to know and understand? The last thing that he would have known was the storm th
Second Chance - Chapter 3Her piercing red eyes appeared unforgiving, and she stared at him as though his question had been illogical.
“Young Man,” she spoke in a slightly impatient voice, “Not all methods of transformation are as swift and as simple as your own was. Had it not been for your snapped neck, you would be lying on this grass alongside your friends. Also, recovering. It is a risky and difficult process, ripping the soul from the body before it fades, creating a ghost, and it is a process avoided if there is any other available option. So please if you would pipe down, I have your friends to treat.”
Still ever as confused but now realising that he was not going to get any sort of answer from the old lady ahead of him, he simply watched the scene ahead of him, trying to clue together what all of this could mean.
He could only guess that all of them would somehow survive this… or not, dependant on what these methods were. It appeared to be that the methods used to
To depression, for creating days without endWake up to the realization that you've been awake
for seconds, minutes, hours.
You've been awake in this warm, dark room
and you don't know how long it's been
but now you're conscious
and it starts again--
the pain, strong and steady, in your chest.
You gain consciousness in this too warm morning
and your thoughts whir in endless loops
because it's either that or face the weight in your chest.
Light breaks though the window, soft and unwelcome
but you take it as a reluctant gift--
a new distraction from the feelings awake in your chest.
Awake, but not conscious.
So you think yourself in circles a little while longer
waiting for those quiet pains
(the constant reminder)
to gain consciousness.
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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