#kaychallenges

Photos from Pinterest (not mine)

Bustles of people clacking over slick cobblestones and rustling coats as people slunk by each other. Shoulders touching, hands brushing. Cars scuttled and screeched, bikes chiming and trilling. Umbrellas bumped up against one another, some people held bags or newspapers over their heads, rushing to get out of the rain. The air was crisp with vanilla and dulled by mulched leaves.

A woman in a crimson coat stood still in front of a shop window as strangers weaved their way around her. She sniffled and tugged on the fringe of her scratchy scarf. Large lettering smiled down on her: Herr Lehmann's Bäckerei. The yellow font swished across the glass, just like she remembered. She shuffled to the door and pushed it open. Warm air spilled over her as the bell above her head cheered, "Welcome, welcome!". Intimate groups of friends gathered around small, round tables; mugs, cakes and pastries held carefully in hand. They chuckled and chortled, tittered and talked, exchanging stories and jokes, warming each other on these colder days. She looked toward the counter, moving from the door as an elderly woman squeezed by her. A familiar face framed by bouncing, brown curls stood placing new croissants in the display case. When she was a little girl, she used to think the mole above his lip was a fleck of chocolate.

"Lydia?" Their eyes met.

"Johann." Her voice was soft, he barely heard her through the merriment of his customers.

"Lydia, it's been... how long has it been? A- a long time." Johann fumbled at his apron, setting it aside before bounding up to Lydia.

"Ten years." She chuckled, wrapping her dripping arms around his firm shoulders, "I'm surprised you even remember."

"Aber, natürlich. Of course, of course I remember." He beamed, swaddling her in his embrace. In the crook of his neck, all Lydia could smell was cinnamon and sandalwood.

"I see you took this place over." Lydia noted, raising an eyebrow and drawing away from her old friend, "I like the plants, and I always thought that wall should have been red." She gestured towards the wall behind the counter.

"You always thought everything should be red." Johan giggled, placing his fists on his hips.

"I took over, from my father. He's alright, just decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life in Portland." Lydia shook off her coat and placed it on the rack behind her. The tips of her fingers tingled and her cheeks felt flushed.

"Oregon? Across the ocean?" Lydia laughed, a bright, beaming laugh. Crystal clear. Everyone stopped their conversations for just a moment to listen.

"Yeah... unexpected, I know. But his new girlfriend is from there, and she wanted to go back home. He followed." Johann explained as he guided Lydia to an empty table in the back of the bakery. The chairs were still the same; the brass frame had the same dull sheen and the dark, wooden seats were still chipped around the edges.

"I told you I'd come back."

Johann furrowed his brow and cleared his throat. They sat down. Across from each other.

"You did. And... you are." He locked his fingers together and rested his elbows down on the table. His eyes went glossy, his lip quivered. Lydia stretched to place her hand atop his, gently tracing her fingers over his floury thumbs. He sighed as a smile graced his face once more.

"I wrote my book." Johann cocked his head, "Wirklich. All 378 pages."

"Wouldn't 380 have been more satisfying?" Lydia chuckled and pulled back. Johann and his sly remarks.

"I knew you would say that. I..." She paused, tucking her hair behind her ear, "It just felt right this way. I've published 100 copies, 74 have been bought." Lydia bent down to rummage around in the bag she had set down on the tiled floor.

"Here." She placed a book on the table. The cover was cloth, covered in a pattern of intertwined peonies and dandelions, pink and yellow springing up from the object. Johann took it in his hands, it seemed smaller when he held it.

"Bethmännchen." He read, "Goodness, I remember how much I used to beg papa to make those when you came over." Lydia smiled, watching the twinkle in Johann's eyes dance. "He would say they were only for Christmas, but he always caved. For you. Always for you." He looked back up at her, placing the book back down on the tabletop. Lydia's hair collected droplets of rain, sliding down each curl. The freckles on her face were the same. He used to think that they were dirt when he was a little boy; with the amount of time they spent running around the grass in the schoolyard, it seemed only logical.

"Take a look at this menu." Johann advised, slipping a laminated sheet out of the small centrepiece. Lydia took it in her hands, scanning the options. In the middle of everything she read her name.

"Bethmännchen. Lydia's Favourite." Johann pressed his finger onto the menu.

"I'm sorry I left."

"Don't be. Have the special. Have your favourite. We will go out for some coffee when my shift is over. We'll talk it over."

"Everything?"

📌Tags by: @kay-m-sinc

𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬

A barrage of knocks hammered against her door, jarring against the thumping rhythm of her blasting music. "Lilia! Open the damn door!" her sister screeched, sounding like she'd been trying to break down the door all afternoon. Lilia groaned, tossing her makeup-stained pillow onto the floor. Her red, puffy eyes stung as she wiped them before reluctantly turning down her Taylor Swift playlist. She dragged herself to the door, then plopped face-first back onto the bed.

"Finally! Ugh, you're like so annoying! And why aren’t you dressed? It’s Halloween!” Olivia’s voice pierced the air, sending a wave of irritation down Lilia’s spine.

Lilia glared at her from under the covers. “What are you, five? We’re 16, Olivia. Grow up.” She buried her face deeper into the sheets, sniffing softly. “I’m too… hung up right now to deal with you.”

“Hung up? Over a breakup that happened two weeks ago, Lilia? And I’m the one that should grow up?” Olivia huffed, clearly fed up.

Lilia felt the presence of another person in her room. Ugh. She didn't even have to look up to know it was her mom.

"You’ve never even been in a relationship, so you wouldn’t get it!" Lilia spat, her voice rising. "Now get out of my room!" She grabbed another pillow and flung it toward the door.

“Whoa, what’s all this?” Her mom’s voice cut through, sharp and unimpressed. Olivia and their mom exchanged a glance. “You’ve been moping around all afternoon?”

Her mom shook her head, that ridiculous Marge Simpson wig from her Halloween costume nearly tumbling off. “Look, kid, I’ve been through two divorces. Laying around and drowning in your sadness is pathetic.”

“Oh my God, Mom, seriously? So not cool!” Olivia chimed in, nudging her mom like they were casual friends.

Lilia watched her mom shrug, completely unbothered. “Whatever. If she doesn’t want to go trick-or-treating with you, just go without her.” And with that, her mom strolled out. Ugh. Her mom was such a total freakshow. Like, what kind of parent says that to their heartbroken daughter?

Lilia’s eyes felt heavy, her lips trembling as if holding back a flood. Her hair was a mess, her makeup smeared and streaky, and her life—well, her life was basically over.

“Are you coming or not?” Olivia’s voice cut through the thick silence, her arms crossed impatiently. Lilia glanced at her sister, taking in the skimpy costume she had on. Of course, Olivia looked perfect. It was always girls like her who had everything handed to them. They were prettier, more popular—it was no wonder Jason dumped her. She wasn’t a carbon copy of Olivia.

“No. You just don’t get it.” Lilia’s voice wavered as she pulled her knees closer. “I gave up so much of myself for him, and then he—”

“Shut up about it!” Olivia groaned, rolling her eyes. “Jason was a whore, Lilia! He slept with half the school while he was with you. And let’s not forget he leaked that picture of your boobs on Instagram last year. Get over it! Like Mom said, drowning in your sadness is pathetic. If you want to stay here and mope, fine, but I’m getting candy.” Without another word, Olivia stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Lilia’s heart sank even lower. Her blue eyes glistened with fresh tears as she curled up on her bed. Her body felt limp, like all the energy had drained out of her. Short, shallow breaths came in rapid bursts—huff, huff. God, it felt like she was dying, and no one seemed to understand. No one was listening. The hot tears came again, streaming down her face. She turned on her side, her breath hitching as she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her hoodie.

PING

Her phone. Her pulse quickened. Maybe it was Jason. Maybe he wanted a second chance.

But when she checked, her heart dropped straight to her stomach. Flashing boldly on her screen was a picture of Jason… and some girl. They were posed cutely in matching Halloween outfits: salt and pepper.

“…We were supposed to be salt and pepper,” she whispered to herself.

The night dragged on in a haze of endless scrolling and crying, refreshing his page, then staring blankly at the photo that haunted her. She was right all along. She wasn’t a carbon copy of her sister.

📌Tags by: @kay-m-sinc

𝐌𝐫 𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐬' 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥

"It's the Mr. Baker's special, dear," the owner said, a bright smile on his face as he placed a single plated cupcake down. He threw me a quick glance with a wink, giggling, and I almost shat my pants. "Enjoy now," he sang before hopping away.

"What the hell was that about?" Her laugh rang in my ear, sweet and cherishable. What wouldn’t I do to hear it every damn day?

I laughed, forced, trying to match her easygoing vibe, but my heart was racing. Oh my god, am I actually doing this? I could feel sweat pooling in my palms, staining my jeans where I’d neatly tucked them. I was a sitting duck, my lips pressed tight, beet-red cheeks, and sweat trickling down my forehead weren’t helping.

“Whoa, dude, are you dying? You look like you’re forcing one out.”

SHIT. “Uhm... yeah! It’s just hot in here.” I fanned myself dramatically, eyes darting around. “Aren’t you hot? I mean... you... you are, NOW! Today! Right now today... you look great! Did I say that?” Please, stop talking! I slapped my hand down on the table a bit too loud. “Yep... are you going to try the cupcake...?”

She blinked, her lashes brushing against her skin, bringing out those bright green eyes full of life. God, she’s perfect. Suddenly, her hand lingered on top of mine. I shifted in my seat. “Dude, we’ve been friends long enough for me to know something’s up.” It’s her genuine concern that makes my heart race; the way she looked at me made me feel like I was the only damn person in the world.

“Nothing, uhm... yeah, I’m fine... why wouldn’t I be?”

Her shoulders lifted then slumped. “You’re sweating more than usual, stuttering, and oh my god, did you spike my cupcake or something?” She laughed loudly, “Trying to rob me in broad daylight?”

I forced another chuckle, not registering her words, only focused on her fingers tearing away the cupcake lining. “Eat it like you usually do,” I said quickly.

She shot me a look. “Seriously, did you do something to it?” Not expecting an answer, she was about to do that weird thing she does when eating cupcakes—break it in half and squish both parts with the frosting like a damn sandwich; weird as hell, and I love it. Just as she was about to, a sudden jerk at our table happened, and next thing I knew, the cupcake was splattered on the ground—like my feelings about to be.

“Oops, sorry about that. You alright, beautiful?”

Some guy, towering over both of us—especially me. I saw the glint in Ashley’s eyes as she looked up at him. I sighed mentally as they started chatting; my heart felt like it died almost instantly. My chances were out the window again.

I stood up. “Going to the bathroom.”

“Oh, okay, text me if you have explosive diarrhea and need TP.” And then right back to this jock of a guy she was talking to.

Making my way to the bathroom, I grabbed the cupcake off the floor—what a waste. I entered the bathroom and tossed the pastry out after tugging a little note from its gooey insides.

It held the words I was too much of a coward to utter:

“I love you, Ashley.”

CW (?): Swearing

I sat sniffling over my sandwich. Tacky, dry bread tumbled around my mouth as I choked back my tears. My throat felt small, my food like cotton. My backpack slouched on the chair next to me, almost buzzing. The crumpled up paper I'd shoved under all my books mocked me, taunted me, it jeered. An F, a-fucking-gain. I hunched over my lunch. My nose stung. I felt the cool gaze of my father, pressing down on me as I scribbled sums on my papers. He and I worked on it. I was getting it. I swear. I was getting it.

"You alright?" She rustled down next to me. Lana. I took a deep breath in and sighed.

"No." My voice faltered as I caught my head in my hands. She wrapped her arms around me. I quivered. I let go. Sobbing into her shoulder. I felt her fingernails grace the back of my head as she traced her hands through my hair. Gentle.

"It's okay." She whispered, "You're good enough." I clutched Lana with white knuckles and melted into her. I knew that people were staring; I could hear the murmurs, the whispers, I could feel the pity deep in my stomach. But I let go, and Lana caught me. She always did.

"This isn't the end." The lull in her soft voice brushed up against my ear. My face was hot and my neck sore. I felt the drone of my heartbeat pulsating in my palms. "Breathe in, and out." I followed her guidance. Breathing in, and out. Soft vanilla and sharp, green apples. Her hair always smelled nice, soft against my cheek. I drew away from her shoulder and wiped the wet spot off. She chuckled, tucking my hand away.

"I really thought I had this one." I croaked, my voice still wobbly.

"I know." Lana said, taking my hand in hers and rubbing her thumb over my dry knuckles. She never cared about my cracked hands, unless it came letting me use her favourite shea-butter lotion.

"God, I can't believe I just freaking cried on your shoulder. Like a toddler." I rolled my eyes and whispered, "In front of everyone."

"So what?" She chuckled. "Better to let it out than to end up like Matt. I mean look at him," She gestured loosely at our gangly, strung-out class mate who showed up once every two weeks. He shoved one of his buddies and sneered. "He doesn't know how to express any emotion."

"Well yeah, but-"

"No. Jean. You're fine." Lana patted my cheek.

"I'm going to be here, for you to cry on, until I die. Always have, always will" She drew back, pulling her pink lunchbox out of her backpack, "And you'll have to wipe my snot of your shoulder sometimes too. That's the way it goes." "Get a little, give a little."

"Exactly; a package deal." She giggled. The twinkle in her eye made me forget about the halls that smelled of old gym shoes and teenage stress sweat; sour.

(CW: Smoking mentioned)

Red seeped through the room. Dull air mingled with a sharp chemical smell. Shallow buckets of fluids stood on the cool, metal tabletop that stretched around the edges of the room. Strings stretched across the width of the room, photo's clipped on with wooden pegs. Sat in the centre of the room, on an old plastic chair, was a woman. Deep eyebags dragged her down as she sat with a carrier mug clutched against her chest. Her breath was thick with the stench of coffee and cigarettes. Her fingertips twitched, messily painted nails glistening in the light. Red. The overwhelming red dripped over everything. All things thieved of their colour and replaced by varying saturations of crimson.

The door creaked open. A thin figure slinked into the room and shut the door behind him. He stood over the woman, a soft smile on his bony face. The scent of leather trailing behind him. He nudged her shoulder.

"Maryl?" He muttered, poking her again, harsher this time. She grunted, squirming in her seat.

"No." Maryl groaned. Pushing his gangly hand away. "I'm on my break."

"'t's already eight." The man chuckled, pulling on the corner of a photo hung in front of him. A bottle of ketchup and a coffee cup. A photo he'd taken with his lunch the other day. Joe's Diner.

"This one's turned out pretty good." He chuckled, a toothy grin spanned his face as he flicked his gaze back down to the grumbling Maryl.

"Yeah? Good. Now shoo, Eli. I'm trying to snatch a wink of sleep." Maryl nudged at him with her stocking feet. Eli's slacks creased. He crouched down and placed his hands on Maryl's knees, resting his sharp chin down beside them.

"You don't have t' be here anymore. Let's go home. Please? Baby?" He whined, sticking out his lower lip like a child. A warm feeling swelled in Maryl's stomach, the soft touch of his hands tingling over her skin.

"Not if I have to get up." She refuted, opening one eye. Looking down on her lover, she giggled. His neat hair made him seem silly; such a formal look on such a ridiculous man. An awkward, jubilant fool. Her awkward, jubilant fool.

"Maryl, please?" He entreated, shifting on to his knees. "I'll cook. I'll let ya choose the show we watch. Please, baby, please?" Eli pressed his face onto her knees. His dark eyes sparkled. Red washing over him. Soaking him in, Maryl leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his smooth forehead. He twirled a loose thread on the edge of her skirt around his finger.

"Alright, alright." Eli's eyebrows tugged up as he scuttled to his feet, hoisting Maryl up with him. She fell into his arms, chuckling. Soft against her, his sweater tickled Maryl's neck like a cloud. Eli hummed the tune of Amor pretending to be Ben E. King. Swirling around the room, they beamed. The red draped over the lovers like a velvet curtain. Their shoes scraped and tapped over the floor. Suddenly, the room seemed to expand, into a clubroom. A live band, cigarette smoke filtering the lights out, a chattering bartender, dancing patrons. Maryl closed her eyes and moved her feet, swaying her hips in rhythm with her lover's song.

Drifting to a stop the couple pressed their foreheads together and breathed each other in.

"Home?" Maryl asked, holding onto Eli's spindly arm.

Okay so, this is my first time joining a challenge! Hoepfully I got day one good and well!

📌Tags by: @kay-m-sinc

𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞

His day started off like every other: the shrill blare of the alarm yanked him from sleep an hour late, leaving him groggy and disoriented. The moment he stepped outside, his car sputtered and died on the spot, forcing him to walk, and yes he missed the bus. By the time he staggered into work, he was drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin, and he smelled like a public toilet. He’d tried to mask it with those "shower-in-a-wipe" things, but the way everyone was avoiding him spoke volumes—it clearly hadn’t worked.

God, I hate this place, he thought bitterly, and it showed on his face, too. His forehead was wrinkled, brows furrowed in frustration. God, I just want to go home.

"Hey, pansy boy, where are those damn papers? I ASKED over an hour ago!" his manager stormed in, voice booming.

"Sorry, sir, I forgot is all..." he muttered, keeping his gaze down as he got up and walked past the older man, the smell of cheap cologne and sweat suffocating him.

"Knew your type would be a damn waste around here. Psh, maybe you should stick to being a hairstylist. Leave the job to real men."

He swallowed the sting of those words like he did every fucking day. But, God, it hurt. It hurt so much to wake up to another crappy day and show up to a job where people looked down on him. He sucked it up, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood as he tugged at his tie, feeling the fabric constrict like a noose. He trudged over to the copier, loaded it with papers, and pressed the button. WHAM. "Ah, what the hell!" He jerked back as dark smoke billowed from the machine, the acrid smell filling the air.

His eyes watered, the weight of weeks of hard work crashing down on him—WEEKS of staying late, pouring every ounce of effort into his job. "UGH! FUCK YOU!" he shouted, kicking the machine, his foot regerting as he winced in pain, connecting with a dull thud. Frustration pulsed through him, and he turned limping away, fleeing the scene. He didn’t care anymore. Every time he tried, tried, and tried, nothing ever went his way. It felt like the universe was conspiring to make him suffer.

He shoved his way into the breakroom, finally alone. As he leaned against the wall, he sniffed, unkempt tears sliding down his cheeks, stinging as they fell. It felt like grade school all over again—crying alone, feeling sad and pathetic. His nose burned as he tried and failed to muffle his cries, each sob echoing the loneliness he felt.

"...Nathan?" a voice broke through, startling him. He jerked his head up to see Ramario, a coworker, he didn't hang out with the people here outside of work, why would he? They all suck. But, he made an exception for Ramario. They’d go out for coffee sometimes, and he’d ramble on about his own crappy life.

Oh my god, how long has he been there? Embarrassed, Nathan mumbled an apology, wiping his cheeks. "Relax, come sit." the man chuckled patting the seat by him.

This time it felt different; here he was, lazying off work, spilling his guts to someone who probably didn’t care. "I'm really trying... It's not like I want to give up, but, God, it’s difficult not to."

Ramario handed him a tissue. Nathan sniffed, a chuckle escaping him as he took it, drying his eyes. "I must look so pathetic right now. I’m sorry, I... don’t mean to bother you."

"Bother me? Ouch, and here I thought we were friends," Ramario said, flashing a wide, toothy grin that made Nathan feel a little lighter.

"We are! I mean..."

"Then what are friends for if they don’t listen to their friends ramble every once in a while? You don’t have to hide anything from me. What’s the sense in struggling alone when you have me?"

Nathan’s heart swelled, and he felt the familiar prick of tears again. Everything sucked, everyone was a jerk, but not Ramario—not his friend. "Oh, by the way, there’s this two-for-one special at Momma’s Pizza. Want to go after work?"

"Yeah... I’d like that."

—courtesy of cosmicawg

The two artworks are: Lull - Pete Sherrard and House Dog - Brian Kershisnik

Frost licked the edges of windowpanes and a thin layer of powdered sugar like snow coated the grass. A cold-whetted wind whistled through the naked branches of the winter trees. Gently, from far off, the whisper of cars passing each other faded towards Ada. She stood in front of a large, metal building. It was shaped like a T. The facade stretched upward, corrugated metal sheets making it seem much taller than it was. She turned over a piece of lint in her pockets and grimaced at the nearly brutalist sight of the building. Unwelcoming. Ada sighed, watched her breath drift into the sky and shuffled towards the yellow light spilling from the door. Stepping in, the warm settled on her skin; tingling softly, like tiny brushes tickling at her cheeks. Her nose began to run and she pulled a tissue from her pocket.

"Good afternoon. How can I help?" A middle aged man chimed from behind the shabby front desk. Ada glanced over the blue, plastic chairs that made up a waiting room of sorts and the framed pictures of happy dogs that lined the walls.

"Um," She approached him, placing her reddened fingertips on the glass counter, "Yes. I would like to see your dogs." Ada stated, smiling lightly, out of courtesy. The man looked her up and down, clacked on his keyboard and settled his gaze back on her. A smile warmed his creased face.

"I can help you with that. We keep them in the back, down the hall." He ran a speckled hand through his salt and pepper hair and straightened his little, laminated name tag before slinking out from behind the desk. Herr Bretz.

"Thank you, Herr Bretz." Ada spoke, a tart taste in her mouth. Her hands trembled, just slightly.

"Follow me, I'll show you our lovely, little residents." He tittered, "Although, not all of them are little; in case you're looking for a large friend. We have plenty of big dogs housed here too." Ada's boots squeaked as she scuttled behind the speedy steps of Bretz. The keys on his belt jingled as he strode onwards. Sterile lights beamed down through metal, grated coverings. Clinical. A shiver passed down the length of Ada's spine.

"I know we don't look too homey, but we try to make the best with what we have." He insisted, sensing Ada's unforgiving glare speckling itself across the dull walls.

"We're low on funding these days." He looked back as they approached a door.

"I know what that's like." Ada added, a cynical snort pushing through her. Herr Bretz jangled his keys, fumbling to open the door.

"Jetzt," He chimed, creaking the door open, "Have a look. If you see anyone you want to single out, come let me know." Leaving a firm handshake pressed into Ada's palm, he turned away and jingled off into the distance. She was greeted with barking and whining. The sound of claws clacking about on laminated flooring. She breathed in and set off, slowly wending her way through the hall. As she laid her eyes upon each new, furry face she looked for familiarity; she looked for a friend in whom she could confide. The wet eyes of a sad beagle, the pink nose of a speckled mutt. Greeted by wagging tails and wiggling bodies she felt a sense of profound sadness wash over her. She couldn't take them all. There seemed to be at least twenty. Twenty dogs wouldn't fit in her apartment. Oh, and the bills.

Then, she stopped. The rock in her stomach dissolved. Before her, behind the wire gate, stood a timid terrier. A west highland terrier, with fur as white as a summer's day cloud; just about as soft too. Polite, the dog slunk slowly towards Ada. She placed her hand up against their barrier and felt the wet nose press gently against her hand. A firm wag of her tail. Heidi. Her chart said that she was six years old, and that she had been rescued from an abusive household. Little Heidi was afraid of men and people wearing hats, she didn't like baths too much and she loved chicken and whipped cream. Ada giggled as Heidi pushed her pink, velvety tongue through the gate.

"I'll be right back." Ada ensured, bounding back to the front desk.

"Herr Bretz? Herr Bretz! I found her." She chimed, panting.

"You lost your dog?" He inquired, placing his hand on his chest.

"No, no. I... I just found exactly the type of dog I was looking for." Ada beamed. "A friend." Bretz grinned, scratching at his stubbly chin. He clacked at his keyboard.

"What was her name?"

"Heidi. She's a uh, a little white terrier. Highland. West, high-"

"Ah Heidi." He cooed, his eyes glinting with remembrance. He took up his glasses from the desk and began typing away some more.

"She is a rescue, from an unsafe home." He stated. "It might take her a while to get settled." Ada shook her head and smiled, her cheeks warm. She tapped her fingernails on the glass of the desk.

"I read. Afraid of men."

"And hats." Herr Bretz added, quickly.

"Yes, hats. But I recognise myself in her eyes. Not just my actual reflection, but in her spirit." Ada professed, adjusting her scarf. "I just left my husband." Herr Bretz's expression diluted into one of surprise; his eyes widened and his face grew paler.

"He isn't a good man. I think Heidi would get it. I need a companion. I think she would get it." Ada added. Colour returned to Bretz's face, his smile fading back in.

"Yes, she would." He reached across the desk and stroked Ada's arm. "You're good for wanting to take Heidi home; for rescuing her."

"She told me that I had something, that I meant something. She told me I was going to be great." my voice echoed before me. It stretched onwards, tunnelling out into the world.

"I know." A hollow voice replied. He seemed to be everywhere, and nowhere. I looked out over the fog soaked horizon. Peaking out of the curtain I traced the figures of old carousel horses and out of service fair rides. The paint cracked and chipped.

"Was I supposed to be great? Did I miss my chance?" A slow booming pressed against my chest. My eyelids were weighted and my throat scraped raw. An old bench simmered into view, still bright and yellow. Drawn to the chipped slats, I dragged myself over and flopped down. The seat was wet, but not more dew soaked than the grass that tickled my calves.

"I couldn't say." From nowhere, and from everywhere, his voice cascaded down, like summer thunder in a valley.

"I think I missed my chance." The glossed eyes of the carousel horses looked on. Tears pricked my eyes. Bright lights, blinding lights, a crowd awaiting my next line. Rows and rows of people, murmuring in anxious anticipation, all there to see me perform. A dry throat. Words caught up in a knot. Buckling knees. It was as if I was there again. The stale theatre air, the scuffed stage.

"You think yourself to be a circus clown?" A pitiful chuckle tumbled from my lips as a hot train of tears spilled from my eyes.

"Why would you say that?"

"Well, look around." He replied, calmly. His voice fading in and washing out, a presence not dissimilar to the eb and flow of the tide. My shoulders trembled and my lip quivered. Lilac stretched from my fingertips to my knuckles, in a sharp, tingling gradient of cold.

"I wanted to be great. But what if I'm just a fool?" The grass whispered against my ankles and shadows drifted faintly through the mist. Giggles and sneers built up, echoing towards me. Guided directly towards me, tunnelling tenaciously.

"What if you are?" The jeering cut out. I flicked my head up. A sharp twisting rooted itself in my stomach.

"I can't be."

Jolting awake, I clutched at my blanket. The window had blown open, the curtains swaying in the early morning breeze. The blue-grey sky poured down as a cold sweat washed its way over me. The cold settled in under my skin, and I hunched down further, bunched up in layers and layers of fabric. Nothing could stave the biting cold off. My skin felt thin, and each fiber of the covers above me pricked down. A sheet of needles. I trembled. 

Glasses gathered at my bedside. Some still occupied with a remaining swig of still water. Papers littered the carpet, spilling out from beneath my bedposts. I stretched out my feet to touch the edge of my bed, but met no surface. The ceiling suddenly seemed to resemble the ceiling of my childhood bedroom. Tumbling back through time I watched my frail hands clutch the edge of my blanket. My body was light, movable. A strong gust of wind could have carried me away. I wish it did. The hecklers from the audience plagued my mind. Their faces washed out by the floodlights over head, beating down on my neck. Sweat tore down my back, my legs quaked. I squeezed my eyes closed, white hot burning in the back of my throat. I opened my eyes. The blue consumed me. Washed over from head to toe by a gushing wave I fell still. Sweat mingled with the tears on my face as the shaking cut off. I followed the glistening flecks of dust. Little fairies dancing about. Bright, blue. I turned over, my nose pressed against the wall. There was nothing I could do now. Hundreds of witnesses to the moment that marked my downfall. Hundreds of witnesses who would never revere my name. Cast aside I sighed. Water seemed to drift up around me, or rather I seemed to sink down. At my core an anchor kept me rooted at the bottom of the pit, buried under the sands.