#random writing

"Don't give up on me now, firespitter," a voice rumbled at the side of his head and under his armpit, right against his chest, sounding as if it was being ground out of two slabs of granite.

Ellen didn't invite him down there, nor is he supposed to be there, but the team usually is pretty lax unless something dangerous happens, which is unlikely with a team member around.

Earnest asks; "Ellen, why do you always take off your gloves when you're casting those fireballs? Is it easier that way?"

Ellen throws one with full force, taking out three targets in a row before plopping onto the ground, and burning itself out.

Ellen turns and answers simply.

"No, Earnest. My fireballs aren't casted, it's not magic."

His head tilts to the side.

"If I tell you, you gotta promise not to laugh," she says playfully. "Okay?"

He nods furiously. "Yep! I promise!"

"Well, the reason my fire burns is because of my combustible sweat, so-"

"Combuh-what?"

"Combustable, it means that it catches fire easily"

"So you're just throwing balls of sweat? Gross!!"

He giggles in spite of his promise.

There seemed not a difference to my eyes. For what was the point? I’d much rather bask in the lack of light for which it was created, rather than loathe the one that never held what it promised. One’s mind is always drawn to the honest figure with a true agony rather than the one who hid lies beneath it, holding as nothing but a falsified beauty.

My mind lived in agony, thinking it would forever be tied to the fate of darkness, that lights appearance was a gift I’d never be given. So the stars gaze reflected in my eyes countless nights, my clench still holding onto a mere thread of hope that the clouds would remove their curtain from the yellow rays. I begged endlessly at the presence they hid, for the prophecy I’d been born to fall fate to change.

With the simple awakening of a new day I’d opened the blinds to feel the suns rays warm against my skin. It came as an unexpected relief, one I was scared….no…terrified to trust. But soon, as the mornings came and went, the light never once left my face. Soon, it replaced my darkened fate and brought about a change my hearts beating could never escape.

Now, that time of despising a so called falsified beauty had passed…so much so it was as if the thought could have never dared to brush against my skull. It not only brought about an enormous amount of joy, but vanished any sense of agony I had once endured. Almost as of it had never existed.

When I was a child, I hated frogs.

Not just disliked them—I genuinely feared them.

Back then, I didn't know the difference between frogs and toads. To me, they were all the same: ugly little creatures with damp skin, strange eyes, and bodies that looked wrong in every possible way. Some were slick and slimy, while others looked dry and rough, covered in bumpy warts that made my stomach turn. Their skin looked as though it would feel cold and squishy if I touched it. I hated the way they hopped without warning, how they stared without blinking, and the thought of them crawling over my feet was enough to make me shiver.

Adults loved telling children stories about them, too. I was warned that the bumps on a toad's back could squirt poison into your eyes and leave you blind. I was told they would pee on your hand if you dared pick one up. Whether those stories were true didn't matter. I believed every single one of them.

As if that wasn't enough, I remember seeing a video of a frog with what looked like dozens of tiny holes covering its back. The image horrified me. Even now, I don't know exactly what I was looking at, but to my younger self it was enough to convince me that frogs were among the most disgusting creatures on Earth. After that, I couldn't even look at one without scrunching my face in disgust.

Then one day, everything changed.

I was visiting my grandparents in the province. Their home sat beneath rows of coconut trees that swayed gently in the afternoon breeze. The air smelled of earth instead of gasoline, and the loudest sounds came from laughing children, chatting neighbors, rustling leaves, and the occasional crow of a rooster. It was peaceful in a way the city could never be.

I had been playing outside with the other children when I wandered back toward the house for a short break. Near the entrance sat an old box that had been left there for days.

Inside were toads.

Lots of them.

I froze.

To my younger self, it was less of a box and more of a nightmare.

My grandfather noticed me staring. Without hesitation, he bent down, reached into the box, and picked up the biggest toad he could find.

I remember wanting to run.

Instead, he walked over to me with the biggest smile on his face. I shook my head over and over, already pleading with him before he even reached me. I begged him not to make me touch it. I might have cried—I honestly can't remember—but I remember the fear. I remember how enormous that toad looked in his hands.

My grandfather simply laughed.

He was deaf, but somehow his laughter always seemed louder than everyone else's. It was warm, contagious, and impossible to be angry at. Still smiling, he gently took my hands and placed the toad into them.

I braced myself.

I waited for it to spit poison, blind me, or do every terrible thing I had imagined all those years.

It didn't.

The toad simply sat there.

It wasn't trying to hurt me. It wasn't angry. It wasn't a monster.

It did pee on my hand, though.

I remember immediately wanting to wash my hands afterward, and to this day I still think that's gross.

But that was all.

Nothing else happened.

Looking back now, it seems like such a small moment. I only held that toad for a few seconds. Yet somehow, those few seconds quietly changed something inside me. The fear didn't disappear overnight, but it wasn't as strong anymore. Every time I saw a frog after that, I found myself just a little less afraid than before.

Without realizing it, fear slowly gave way to curiosity. Then curiosity became fondness.

Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with frogs.

Even now, I can't fully explain why. Maybe it's because every frog reminds me of my grandfather. Maybe it's because I still laugh whenever someone reacts the same way I used to—jumping back in horror as I reach toward a harmless little frog. Their expressions remind me so much of the frightened child I once was.

Or maybe I simply love frogs because, every time I hold one, I remember the day someone I loved helped me realize that fear isn't always the truth.

My grandfather is gone now.

I don't have many things that belonged to him, and I wish I had more memories than I do. Time has a way of stealing the little details. But this memory has never faded.

Whenever I see a frog resting in the grass after the rain, or hear one croaking somewhere in the darkness, I can't help but smile. I don't just see a frog anymore.

I see a little girl who was convinced she was about to die from holding one.

I see an old man with the brightest smile and the loudest laugh.

i ended up skipping the ad so i didn't actually end up learning why. but um. what?

and it's not romantic, it's not beautiful, it's terrifying and desperate and character a is crying while they do it, is begging character b to come back, to look at them, to see them, and fuck they think they're going to have to follow through, think they're going to have to kill the person they love most in the world because the alternative is letting them hurt someone else or hurt themselves or keep being this thing that isn't them anymore, and they're sobbing, the blade pressed to character b's throat and character b is still snarling, still snapping, still trying to tear out their jugular with their teeth, and character a presses harder, draws blood, and they wait for something to flicker, some sign of recognition, some ghost of the person they love...

but nothing comes, nothing changes, and character a's hand is shaking so badly they can barely hold the blade steady, and then character b moves, fast, too fast, a blur of muscle and instinct, and suddenly character a is on their back with the breath knocked out of them, the weapon skittering across concrete, and character b's hands or claws (or whatever the fuck you want it to be) are now are pressed to character a's throat, pressing, squeezing, and character a can't breathe, can't move, can only stare up into eyes that don't know them, that are looking at them like they're meat, like they're nothing, like they're the enemy, and character a thinks this is it, this is how i die, killed by the person i was trying to save, and they don't close their eyes, they can't, they have to look, have to see...

and the world is narrowing, graying, the pressure on their throat relentless and character a's hands come up to grip character b's wrists as their vision spots and their lungs burn and they feel the exact moment when something in their throat starts to give, and they wonder if character b will even remember this, if they'll wake up with character a's blood on their hands and no idea how it got there, and their grip on character b's wrists goes slack, and the gray becomes black, and the last thing they hear is their own name, rough and broken and desperate, and they don't know if it's real or just the dying brain playing tricks, but they smile anyway, because even if it's a lie it's the best one they've ever heard-

basically.