theWrittenRevolution

I didn't want everything on earth with him. I only wanted his heartbeat pulsing through my fingertips— tangible and trembling like the soft wind snaking through my unkempt hair. Fingertips cradling my moistened cheekbones; teardrops glistening under star-spilled skies. Cheekbones gently pressed into the sturdiest shoulder blades— starkly silhouetted by budding moonglow. Barren feet slipping down unrippled lakewater, the moon's reflection shivering from our delicate touch. Entangled legs floating in cerulean lakewater; starlight dimming under rippling waves. Drenched arms reaching towards cerulean morningtide, wet fingers skimming through the frothy blue residue. Clear skies disappearing into navy blue backgrounds, fireflies glowing feebly above unravelled hands. Sunrise unravelling beneath fallen moonlight, bright gold spilling between unfurled fingertips. Pale rose trickling down gold-colored skylines, tiny droplets drying upon sunkissed limbs. Tanned limbs dissolving

The Man of a Million Miles By J.C. Solis I would love to be a success in life But I just cannot find my pace and will I cannot push beyond this large roadblock And to pick up the pace, I can’t instill I’d love to be a success in this life But my goals are a million miles away I walk down this path to reach it one day But how long it will take, I cannot say But as I walk with a heart full of hope This courage deep inside still helps me cope This rotten path will soon come to an end And these broken dreams I'll soon come to mend For my walk through the million miles will cease And soon, complete, I will then find my peace…

Another plane ride with almost no one wearing masks, another swab up my nose to answer the question: is it allergies, or is it COVID? After two years, I can’t keep getting lucky. People who are more careful than me get it. People who have been vaccinated get it. People who don’t work with the unmasked public every day get it. So, after two years of getting lucky, I swirl the testing swab in the liquid of the home test kit, squeeze out no more than four drops, and set a timer for twenty minutes. I don’t nervously pace around the house anymore with butterflies in my stomach. That twenty minutes is now reserved for reading, or maybe sweeping the floor. I’m so into my book it’s disappointing when the timer rings and I have to put it down. There’s one line on the test. In the past week I’ve been on four flights, in a crowded bachelorette party at a raucous bar, and at a large wedding. The photographer tested positive for COVID just hours before she was scheduled for the wedding.

Conan Khullar sits on the floor in the middle of his neighbor’s hacker cave— aka her bedroom— and wonders exactly why he’s there at all. Anyone on the team could’ve given him the download. The door’s cracked behind them, and an oddly familiar bouquet of spices wafts in from the kitchen. He's fresh from his advanced programming course, and he's starving. He’s not hoping for a dinner invite. Liat is perched in front of a series of holographic monitors, bundled up in a black over-sized sweater. She types rapidly on the keyboard screen glowing on her desk surface. A cuddly, black robotic dog nuzzles against his leg, swishing its little black tail. A small flash drive is sticking out of its “collar”, streaming information into its computerized brain. “How far along, Kali?” she asks. Kali the dog replies in a deep computer voice. “Approximately ten minutes.” Conan speaks up. “Um… thanks for the upgrade. I’ll make sure to catch up.” Liat gives him a quiet nod and keeps typing. “No

When I woke up this morning, I knew I had to go out for a ride. Last night was not a good night. While the stable hands take the feed to the horses, I single out Quagmire— my beautiful, smoky-black queen. I ease myself back, sucking in a deep breath. First rule in caring for a horse: leave your drama at home. I’ll have to try my best. I let her eat from her bucket and give her a gentle rubdown with a brush, checking her from head to hoof for any sore muscles. She doesn’t flinch once. A good sign. I lean close and take in a whiff of her mane, sniffing out the bouquet of her mood. I can smell the aroma of hay and dirt, but something else pops open in my nose: the scent of her contentment, the penetrating sweetness of her trust. It registers as sage and rosemary to my senses. After the rubdown, I bend her legs, brushing caked mud and grass out of her hoofs, looking out for rocks. My darling’s fighting fit. More than I can say for me. “Glen?” I go rigid at the sound of Dad’s voice.

I like art, but I don’t like art galleries. I’d just gotten off of a long, hard case, and I didn’t want to be here tonight. But Uncle David’s been dead-set on me being his plus one, and we owe the Hylands everything. After all, who else appointed him as Chief of Police? At least I had an excuse to buy a new dress— a nice one with a low v-cut and a leg split. I don’t look half-bad in navy blue. While nursing a glass of boozy punch (and wishing it was a beer), my uncle suddenly yanks me away from the bar and pulls me to a corner by the dance floor. “You see that young man over there?” He points to the other side of the room. “The one with the mayor?” I follow his pointed thumb and see Mayor Hyland with a man dressed in black. He’s sporting a familiar shock of carroty-red hair. I can’t get a clear look of his face, but I know him straightaway. “Wait, is that…” “Yeah,” my uncle confirms. “Little Rocco’s back.” Rocco Cassidy Hyland. The second son of Mayor Hyland. An awkward music