monday was a saint,

with eyes that shone with longing,

with a body and a heart that didn't quite fit in the world she had been given.

the air shimmered around them,
buzzing, telling the universe its child had come home.

monday was tired, she wanted to be loved for herself and not for who they were supposed to be.

monday wanted to be good but it's hard to be sweet when everything inside you want to scream, when you are special and when you have so much left to learn about.

however monday is trying

trying not to fall into the ocean,

afriad to fly too close to the sun.

but she is oh so cold and the sun is a welcoming, lovely warmth.

most of all, monday was a saint,
but we aren't there yet.

right now monday is standing on the edge of their roof, asking the world who they are and why words are coming out of her mouth all funny. asking who she is and why she was made this way.

will you listen?

Theo was a poet,
bending language to their will.
their words tasted like sweet honeydew on a warm summer day
and the scent of their stories could melt the hearts of saints.

within their mind of twisting verses,
letters would spin into sounds
that would spin into words
that would spin into new words
all at the tip of their tongue
waiting to be released.

ghosts would whisper songs,
into their ears and light candles
within their heart of warmth.
Theo was a child of the Muses
and the Autumn and the Night.
clicking their heels to the meter

of their pen dripping ink ready to come to life.

Ophelia painted the sky
dipping her brush in oranges and blues
every night she would sit with the stars
making sure that they never felt as lonely as she did

Ophelia painted the sky
every cloud seemed to belong to her
she was one of those girls who always wished to dye her hair some bright color
but couldn’t muster the courage to change what she had lived with for so long

Ophelia painted the sky
her brush laid strokes gentle and sweet
and all the water she put in the sky
was just a replacement for the water that ran down her cheek

but there was something different about Ophelia.

she wasn’t too keen on drowning in her tears.

she would swim
and swim
and nobody could hold her down

Ahhhh an introduction of the self
I still have a self
Allow me to introduce them

D
Is for the way you
Dream of me

O
Is for the way I’m
Obsolete

No, no
This doesn’t work
At ALL

Dot was a dreamer
Afloat between worlds
Worlds of the making of All

It was always like this
Now
It is like this always

Dot cleans clouds
Off the painter’s
Skybound paintbrushes

Dot sculpts stories
Though they often fall away
Once sleep leaves one’s eyes

Dot wears a nightgown
And though they see the sunrise
Its light never touches their translucent skin

Flowers grow in the fabric
Find new life in their hair
Plucked from memories of guests

Dying things
On a
Dead body

Dot is not sure how
They got
Here

Or where
Here
Is

But they hope to be
An excellent
(g)Host

A guide to all
Dreamers
No matter the hour

Dot is always there
After all
They can never leave

Ivy loved the library.

the walls lined with bookshelves, the cozy armchairs for sitting, the smell of old books, the air that was always comfortably warm.
she loved the stacks that you could lose yourself in, plop down in the middle with a book and feel like there’s nothing else to the world.

she loved the calm, mindless rhythm of reshelving books, the bing of the computer as you check out titles.

she loved the warm, pleased feeling when you find a book you were looking for, and the corresponding feeling of completion when you finish it.

she felt safe in the library. at school, she was the only dark color in a sea of pastel pinks and ripped jeans. but here, the books matched the turtleneck on her skin. made her feel at home.

the books didn’t judge like the people did.

Catalina was a drummer, and Afterglow wasn’t ready for her.

She left home before she got to go to a quinceanõ.
her mother told her to pack up her books and heels and blouses.
her father told her to pack up her finery and picture frames and drumsticks.
Catalina’s new home would be in a place she could barely find on a map.

she remembered her aunt’s precautionary words before proceeding to ignore them,
“Cuidado con los santos falsos.”
And she learned the new language and new streets.
Watching them glow in the morning air.

she joined the marching band like she had before,
but it was unfamiliar and completely unlike home.
Here, the blisters and bruises where the drum would be held by your leg weren’t a badge of honor.
Here, being a drummer wasn’t a sign of prestige.

twisting the wire and adding a stone,
embedding protection in the crystals around her finger,
Catalina accessorized her own self with the label of outsider.
Perhaps Afterglow could use a drummer like her.

april was a guide,
as they walk past,
the air blows gently,
leaves sprout from trees as the ghost who is not a ghost walks past.
they, after years of trials and tribulations, have found a place where they belong.
in the margins.
in the places you almost forget to look.
april is happy. being a ghost, an almost-erased.
blurry enough to be free. defined just enough to have feeling, to want, to love.
to have a name.
a new game -- a new mystery -- is afoot.
and april will have to relearn why they were thrust back into the story-
to be a clue
a finder and a hider
a thread to stitch the truth back together.
things always seem to grow around april.
and if our heros play it right,
maybe answers will sprout from the questions.
maybe they'll ask the right one.

what do you do when a town isn't just a town but a breathing living soul-- a collection of love and life (and grief)
what happens to you when you live in a library of remembrance and creation. memories are not your own and secrets are never spoken for fear of being heard-- there is always something around to hear.

the stars are older than the scientists could count-- and nothing but believers to find their way to town to try.

welcome to a place where the storms sing of a saint and their poet, and the sky is painted by a beautiful girl who weeps at night.

a drummer stands on the edge, working her way into town and keeping the steady beat of her heart in tune with their footsteps.

the library learns to be loved unlike it has been loved before, revealing some of what had been hidden away to her gentle fingers and passionate mind.

a dreamer, head full of clouds, relishes in the fact that flowers grow without needed to be planted, and memories walk the earth again.

a guide teaches them the languages, reveals how to make the soul listen to you and hear you. only the beginning has been told but we know that there will be great things.

welcome, to afterglow.
she is so glad you've found your way.

Nothing is like waking up in the world of Whimsy.
The land of dreams & cheers & childhood fears.

Perfect purple skies float above your eyes,
& colorful stickers litter faces like freckles.

Bluebirds smile sadly at the star filled flower fields,
which fill your mind with glimmering eyes and butterflies.

Green grass grows like plastic here,
with faux buttercups & daisies plaguing the ground.

Rain falls golden on laughing children,
who dance on candy carousels.

The air smells like honey filled pastries & humidity,
which make orange crickets sing.

Everything feels quiet as you swim in strawberry milk,
like nothing can or should go wrong.

The world feels peaceful until it starts to crumb around you,
crying shimmering tears as something sinister nears.

You go to give an encore to no one before you take your final bow.
Before you wake up from the world of Whimsy.

the lake listens and watches
the center of this town
an observer in the story it started

it's been years since a conversation has been had with the lake
and it misses the learning, the waiting.
the waiting gets old.

the lake is unquiet
and restless -- do not disturb it for fear of the ripples, the waves.
no one will look for you if you fall in.--
but it has learned the patience of an old woman who believes the stories she was told as a child.

afterall the lake is the home of the past
and history always repeats itself

the lake has answers
and knows that someday
someone will be brave enough
to ask the right question
may we wish them luck when they do

the train, before it was a train, knew many things
however it couldn't--wouldn't-- tell you these things now, not yet
but i promise you will know them soon darling
you're an adventurer
there's a reason you're in this town

for now, think of the train as a lighthouse
a warning
a lover
an echo
a thing to be loved
a thing to be feared
it's lonely being a prophet and a reminder in a town where people forget to listen

so darling,
if you wish to play adventurer
and you get tired of this town
sleep with your window open at night
curl up with your blanket a little tighter

sometimes the train gets tired of keeping its secrets

and lets one slip

in the center of town was a blue staircase that twisted the mind, like trying to recall a dream or understand how your brain works. if you thought about it too hard, it would give you a headache.
but if you didn’t think about it too hard, it was a delight.
you approached it from the ground, and then you were at the top of the stairs. not going underground, and not floating in midair, but somehow at the top nonetheless.
when you started heading down the stairs- that was where the fun began. uniquely wonderful every time, for every person.
blue cotton candy walls. long-dead pets running up to you with a stick. hot chocolate that felt like a hug. a room filled with colorful balls. an outfit that matched your imagination exactly. flying squirrels. rainbows you could taste. pictures of your family that bursted with laughter.
it filled you and filled you and filled you. and then-
you stepped out of the bottom of the staircase and it all drained away. you were in a barren wasteland with broken glass littering the ground. it was dark. felt like an apocalypse. pressed in on you like a nightmare.
you gasped awake.
and there you were in the center of town. you could never be sure if you’d dreamed the whole thing. or if it had been real.

they ran ran ran, feet pounding on the cracked sidewalk, raincoat flapping open behind them.
they were breathless, mind empty. they let the wind take them where it would.
by the time they stopped running, the sky was dark and the streetlights cast puddles of light.
they looked up.
the wind had taken them to a coffee shop.
they pushed open the door with a soft jingle and felt all the tension seep out of them. it was like the shop was giving them a hug.
strands of lights draped from the ceiling. old uneven brick walls. blackboards with the menu written in clear calligraphy. paintings of the moon. dark oak floors that looked like they would creak.
a woman stepped out of the back room. she wore a leather jacket with the sleeves rolled up, exposing tattoos, stark black on pale skin. she was shorter than them but on first glance appeared to be taller.
she felt like the loving mom they never had.
she rushed toward them with words like “honey” and “come in” and “hot chocolate.” waited for their permission and then enveloped them in a hug.
she smelled like coffee and woodsmoke and flour. she smelled like love.

When they walk in the door, the rusty old bell rings, making everyone there aware of one’s presence.
Except there’s no one there, the upbeat diner that was bustling only minutes before has lasted through yet another rush, the newfound quiet penetrates the air. The familiar checkered linoleum floors have been the same since she was a kid, she used to jump between them, pretending one square was lava, and the other a refuge of safety.

Pondering between booths and counter, they choose the latter. A familiar old man who’s been here longer than anyone can remember hands her a menu in a plastic sheet, the edges chipped and torn from fidgety children and years of use.

The menu never changes.

She doesn’t have to say much before the man places a chocolate milkshake before her. The rich brown reflecting that of her eyes. The ice cream dug forcefully from a tub, they had extras stored in the back freezer, kept only for special occasions like a town person’s birthday.

When people said Pa l’s was old, they meant it. Cracked glue held dulled aluminum edges to the counter still stood the test of time, and the jukebox in the corner still played age old tunes. Colorful neon faded from years of lighting up the dusty window, keeping the locals informed of the status of the diner—though most of them had memorized the schedule after a couple years.

Time seemed to move slower when you were there, maybe it was the antiquity of the place- mismatched chairs that always felt right, old records pinned on the walls. Even the shopkeeper, who’s wrinkles shone a friendly smile even now. Maybe that was why everything inside seemed to last so long.

welcome to our lovely little garden my flower,

please do come inside.

don't worry about leaving the farm behind,
we will bring you back when the time is right.
oh yes lovely right this way
follow the green, the bending stalks of sunflowers and the roses that seem to bleed red
oh precious, don't make that face
you're perfectly safe here.

right left watch your step

hmm?

right left watch your step
beware, the roses lie

what whispers darling?

the words whispered every fall festival at the farm*
the fall that was our last

no matter--
keep right on this way,
yes the path is narrower yes it is twisting and dark
you can't quite feel the sun on your face anymore is that right?
that's okay thats perfectly okay.

she feeds on dreams and fears and childhood cheers

oops, careful! you don't want to be tripping on thorn bushes do you?
ah, i do love our begonia flowers,
you could stare into them for hours, couldn't you?
just wait until you see the nightshade
you'll positively die.

right left right left right left left left

oh? choosing the left path i see?
you sure, my love?
alright...
oh and the flowers are opening up a bit more
the sky getting a bit lighter again.
yes, the farm is right over there!
i told you we'd bring you back little flower
you had no reason to worry.

goodbye goodbye
don't hear the cries
goodbye goodbye
don’t hear the cries

tata my love, please do come back!

look out look out
shes hiding about
be grateful you didn't find the maze

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We write them swiftly.
Our letters like grains
Each one being packed together like castles
Writers are like kids, words our toys.
Punctuation like our tools to pack letters into boxes
filling them with meaning.
It takes childlike wonder to create stories from sounds.
Afterglow is our wooden box;
the planks creak with stories over time.
We create beautiful castles out of words.
Read them, and you’ll understand our ambition.