000: An Era of Hope

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Daily writing prompt
What cities do you want to visit?

Across space and time, near and far, fictional worlds and battlefield scars.
The quiet places no one knows. The bleeding hearts and the broken homes.

I want to see the grief, the pain, the broken bone. Shattered buildings and crumbling roads.
Show me the shelters that were heaven within hell. The tears that flowed like invisible blood, unknown.

“That’s morbid.” “That’s fake.” “What’s the cost of compassion these days?”
And to you I say nothing, because my words aren’t for you.

They’re for the ones still struggling.
I know there’s more than a few.

I stand to say, I’m here.
I’m with you.
You’re not crazy, or insane.
Your reality isn’t fake.

I hear you.
Your screams into the void.
You’re late-night cries.
The fear of the monsters lurking within your head.

Show me every inch you had to survive.
Tell me how it cut you and bled you dry like wine.

Tell me your story, every suffering word.
I will stand silent guard, watching as you burn.

And in the ashes, as my soul shatters under the weight of your life,
I’ll gather you in my arms, and hug through the night.

You’re perfect. You’re pure. It was never your fault.
I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m sorry you ever felt so small.

I’m here. I know I’m late.
I never knew how much you hurt.
I know how much easier it would be to hate.

I’m proud of you.
There is no higher truth.
Surviving is brutal.
None of this is easy to do.

And yet, you’re here. Still breathing.
Still going. Somehow holding.

You’re fighting the fight. You’re saying this isn’t right.
You sincerely give a fuck, refusing to unsee the plight.

So burn to ash, my darling, baby phoenix. Rest your weary soul.
I’ve got this watch. And when the morning comes…
know you’ll burn like a star, becoming someone’s sun.

Your life matters more than you know.
There’s only one you. No one else has your glow.

Show me the cities hidden in your skin, the Romes no one knows.
The trauma and grief. Each and every shattered window.

Lay out all your pieces so we can make you whole.
From broken to art, stained glass can play a part.

You’re gorgeous. Handsome. Every single word.
Every wonderful thing and every unmarked tomb.

A contradiction. A paradox. A human to be sure. And yet…

At the core…

In the dark, alone, fighting not to give up…
It’s not Courage or Strength… no neither of them show up.

It’s the soft whispered sounds.
It is a gently clasped hand.
It’s the phone call that’s answered.
It’s the note that’s reread.

Hope. Connection. Unity. Having a common thread.
A single thing, a signal in an endless abyss.

Even here, even now, you’ve never been alone in this.

So rest, fierce dragon, brave knight, fair lady.
Mythic fey, epic creature.
Let sleep hold you as Hope softly sings her song.

Know your story matters.
Each chapter a stanza.
Every impact a note.
Pauses are part of the piece.
It -is- ok to take a breath.

You are a piece of art.
All great things take time.
Your story isn’t over.
And I promise you, neither is mine.

Embrace the ash. Sink into the rest.
That’s where your gains come from. When you stop trying to pass a test.

You’re already an achiever.
And it’s ok if you didn’t know.
So…
be fore I let you go…

Here’s a gold star. I made it just for you.
From one survivor to another, because trust me. I see you.

I know the effort. I know the cost.
I know the wounds you still carry,
even if it’s not mentioned in our talks.

This is for breathing.
For existing. Not for what you do.
You’ve earned it, simply by being here.
By being you.

So go on, little snowflake.
Be your special flavor of fun.
The world needs more of you.
Please tell me your story isn’t done.

Tell me about the rebuild.
The stand-up.
The moment you choose to keep going.
Take that step out into the unknown.

Once you wake, and there’s sun, and you see the morning light.
Let the ground greet your feet. Let it support your height.

Stand tall for but a moment.
Let pride fill your chest.
A rainbow of emotions for to be living is to be blessed.

Honor the ones we’ve lost. The versions you had to lay to rest.
Acknowledge where you are, even if it hurts.
And hold hope, ever gently; tenderly so close.

Welcome to Earth, on this wonderful new day.
There may be gray clouds, so let me be the ray.
The one who greets you, who banishes away the night.
The one who says, I’m glad you showed up another day to fight the good fight.

Let us clasp hands, a silent pledge between brethren. Of chosen family and tribal home.
We’re in this to win it. We’re booting up version 2.0.

Now go be a Force of Awesome.
Spread confetti glitter made of cheer.
Make someone disgruntled with your joy.
Take up space.
Raise your voice in song.
Do all of the things we should have been doing all along.

Rage. Grieve. Bitch and burn to ash.
Then step into a new era. The one you deserved.
The one that’s your birthright.
The one where you belong, because everyone deserves a home.

I believe in you. <3
With respect,
Aven

Mother’s Day – 10 Years Later

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The contradiction constricts my chest,
My ribs trying to cave because I was so blessed.

I loved you past the ticking of time,
Your death didn’t make you any less mine.

Day by day, this truth I want to defy
And yet, here we are, 10 years in the blink of an eye.

All the things I wish I could say…
Your whispered words, convincing me to stay.

“I’m proud of you”, “I love you”
“You’re beautiful, through and through”


Mom, you were the one who colored my sky blue. 
How? How am I supposed to do this, any of this, without you?

And I guess that’s the lesson I’m still trying to learn…
Just because you’re not here doesn’t mean your love doesn’t endure

I ache, I hurt, face down in the dirt.
And even there, you’re with me, never one to desert.

“I believe in you,” written in pen by your own hand,
A message through time, helping me to stand.

I’m still here, still going,
And I know, you’re totally glowing…

I’m doing the thing you taught me to do.
Surviving life because my strength came from you.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you, forever and for always. <3

The Handkerchief of Hope

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This is the entry I wrote for Writing Battle; my first ever writing competition.
Posted January 17th, 2026, at 9:35pm.

This is for you, Mom. Proof that I kept, and continue to keep, my promise. <3


I sit cross-legged in my computer chair, fortunate enough to have survived the super Saiyan flu of 2026, though my body still has complaints. 

Time Travel. Champion. Handkerchief. 

How poetic, I thought. No redraws necessary. 

Instantly I go to the days of knights and fair maidens. The gallant good sir, off to fight fierce dragons, leaving his lady to await his return. I could see it… Young love, pining away at a window, struggling with fear, worry, doubt; the “what ifs” that grow like thorn-covered vines. Vicious and unforgiving as they scale the castle walls of the mind. 

Oh, and how her mother, the queen possibly, endures alongside her daughter in the unknown. Maybe the queen shares a story of her own handkerchief given in hope of a safe return. The moral being that waiting requires an unsung strength. How sometimes survival is unnoticed, uncelebrated, but heroic nonetheless…

Yet, that was not the end… It evolved, in all places, during my therapy session, not dissimilar to a Pokémon. 

I could bring the story forward. To here. Now. The present day. 

What if… instead of a fair maiden, there is a young girl, her boyfriend enlisted and deployed. What if it was about the crushing uncertainty of never knowing if there will be a “next time,” and it is this fictional girl’s mother harking back to tales of do-gooders. Her soft, steady voice explaining how maidens gave their “favor,” their love, held within a piece of cloth. How it isn’t about the object providing protection, but rather how the object holds meaning, becoming a tangible thing nurturing an abstract concept. Purpose. 

Mmmm. Yes… More solid on the time travel bit… Nice. But also… a tender thread of thought within my own mind quietly asks to be seen. Viktor Frankl and Man’s Search for Meaning. How even in the most horrific, unsurvivable conditions, life can in fact, continue. Persist. Endure.

All one needs is a reason, a purpose, to do so. 

And so… here we are… The thing to which the thread of thought led…

There… has never been room for -my- story. It isn’t nice enough, clean enough, Instagram selfie enough, to be part of most conversations… 

I have blogged… for years… I have “BBs”, blogging buddies. A few of us have exchanged addresses. I went so far as to cross-stitch gifts for some of them. Artwork in fabric made of random colored thread, my love and care made physical. A network of support, watching my story unfold as I wrote it, post by post; day by day. 

It was fun. Connective. Fulfilling. And so I continued to post, unflinchingly authentic in my lived experience. Unapologetic for my existence. 

Then, on April 4th, 2016, my world ended…

My mother died. 

At the age of 27, I found myself standing outside her hospital room, a room we were supposed to be discharged from. We were supposed to go home. I was supposed to be her caretaker… It was going to be different and scary but as long as she was alive we would figure it out… together…  

But that wasn’t my path anymore…

There was no path. There was only holding her hand one last time, now devoid of life, and promising that even though I didn’t know how, that I would keep going. For her. Somehow… Some way… 

I called Dad. Even divorced, he deserved to know. I held myself together as I looked out at the mountains surrounding Las Vegas, and said words I never thought I would ever say as the setting sun shone on devastating truth…

“Mom died.”  

I imagine that moment is what soul shattering feels like.

This… horrific feeling of nothingness… consuming my entire being, eviscerating my heart, as those words left my lips for the first time; speaking an unbearable reality into being. 

Not grief. Not anger. Not rage… 

Just… the absence of everything. Of meaning. Of purpose. Of reason to endure…

And that was my life for what felt like countless eons. 

Then… one random day, months later… a letter arrived…

Words, handwritten on stationery like ye olden days of mīn own lifetime, harking back to when cards meant something…

And with it, a handkerchief…

Mama Spike, one of my BBs, had read my post about Mom’s death…

She wrote in elegant script that she grieved with and for me. How she knew a handkerchief could not fix the agonizing wound in my chest, but it could catch my tears if I let it. It could hold my grief and sorrow. It could be there with me in the moments where I felt alone and lost and screamed in anguish. 

It is a physical, tangible thing that I can place into someone else’s hands, like a memory from the movie Inside Out, and say “This is one reason I didn’t commit suicide.”

So, dear reader, my fellow human, I regret that I have no tales of brave knights and fair maidens within this text. No triumphant hero returning from a harrowing deed to their one true love. 

Instead I have the story of me; a 37-year-old motherless daughter, approaching the decade mark of the death that destroyed me, and yet, somehow, I am still undeniably alive. 

If this is my own story to a “worthless”, priceless, piece of fabric…

I wonder…

How many champions have fallen because they were never able to hold the love of someone who cared for them? 

I… could stay silent, scared to share for fear of being “too much”…

Or… like a Noble Monarch Butterfly… I could set my story free to change the weather of the world in whatever unknown ways it might…

Like Hercules at the Crossroads I stand before Vice and Virtue. Comfort and Truth. 

I draw a deep, steadying breath…

“This is for you, Mom. For every essay you ever proofread. For every time you said ‘I believe in you.’”

“YOLO, bitches…” 

And thus, I cast my own handkerchief into the Web, having faith. Purpose.