I was twelve when my parents decided our dog Hanna had howled at the moon for the very last time. When they were gone, I cried and prayed for distraction, but the television gods served Pedigree commercials. My brother walked along the acres of the farm and saw a bird lose its head as it flew into a power line.

I’ll never forget the day, many summers ago, when my brother tossed a rock off the dock and it landed on the eggs of a fish in the lake. The fish came back and just swam in place for hours, looking at the little ones it wouldn’t have.

Apparently I’m so high that I’ve been doing math in German for an hour without noticing. Damn friends bringing their bongs into my apartment…

Something That Isn’t A Butterfly, Because That’s Fucking Stupid

The above is a story that was written for me almost nine months ago by a writer here on Tumblr. He goes by nykyos but most know him as Daniel or Cooper, the mastermind behind some of the greatest reads you will find. His imaginative fiction is unparalleled, always finding new ways to twist the universe, break down reality into something new and delightful to witness. He can also stray from the path with ease and serve us a beautiful piece of real life that touches beyond words.

Daniel never fails to bring me joy with his writing, but sometimes he goes an extra step further. Sometimes he writes things like the story above for the people here who have touched his life, whether he just wants to make their day or because they need it.

I needed mine.

Daniel befriended me without question the very first time I ventured onto Tinychat with him almost a year ago now, and I remember how easily we fell into conversation. And even more easily, we fell into roles of confidantes to each other. I don’t want to think about where I would be if we hadn’t.

Last summer, I came close to taking my own life countless times. I was drained of every trace of hope I had in me, so he let me borrow his. Me, a nineteen year old girl he had never met in person, from another time zone in another country. He gave me a sledgehammer to knock down the walls I had been backed up against, and an ear (or Skype conversation, more accurately) to scream all of my pain into. When I tried to float away, he pulled me back and grounded me with the fact that I needed to stay, if only because he needed me to.

He said those words, then wrote this story for me and I cried for hours because I knew, undoubtedly, I had a real friend in this man. I am the furthest I have ever been from the dark place I used to lie, but it still makes me tear up. So much of the person I have been able to become is thanks to his unwavering patience and selflessness.

Daniel, I hope you realize what you have done for me and likely so many others here. You are a rare find, true and undemanding, and it pains me to think I have been such an absent friend these last few months. But I hope you know that I love you and I am always only a message away. And you need to stay, if only because I need you to.

And because I need to wear an awesome tuxedo as a groomsman at your wedding.

In short, ladies and gentleman, you should say hello to Daniel Cooper sometime, because he is a great writer and an amazing human being.

So thank you, my friend.

You see her.

You see her and know right then, in that instant, that she is truly something special. You take her in, shortcomings and strengths alike, and let the light behind her brown-not-green eyes steal your very breath.

She tells you her name that night and it is unusual and new and naturally perfect because it is hers. You cannot help but repeat it, over and over again to her under the stars when there is silence. Her syllables taste like vanilla, and at sunrise you discover that her lips do too.

You crave her flavor for days until she is found again by chance, and bruise both pairs of lips trying not to let your tongue forget. Somewhere between drowning and parting, you tell her that you are in love with her. She cries so delicately, you’re afraid to touch her.

And she’s yours.

You see others see her from then on, but she only looks at you. Around the emptiness of her pupils lie filtered reflections of yourself in brown-not-green. There you are to her, strengths without shortcomings. Perfection.

A girl with bigger breasts and green eyes calls her flat and plain. She asks you if you like chocolate and licks her lips.

Your parents invite your girlfriend over for dinner that night and she is so delighted to be acknowledged and included that you cannot possibly deny her. The evening is polite and warm until dessert when your mother serves slices of homemade white cake. Tonight you find it disagrees with your palate. In fact, you find your tastes shifting a lot after that.

“I’m getting fat.” She is naked in front of the mirror, grabbing at her belly while you are trying to brush your teeth. It’s a slight exaggeration. You have noticed the increase in her weight, but she’s certainly not fat or close to reaching that point.  Why does she have to fuss all the time? “What do you think?” You spit out the toothpaste and rinse your mouth with cold water before meeting her concerned gaze in the mirror. She does look bigger. And perhaps it’s the dull ceiling light of the bathroom, but she looks plain too. Empty, staring back at you. You shrug and reach for the mouthwash. They’re not green.

You see her looking up at you, wide-eyed and timid between your legs. The afternoon sun bleeds through the blinds, over her bare back and flushed cheeks. “Tell me what you want,” she doesn’t say, and watches your face for reactions she will never find. She tells you silently how deeply she loves you with each tentative kiss and kitten lick, and you turn your head away. Later when she is trembling and vulnerable in your arms, she whispers secrets and asks what you love about her. She wonders if you remember the first kiss you shared and why you never try to kiss her anymore.

“Good morning?” It’s a hoarse question, and you crack open a sleepy eye. She smiles, but there’s something else there that you cannot miss. “Sleep well?” You let her curl into you, cold. The sun is rising and you are still dreaming.

You see her.

But you wish you were seeing someone else.

The foreshadowing of my death occurred when I was just a child, no more than seven. My bedroom overlooked the cobbled street below, and at night I would sit at the windowsill in my bedclothes, looking down at the few remaining people in the dark. This particular night, I held a lantern that I had stolen from the sitting room, which cast a small glow over the road. I could not sleep. I was feeling odd. A tad whimsical and excited, but I had no idea why. And when the earth went silent, I could not know that it was connected. The wind stopped blowing, the little cricket noises ceased, and I found myself holding my breath. It was absolute silence, and my heart raced. It seemed like almost hours later when I finally heard it. The soft trotting of horses approaching in the distance. I let the breath out finally, gasping for air that I had not even realized that I needed. That is when I first saw it coming.

The feeling sets in fast, a burning, throbbing acid in his stomach. It’s never come on so strong like this, never hurt quite so much, and he figures it is due to the fact that he has never faced a situation like this. He’s woken up next to a number of strangers in his time - an acceptable consequence of youthful desire mixed with a little liquid courage. But his best friend is certainly no stranger. The site of his rather nude, best male friend lying in bed next to him is very unlike the results of a typical night of anonymous lust. He sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, considering dressing quickly and leaving right away, never to speak of this to anyone and especially not him. But he doesn’t act fast enough, and the rustling from the forgotten pile of used sheets behind him makes the acid burn a little more.

If a woman wants to succeed in the business world, she must be a leech. She must bind herself to the job and suck the life out of it until the work is tired and drained, and she has absolutely nothing left to give. Or at least last long enough for the commanding male competition to tear her to shreds. If a woman wants to set feminism back to the Crusades, she’ll marry one of these men. She’ll bear his sons, peel his potatoes, and spread her legs when he signals. She’ll lie awake most nights when the exhaustion of nothing chooses not to claim her, and she’ll stare at the ceiling, just…staring. If a woman like myself comes to the conclusion that societal and gender conventions are absurd, she does something a little “crazy”. Crazy to a business-lady, buried in another memo and another blinding migraine, or her male counterpart grinning ear to ear, thinking of his raise and his mistress’ backside, or even his dried-out, numb little wife. To me? This “crazy” is living. And I’m only getting started…

The young fowl has called
its last cry; little witch heard
his little heart stop.

Here lie my minds in a cage of bone,
thinking in lightning circles,
the blink of an eye,
with no artificial flavours.

I think this old escapism is unstable,
columns and stanzas
cracking like robin eggs
for a hundred blind men.

And you know, but I will never tell;
the bees want a taste
of our honey this spring
for a sweeter change.

I would multiply but we are zero;
only the wicked and witty
need bury themselves,
and we are one of the above.

Inactivity + long prose = no readers

Just had a Lady and the Tramp kiss with half an onion ring.

Anonymous asked: I missed you, love. You always seem to have some words to say that I haven't seen said in the same way you say them before. I thank you for that, I seem stagnant - even with my found pleasure and my life pleasing me day after day. I really missed you, madam. You know me, Possibly. You've got no need to be Confused - HA!

Ah, PC. You’re far too kind. I’ve missed you too.

She said that the hurricane could carve me a new set of curves and in its eye is hidden the kind of peace men kill each other for, but peace has never been synonymous with sleepwalking. Is that what I am? Slipping through the endless seconds and short years, only waiting for the clouds to clear. I lie on my back in the dead fields for days and watch them, but still cannot find train nor elephant nor dreams.

I can love. I know that now, and that is something at the very least. But the wells have long run dry and words are stripped of connotation and definition. I am disappearing all over again, but now I am forgotten. An archaic phrase in a fading paperback poetry book on no one’s shelf. And maybe my beginning longs for a poorly written ending still, and maybe I wonder what Miss Plath would think of my poison.

But he and I will be here on our backs in dead fields, waiting for the clouds to clear and breathing in stale air until our lungs dissolve.