Published on May 7, 2026

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Break of Dawn

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

Break of Dawn

Eyes in search of an omnipresent God, his wandering irises rested upon the storm clouds that had obscured the sun—though the stubborn sun refused to fade out completely. Not much further, people hurried out of buildings to get home as soon as possible—a storm was coming. Ever since the cancer patient had been admitted in the hospital, the break of dawn seemed more subtle, as if the adamant darkness refused to leave and rubbed its gloom on the dawn. The flowers seemed to droop as he approached and the dense clouds cried the tears that dried out his eyes each night. Quietly, the nurse approached him and politely asked him to rest. It was late now, and he must be tired. So yet again, he wheeled himself to the bed where he had spent the majority of his stay. A wide assortment of cards and notes lay on the stool towards his left, though he hadn’t had the energy to open even one of them.

The nurse offered to tuck him in and—staring listlessly into her painted eyes, he saw not warmth but pity, mounds of it. He saw it in everyone’s eyes these days, the visitors, the doctors, his friends, his mother and even his own eyes as he stared into the mirror in the morning. His days were spent gazing out the window, where each day a new sight engaged him. The window pane was crawling with ants that ate away at an insensate cockroach bit-by-bit. Cars zoomed across the road, as he wished they would take his thoughts with them too—far away from him. Life is a peculiar collection of events—some events end abruptly, and life along with them.

The other stretch relatively longer, but the worst of all are the instances where each moment is spent wondering if, with the next breath—he too would cease to exist.

He did not stand to lose much, for there existed no lover of his who loved him back, nor any friend who reciprocated his feelings of care. His father was long gone, and his relationship with his mother was strained. The world would not stand to lose much either. Only the one who knelt in the temple, wishing for his good health would crumble and bawl and the ones who wished his plight unto themselves would moan and curse their luck. For, despite his ignorance, there were numerous who cherished him. The sky itself wept for his pain, and the trees bent with the weight of emotions he buried deep as he painted a brave look for the world to see. He awoke suddenly, one morning—to a ray of sunshine. The sky had cleared up overnight and the clouds that had not budged for the past week vanished so as they had never existed. The nurse wept now, tears of joy. His faith in God hadbeen lifted years ago and he was not a believer of miracles but perhaps someone’s prayer had been answered, someone’s plea had been heard. Humans are strange creatures, holding on to hope even as their life breaks apart before their eyes.

Sometimes, their faith is tested, promises are broken and tears are spilt but the other part is magical, miraculous. Hope brings back a man from the mouth of death, a man who is oblivious of the fact that he is loved.

***

“Before you know it, it will already be dawn; and all your pain and sadness with the night will be gone.”

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Witness: Zero

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

Witness: Zero

November 12, 1888

The late nineteenth century in London is not a pleasant place or time to live in.

As the 1880s come to an end, danger is at my doorstep.

A series of murders following five females, Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddows, and Mary Jane Kelly has stirred chaos among the locals of London.

This may seem off topic, but my name, “Fannie,” comes from the Latin word, Franciscus, meaning free one or freedom. So, I have taken it upon myself to figure out who is responsible for these brutal murders. Although I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, my determination itself is enough to drive me deep into this case until I can set these people free or the fear that consumes them.

November 15, 1888

I suppose I have vastly overestimated myself. My factual knowledge is quite little, if I do say so myself. Today is the day that I got to know that this notorious serial killer is known as “Jack the Ripper.” I find this name mediocre, for “Jack” is too simple to fit someone who has the ability to commit such horrifying crimes.

I am beginning to think that I should keep a journal to remind myself of each and every fact that I have gathered so far. “Frances, come down for dinner,” my mother’s voice slices through the silence, snapping me out of my enigma of thoughts. I set my ideas aside for a moment, for I have all the time in the world to solve this case.

November 17, 1888

I don’t have all the time in the world to solve this case. It is now that the realization has dawned on me that Jack the Ripper could strike anytime. So far, I have visited the house of Mary Ann and Elizabeth Stride’s parents, simply to question them about where their daughters went before they were met with tragic circumstances.

A similarity that I have noticed between both of their stories is that they occurred during the evening, which I could have assumed, but confirmation helps solidify this. My current plan is to go out around 6 p.m., generally with a weapon for self-defense, and record my observations, noting any specific people that we see frequently. It may be a vague plan, but I have to try to do whatever I can to save lives.

November 25, 1888

Surprisingly, in the past few days, a new murder was committed. My observations have been dry, and I haven’t noticed anything unusual. Perhaps all of this is over, and I’m simply chasing ghosts. I do believe that a person this cruel deserves to be punished, but I won’t be the one wasting my life away just to punish him. If the police can find out who it is, then I’m happy, but this is the end of my investigation.

December 25, 1888

On this delightful December evening, I glance down the alleyway as I make my way through the thin passage.

Something shifts in less than a second. Red splatters as the scene unfolds in front of my eyes. There lies the body of a woman, coated in crimson, taking her last breaths. I think I know who the man beside her is, a powerful figure, and I can’t do anything. So I do the only thing I can do. I run.

January 1, 1889

I can’t live knowing what I’ve done, acknowledging my cowardice. The irony is suffocating me, for I found just who I was looking for, and I let him get away with it. I can’t, I won’t live this façade, I don’t deserve to. What if he

kills more women, ruins more lives? So, I take a leap of faith, as my mind fades to black, thinking of what I could have done, and what I should have done.

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Somewhere Out There

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

Somewhere Out There

Somewhere out there, in a little town far away, lay a little cottage. In it lived an even more little girl. She was Holly. Holly was a playful trickster. She had short, golden hair tied in a bun, obscured by the green hat she wore at all times. Her eyes used to glint with mischief. But the weirdest things in her were her pointed ears and translucent wings!

Indeed, she was a pixie! Not a fairy, mind it. It is an offense to mistake pixies for fairies.

What was the best thing about her? Well, she could use magic! Did she use it for Good? Yes. Sometimes, she would play harmless pranks on harmless people. Was she malicious? Absolutely not!

Holly’s job was to guard the Helm of Honor. The Helm of Honor was a headgear that looked more like a crown. It was bestowed onto the greatest Heroes. Heroes were “the most brave, kind and valiant” of humankind.

Now, who deemed heroes as Heroes? That is a most unanswerable question. We shall look at things from innocent magical creatures like Holly’s perspective. The pixies like Holly always hear a voice in their heads, telling them “To annoy other mortals, and protect the given artifact, is your job”. Then, the innocent beings would follow the command wordlessly.

It seemed like their commander was immortal, or they thought they were. No matter. The thing is: they didn’t pay heed to these questions, just followed the bodiless orders.

Back to Holly now! Each day, she would wake up early in the morning and wash her face in the nearby stream, and then she would get seated on her mushroom cottage’s roof and gaze at the passing insects androdents. Sometimes she would annoy them by clouding their vision with fog.

It was on an early morning like this that she encountered her first Hero.

She heard a small voice in the back of her head that told her a Hero was coming. It was her first time, but she still knew what to do. She quickly flew inside and opened a manual titled “Handling Heroes”. She flipped through the pages and found the chapter she was looking for: “For First Timers”. All it read was:

 Step 1: Greet them

 Step 2: Praise them

 Step 3: Exaggerate their feats and the artifact

 Step 5: Hand over it

Note: Be humble. Don’t talk back. Do whatever you are told to.

She prepared herself and went out, muttering all the steps. As soon as she stepped out the front door, a dark figure loomed over her. It seemed to be a male. She confidently flew higher to reach his height. He seemed not to have noticed here.

“Here I am, Hero! How do you do?” she called out.

He looked around to make sure she was the one squeaking at him. Holly could see him clearly now. He had blazing red hair and eyes the same color. He was staring at her. She gulped as fear slowly crept in.

She was done with step one, the next one was to praise him. But she didn’t know anything about him, how could she? She told him straight up, “I don’t know where you’re from or what you have done to earn this helmet. It looks pretty normal to me. I guess you’ve done something great to achieve it. Congratulations Hero!”With a swift hit from his sword’s hilt, he sent her flying in an arc.

However, she had braced herself; she flew back in a zap and attacked him, since then, the Hero was never found.

Holly became the queen and since then, the number of undeserving heroes has decreased. Pixies no longer follow commands. It is said that Holly still lives out there. She’s biding her time, waiting for the moment to strike. It is true, she is somewhere out there.

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LOST JACKET

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

LOST JACKET

I ran across the lobby a minute before closing to give back the form.

The lost and found form.

The lost-and-found form said: Object Description: Blue jacket. Slightly faded. Three inside pockets. One front pocket.

That’s all that was written.

But it wasn’t just a jacket.

My mom said,“Never mind. Save up and buy a new one.”

But you can’t just replace things like that.

It made me feel like something.

It was special in a way only I understood.

It’s been through everything with me, my losses, my wins.

It smelled like comfort. It wasn’t superstition; It was my sidekick.

The three inside pockets carried my coveted adornments.

The smallest of the three contained my favourite pen, the one that knew everything because its ink is what I used to write down the deepest thoughts, even the ones I couldn’t say out loud.

And inside that pen, though no one knew, was a safety pin holding the body together. Just in case it cracked.

The biggest pocket of the three contained a list of things I hoped to achieve as I grew older.

The checkered paper had creases running through it. And taped to it, a small paper crown.

The one in between contained the shiniest rock I could find while I ran my first 5k. I found it lying on the gravel from the race. Standing out as physical proof that I didn’t stop.

There was a large front pocket on the left side of the jacket.

The Front Pocket was the brave one.

It was the pocket that was exposed to wind, sun and rain. And rarely the washing machine and the detergent.

It contained a Kinder Joy toy. Smooth plastic, bright colours. Manufactured joy closed in foil.

It used to be the best part of the treat

Now it was just marketing.

The toy in the front pocket wasn’t my favourite. It was just the one that was the cleanest.

That pocket carried what survived being seen.

It carried the version of me that had been rinsed, wrung out, and ironed flat.It was presentable and polished.

The inside pockets held what felt like me.

The front pocket held what didn’t cause questions.

That’s why losing it didn’t feel material.

It wasn’t about the buttons or the gold zipper that shut the pockets.

I didn’t want to give up so easily.

It felt like the part of me that was learning how to grow up, slowly and a little unwillingly.

So I searched.

Searched everywhere, my house, the School, the doctor, the infirmary.

When I had almost gotten over the loss of it,

When I had taught myself to stop thinking about it constantly,

When I had stopped imagining scenarios of finding it,

The doorbell rang.

A parcel lay on the wooden floor.

On the floor where I stood for the past 13 years, waiting for someone to open the door.

My name was written carefully across the front.

In handwriting that didn’t follow lines.

No return address.

No explanation.

Inside was my blue jacket!!!

Folded more neatly than I ever had.

I smiled to myself, ear to ear, as I put it back on.

Object Description: Blue jacket.

Slightly faded.

Still mine.

Losing it was to let me realise

I was the one who made that jacket special.

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We Will Still Wed, If You Ever Decide to Come Back

• Post author By tbrg
• Post date May 7, 2026

We Will Still Wed, If You Ever Decide to Come Back

I cry as I write this, still mourning a future that was never even fully proofed. W e never really wanted the picket fences and a big suburban villa though. Y ou had your ambitions, and I had mine. There was a gap in my dream which was supposed to get filled with my college plans. But you already had yours sorted, and you impressed my mother with it.

Already at fourteen— you were ready to build a house brick by brick for us. I was scared of talking about children, but I told you that I wanted to adopt. However now, my maternal instincts are stronger than ever, and I imagine how it could have been if I told you about the chokehold that babies have on me now. I imagine my children having your eyes, because that always will be something I’ll only ever want with you.

I wish I had told you about all of it.

I wouldn’t mind moving to a country that isn’t as urban as the cities we’re used to. I could see you trying to dig soil for me to sow the fruit’s leftover seeds in, dirt getting stuck under your finger nails. And then you’d wash your hands thrice, last time without the soap. A small routine that you’d built over time after either gardening or peeling garlic. You’d make sure my morning coffee would be exactly catered to my preference, and you’d keep aside some of your t-shirts for me to wear every night. I’d learn the way you’d chant my name, sometimes out of rapture, other times out of despair. And I’d finally let you understand the depth of the vortex of my emotions. I’d pick out your outfit for any and all occasions and you’d zip up my dress, or fasten the clasp of my necklace. You’d struggle with barre chords on the guitar, and I’d laugh, refusing to admit that there was a time when I was in your place. I’d insist on our children getting your smile but secretly you’d tell our parents how they look exactly like me.

Some day, that will happen. I know.