By V Riczker
Edited by Amy Li and Alloe Mak

I dream of disaster in the back of my mind.

“Did you have the nightmare again?”

The day I took my bags and settled down on the fault line,
I told them I was never coming back.

I don’t think they believed me.

It’s the one where we’re stuck together between a rock and a hard place.

It’s the one where we’re speeding and we can’t stop the car.

It’s the one where we’re caught up, or we’re caught on fire.

You can’t quite call it prayer.

(Is it praying if you were asking for it?)

Maybe call it fantasy.

“What do you think you can do about it?”

The hand of God struck with all five fingers. What makes
me think I deserve an open palm?

(Smack or invitation?)

I don’t want to make things happen. I’d rather they just happen to me.

But I’m running out of time to let nature take its course.

I think I can name the storm after me.

Do you think a hurricane sounds good in a headline?

I’m just counting down demise like I’m ready for the party to start.

(You’re still waiting on that invite?)

Hands of fate strike thirteen on a chrome face.

Lightning is more to my liking.

Struck down by the gods, scars blooming like a grasping hand.

Dial up the news.

My favourite is a plane crash.

Hurtling toward the depths of the ocean is the one most grounded in reality, after all.

“But you know playing God never did you much good.”

Playing dead still works.

Maybe it’s always been too late to say a word. Maybe you’ve always
been on a collision course with the idea of disaster and they’re just
waiting for you to pull the emergency brake. Maybe you’re just
waiting for tomorrow.

Maybe you can wave the white flag.

(You want this, don’t you?

I was going to let you decide.

You promised me you did.

Well,

Leave it up to fate.

It’s never hurt you before.

I guess I just thought you wanted to change that.)