“Different Worlds” - Not really a poem, though in poem form. Ish.

Hers is of wind and sea,
Of salt spray and sun-rosed eyelids;
Of bare toes, laughter lines, and scintillating rainbow fabrics;
Of late-night rum cups,
Flames licking driftwood in the hearth,
And copious skin-on-skin time with her latest lover.

His is of cold dark woodland,
Of moss-riddled bark and soggy boots;
Of solitude, unvoiced thoughts, and bitter, stabbing memory;
Of early morning chores,
Of wire and blood and death
And leather stretched taut across thick callouses.

Side by side they kneel in the mud and ash,
Conversing in whispers
Whenever the guards are out of earshot.
“What do you know of strength?” he mutters,
Split lip curled and breath sour from despair.
“I know the light is strength,” she insists.
“Strength is laughter; strength is gentleness. Strength is love.”
At this he spits, not in contempt,
But to clear the pink saliva from his swollen tongue.
“Nay. Strength is the dark in men’s hearts.
“It is well-planned deception; it is brute force. It is steel.”

A pause, heads bowed, as a guard trudges past.

“You are certainly our father’s son.”
“And you our mother’s daughter!”
“Rest in peace.”
“Rest in peace,” he agrees, voice softened.

From far off, the call of a gull,
Fading as the breeze changes direction.
“Our worlds are not the same,” the sister says, pensive.
“Not anymore,” the brother grunts, scowling.
“But that’s okay.”
“Is it?”
“Your strength can break us free, help us escape.”
He nods, brow furrowed.
She leans closer. “But what then?”
His eyes scan the ground, searching. “I see. Yes, okay.”
“You do, brother?”
“Yes. I think so.”
Hope swells in her heart like the coming tide.
As he straightens, his shoulders are broad, his eyes shining.
“Your strength… can prevent this from ever happening again.”
She smiles.
“Yes, brother. Yes, it can. But only if we work together.”
“Then let’s,” he whispers, watching intently as the guard approaches.
“Yes. Let’s.”

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Glossy · F

Episode 2.

The guard’s shadow fell over them, wide and distorting in the pale afternoon sun.

The brother, eyes still fixed on the approaching boots, gave a single, almost imperceptible shake of his head—not yet.

The sister squeezed his arm, a gentle pressure that spoke of years of shared understanding, a language stronger than the steel and mud that imprisoned them.

“Get up!” the guard barked, his voice thick with boredom and authority. “Back to the line, you two. No whispering.”

They rose stiffly, the brother using the opportunity to brush the ash from his knee and covertly pick up a sharp splinter of bone half-buried in the soil. His face was a mask of dull compliance, the darkness she spoke of already gathering behind his eyes. It was a cold, efficient resolve, stripped of all emotion save the grim necessity of action. Brute force, he thought, testing the razor edge of the bone against his thumb. Steel.

The sister, however, did not mask her face. She looked directly at the guard, her expression one of quiet, unwavering patience, as though she were waiting out a sudden, irritating shower. That gentleness, the refusal to surrender her warmth, was the shield they would need when the darkness had run its course. The sea in her, the boundless energy of the waves, waited to wash the blood and ash away.

He pocketed the splinter.

"It's time," he mouthed, turning his back on her to follow the guard.

The sister nodded, knowing that while his strength would breach the wall, hers would decide the shape of the world on the other side.