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Look at the water . . . it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Reminds me of a dear friend I had once . . . no, I still have!
It’s just that, I haven’t had a chance to speak with her in quite a while. But that’s the thing about her, my friend Callista,
she isn’t one to settle. Ahh, that doesn’t make much sense, does it? Well, I don’t mean she’s a nomad who constantly wan
ders, never to find one true home. No, that’s not it at all. Hmmm, let me think how I can explain this . . .
Let me see―oh, this might do!―Callista is like the waves upon water. Always keeping pace with the current of the tide,
but changing all the same, she cannot help sweeping the sand along with her in mighty crashes upon the banks. Yet, anot
her side of her is the gentle pull of the water. Not only the waves, but also the serene ripples merely gliding upon the surf
ace and touching pebbles along the way. This was what Callista appeared to me as. The water and its varying movement.
Never motionless.
Callista and I met in a rather peculiar situation really.
You see, I’m the ‘leader of a herd,’ to put it in an interesting light. I run a mustang reserve along the edge of Arizona wher
e deserts give way to canyons, mountains, plateaus, forests, plains, and rivers. I strive to protect the wild mustangs roami
ng my reserve, and some I have managed to tame. However, on this particular occasion, there was a section of my reserve
which had been barricaded away from me by mother nature herself. A tempest which has come to pass closed off a sectio
n of land which I could not reach. On that day, I took the time to clear a pathway to this isolated place.
Then, as I heaved against the trunk of a ponderous tree, fallen from the arrow of lightning’s terrible bow from the thunder
ous storm before, the moment I cast it aside, the ringing of distressed whinnying struck the air. I bounded to its source to
find myself opposite a Kalon which greatly resembled a horse I once rode . . .
It’s rather funny! My first thought was that she was a horse! She looked so much like a gypsy vanner! I was thinking how st
range it is for a stray horse to find its way onto my reserve all on its own. Unless of course she had a rider . . . but as I car
efully drew closer with cautious pawsteps, I came to see the brown bag slung around her shoulder as well as a notebook ly
ing trampled on the grass nearby which gave me the realization that she was, in fact, not a horse at all!
The rearing stallion was still rearing and kicking as he continued to whinny wildly with blazing eyes, so as I set to work soo
thing him. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the other Kalon trying her best as well. Once all was well, I turned to face
her, slightly surprised to see her intently looking at me, almost staring . . .
At a loss for what to do next, I stood and waited patiently, watching her curiously as I felt my trepidation steadily ebb awa
y. When I finally thought I would have to find a way to politely interject through this odd exchange, she finally spoke. Her
name, she said, was Callista, and she was a conservation scientist who had wandered upon my reserve. I never really did co
me to understand what she was studying as I was troubled with the string of words and phrases she stated as she attempted
to explain. Nonetheless, I had made a friend who I was quite impressed with, since she had bravely faced the stallion witho
ut evoking violence even when I came to see that he had thoroughly stomped over her notebook filled with significant
information she had collected.
She didn’t stay for long, now that I think about it. We had begun to converse and she had spoken to me of her studies and h
ow she lived elsewhere and, to my disappointment, not nearby. I believe she saw my soul the day we met on that grassy pa
tch by the fallen tree with her bruised notebook and her quiet demeanor. It was wonderful the way she always looked at m
e when I spoke. I wasn’t used to anybody paying attention to me as intently as the way she did. It was simply the way she
was, always attentive and always absorbed in whatever it was I had to say. My word was a foundation for her ideas and vie
ws, which were unfailingly good. In fact, it was Callista who saved me from quite a lot of trouble by promptly pointing out
a specific bushel of fruits which happened grow across the expanse of the reserve and could have caused great harm upon
the horses. We rode around all that day from upon waking till the stars peeked down upon us from their places with the gl
owing sentinel moon.
So, here she was, dragging me along with her swift current, never coming to stop―maybe slowing at times―but never fully h
alting. She’s taught me to calm myself well, even if I’m jarred by life’s hardships and responsibilities, to be the way water p
ulses when a sprinkling rain shower comes as opposed to the tremulous splashing due to a heavy rain shower. Callista has sho
wn me how to keep my sense of balance, to keep myself from pouring over the edge of a cliff and waterfall into a valley I ca
n no longer climb up from. She’s helped me hold my chin above the water as we handle the struggles of my work and her stu
dies together. She sought to show me that change wasn’t all too terrible, and I soon learned to let the washes wash over me
as it’d carry me along, going with the flow of life.
It’s just that, I haven’t had a chance to speak with her in quite a while. But that’s the thing about her, my friend Callista,
she isn’t one to settle. Ahh, that doesn’t make much sense, does it? Well, I don’t mean she’s a nomad who constantly wan
ders, never to find one true home. No, that’s not it at all. Hmmm, let me think how I can explain this . . .
Let me see―oh, this might do!―Callista is like the waves upon water. Always keeping pace with the current of the tide,
but changing all the same, she cannot help sweeping the sand along with her in mighty crashes upon the banks. Yet, anot
her side of her is the gentle pull of the water. Not only the waves, but also the serene ripples merely gliding upon the surf
ace and touching pebbles along the way. This was what Callista appeared to me as. The water and its varying movement.
Never motionless.
Callista and I met in a rather peculiar situation really.
You see, I’m the ‘leader of a herd,’ to put it in an interesting light. I run a mustang reserve along the edge of Arizona wher
e deserts give way to canyons, mountains, plateaus, forests, plains, and rivers. I strive to protect the wild mustangs roami
ng my reserve, and some I have managed to tame. However, on this particular occasion, there was a section of my reserve
which had been barricaded away from me by mother nature herself. A tempest which has come to pass closed off a sectio
n of land which I could not reach. On that day, I took the time to clear a pathway to this isolated place.
Then, as I heaved against the trunk of a ponderous tree, fallen from the arrow of lightning’s terrible bow from the thunder
ous storm before, the moment I cast it aside, the ringing of distressed whinnying struck the air. I bounded to its source to
find myself opposite a Kalon which greatly resembled a horse I once rode . . .
It’s rather funny! My first thought was that she was a horse! She looked so much like a gypsy vanner! I was thinking how st
range it is for a stray horse to find its way onto my reserve all on its own. Unless of course she had a rider . . . but as I car
efully drew closer with cautious pawsteps, I came to see the brown bag slung around her shoulder as well as a notebook ly
ing trampled on the grass nearby which gave me the realization that she was, in fact, not a horse at all!
The rearing stallion was still rearing and kicking as he continued to whinny wildly with blazing eyes, so as I set to work soo
thing him. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the other Kalon trying her best as well. Once all was well, I turned to face
her, slightly surprised to see her intently looking at me, almost staring . . .
At a loss for what to do next, I stood and waited patiently, watching her curiously as I felt my trepidation steadily ebb awa
y. When I finally thought I would have to find a way to politely interject through this odd exchange, she finally spoke. Her
name, she said, was Callista, and she was a conservation scientist who had wandered upon my reserve. I never really did co
me to understand what she was studying as I was troubled with the string of words and phrases she stated as she attempted
to explain. Nonetheless, I had made a friend who I was quite impressed with, since she had bravely faced the stallion witho
ut evoking violence even when I came to see that he had thoroughly stomped over her notebook filled with significant
information she had collected.
She didn’t stay for long, now that I think about it. We had begun to converse and she had spoken to me of her studies and h
ow she lived elsewhere and, to my disappointment, not nearby. I believe she saw my soul the day we met on that grassy pa
tch by the fallen tree with her bruised notebook and her quiet demeanor. It was wonderful the way she always looked at m
e when I spoke. I wasn’t used to anybody paying attention to me as intently as the way she did. It was simply the way she
was, always attentive and always absorbed in whatever it was I had to say. My word was a foundation for her ideas and vie
ws, which were unfailingly good. In fact, it was Callista who saved me from quite a lot of trouble by promptly pointing out
a specific bushel of fruits which happened grow across the expanse of the reserve and could have caused great harm upon
the horses. We rode around all that day from upon waking till the stars peeked down upon us from their places with the gl
owing sentinel moon.
So, here she was, dragging me along with her swift current, never coming to stop―maybe slowing at times―but never fully h
alting. She’s taught me to calm myself well, even if I’m jarred by life’s hardships and responsibilities, to be the way water p
ulses when a sprinkling rain shower comes as opposed to the tremulous splashing due to a heavy rain shower. Callista has sho
wn me how to keep my sense of balance, to keep myself from pouring over the edge of a cliff and waterfall into a valley I ca
n no longer climb up from. She’s helped me hold my chin above the water as we handle the struggles of my work and her stu
dies together. She sought to show me that change wasn’t all too terrible, and I soon learned to let the washes wash over me
as it’d carry me along, going with the flow of life.
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Many times I’ve crept under the shade of the trees beside the paddock’s fences to sit by her as we see
k out refuge from the stifling Arizona heat. Both our backs pressed contentedly against the bark, nothing more than to lie sti
ll and silent. I’d watch the sun as it’d drawl the last of its rays for the day, take note of the wondrous rhythm of the soft bill
owing of our manes due to the tug of the breeze, hear the distant neighing of the mustangs, hear a wolf or perhaps a coyote
howl as the moon suddenly appears alongside the stars who tag along faithfully every night. Then, I would see all this as if it
had only been between the space of a mere minute. I’d roll to my side to comment all this I had come to observe to Callista
only to find her fast asleep . . . but no, wait! . . . meditating. Henceforth, on every occasion I would settle with her beneath
our shade trees to cast aside our worries at least for a collection of moments, it would be well spent meditating calmly.
But, I do believe this is when she left me. Something of a beautiful mystery I never did quite understand although she had t
aught me so much, Callista arrived then left as quickly as a desert’s winter. She must’ve thought I could go about things on m
y own now that she had instilled her pieces of wisdom upon me. I miss her, Callista, my friend and teacher. I remember when
I had watched her gracefully trod away, still with her bag and bruised journal in tow, she had glanced back with her tender ey
es squinting away the sun, smiled then nodded, and continued on her way whispering just loud enough for the wind to blow he
r words to my ears, “Carry on with strong spirit, for yours has been mended and can no longer be broken . . .” Never in my lif
e have I heard anymore truer words that what she had uttered.
k out refuge from the stifling Arizona heat. Both our backs pressed contentedly against the bark, nothing more than to lie sti
ll and silent. I’d watch the sun as it’d drawl the last of its rays for the day, take note of the wondrous rhythm of the soft bill
owing of our manes due to the tug of the breeze, hear the distant neighing of the mustangs, hear a wolf or perhaps a coyote
howl as the moon suddenly appears alongside the stars who tag along faithfully every night. Then, I would see all this as if it
had only been between the space of a mere minute. I’d roll to my side to comment all this I had come to observe to Callista
only to find her fast asleep . . . but no, wait! . . . meditating. Henceforth, on every occasion I would settle with her beneath
our shade trees to cast aside our worries at least for a collection of moments, it would be well spent meditating calmly.
But, I do believe this is when she left me. Something of a beautiful mystery I never did quite understand although she had t
aught me so much, Callista arrived then left as quickly as a desert’s winter. She must’ve thought I could go about things on m
y own now that she had instilled her pieces of wisdom upon me. I miss her, Callista, my friend and teacher. I remember when
I had watched her gracefully trod away, still with her bag and bruised journal in tow, she had glanced back with her tender ey
es squinting away the sun, smiled then nodded, and continued on her way whispering just loud enough for the wind to blow he
r words to my ears, “Carry on with strong spirit, for yours has been mended and can no longer be broken . . .” Never in my lif
e have I heard anymore truer words that what she had uttered.
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ȶ ｈｅ ｗｈｉｓｐｅｒ ȶȶ ｈｒｏｕｇｈ ȶȶ ｈｅ ȶȶ ｒｅｅｓ
[ writing extra || told from noah's perspective || 675 words ]
I don’t know what I expected when Callista left
the mustang reserve. Foolishly, I had hoped nothing would change. But, of course, then I would have learned nothing from my
wise friend! I could just hear her peals of laughter if she ever were to discover what I thought! Many things had changed. Count
less. And I learned to know that this was good, yes, it was better.
I found myself drawn farther and farther away from the homestead of the reserve, far from the paddock, far from the ranch ho
use. I’d wander dreamily to the gate and unlatch it with a sense of dread as to what might happen, but I did it anyways and the
horses came cantering out. They ran throughout the expanse of the reserve, yet they would not leave for this was their only ho
me. I just couldn’t have them trapped within boundaries. What was my purpose in the first place? To preserve their welfare? Th
ere isn't much heart one can have when they aren’t free. Staring after their boundless spirits I thought of my own caged heart.
Something rustled, not only the winds of Arizona, but also the winds of change.
All at once, I was letting my legs carry the rest of myself and my soul to the ranch house. I wasn’t returning, only retrieving. Ey
es blazing with an arising flame within me, I sprinted throughout my seemingly empty house, feeling the aged wood of the floor
boards creak at sudden falling of my paws upon them. I suppose my old house thought I had finally lost it and it shuddered fright
ened at first then relieved as it felt me for the first time with sense in my step. I had now done this many times since that day.
I no longer hear the floorboards creak, but instead I’ve felt them dip at certain degrees at certain places. At times they tremble,
but they no longer shake. I took this route throughout my house, leaping swiftly room to room, and hearing the window’s swing
from the gusts I left behind me as I ran past until I reached the place I had last placed my guitar . . .
Soon enough, there I was, once again hopping in a haze across the creek’s stepping stones with youthful glee, clinging to my gu
itar protectively. Then, I continued to trod by the water until I reached the main stream and I saw those familiar ribbons of wa
ter skimming past the sand and rocks of the bank. Where canyon and mountain dominates, this place of water and trees was a
breath of fresh air. And my, the air did seem fresh, I must add! Not a cactus in sight by a long ways away! I came here often, un
wound the strings coiled around my heart, and let loose my soul to the whispers of the trees . . .
I don’t know if anyone ever did hear my strumming, but I would strum till my paws would ache and I ran out of tunes to hum an
d my head was tired of dipping back and forth, up and down, with the rhythm of my music. I’d wade into the water, climb the
trees, caper around the branches . . . then I’d lie upon the grass, sink into its curves and billows, stare up and watch as the sun
traced the leaves then I’d follow its outlines till, quite suddenly, the sun has gone and the moon has returned once again. Out c
ame the stars, oh by now you must know I love them so, and they’d twinkle in my eye as a breeze would pick up as I heard the
night creatures, and feeling my sense of responsibility find its way back to me, I’d roll around to smell the rich wood and verdan
t soil then push myself up and wander out as peacefully as I can manage, as the sentinel stars still swallow my solemn eyes, and
the trees are still whispering behind me urging the waters to rush on.
[ writing extra || told from noah's perspective || 675 words ]
I don’t know what I expected when Callista left
the mustang reserve. Foolishly, I had hoped nothing would change. But, of course, then I would have learned nothing from my
wise friend! I could just hear her peals of laughter if she ever were to discover what I thought! Many things had changed. Count
less. And I learned to know that this was good, yes, it was better.
I found myself drawn farther and farther away from the homestead of the reserve, far from the paddock, far from the ranch ho
use. I’d wander dreamily to the gate and unlatch it with a sense of dread as to what might happen, but I did it anyways and the
horses came cantering out. They ran throughout the expanse of the reserve, yet they would not leave for this was their only ho
me. I just couldn’t have them trapped within boundaries. What was my purpose in the first place? To preserve their welfare? Th
ere isn't much heart one can have when they aren’t free. Staring after their boundless spirits I thought of my own caged heart.
Something rustled, not only the winds of Arizona, but also the winds of change.
All at once, I was letting my legs carry the rest of myself and my soul to the ranch house. I wasn’t returning, only retrieving. Ey
es blazing with an arising flame within me, I sprinted throughout my seemingly empty house, feeling the aged wood of the floor
boards creak at sudden falling of my paws upon them. I suppose my old house thought I had finally lost it and it shuddered fright
ened at first then relieved as it felt me for the first time with sense in my step. I had now done this many times since that day.
I no longer hear the floorboards creak, but instead I’ve felt them dip at certain degrees at certain places. At times they tremble,
but they no longer shake. I took this route throughout my house, leaping swiftly room to room, and hearing the window’s swing
from the gusts I left behind me as I ran past until I reached the place I had last placed my guitar . . .
Soon enough, there I was, once again hopping in a haze across the creek’s stepping stones with youthful glee, clinging to my gu
itar protectively. Then, I continued to trod by the water until I reached the main stream and I saw those familiar ribbons of wa
ter skimming past the sand and rocks of the bank. Where canyon and mountain dominates, this place of water and trees was a
breath of fresh air. And my, the air did seem fresh, I must add! Not a cactus in sight by a long ways away! I came here often, un
wound the strings coiled around my heart, and let loose my soul to the whispers of the trees . . .
I don’t know if anyone ever did hear my strumming, but I would strum till my paws would ache and I ran out of tunes to hum an
d my head was tired of dipping back and forth, up and down, with the rhythm of my music. I’d wade into the water, climb the
trees, caper around the branches . . . then I’d lie upon the grass, sink into its curves and billows, stare up and watch as the sun
traced the leaves then I’d follow its outlines till, quite suddenly, the sun has gone and the moon has returned once again. Out c
ame the stars, oh by now you must know I love them so, and they’d twinkle in my eye as a breeze would pick up as I heard the
night creatures, and feeling my sense of responsibility find its way back to me, I’d roll around to smell the rich wood and verdan
t soil then push myself up and wander out as peacefully as I can manage, as the sentinel stars still swallow my solemn eyes, and
the trees are still whispering behind me urging the waters to rush on.
ｕｎｄｅｒ ȶȶ ｈｅ ｓ ȶ ａｒｒｙ ｓｋｉｅｓ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｅａｇｌｅｓ ｈａｖｅ ｆｌｏｗｎ
[ writing extra || told from noah's perspective || 635 words ]
Ahh yes, the stars. They remind me of . . . many . . .
Of them all, the most vivid in my mind is a gentle and loving mare, known to most as Palomina, known to me as mother. The most compassionate mother I’ve known, the only mother I’ve ever known, both mother and father to me in my early years. She who has given me the world, her world. She who has cared, tended, taught, loved, scolded, breathed life upon. She who had brought me from the glare of the whirring machinery of a city to the stretching broadness of country roads and hot sands. She who had pointed me from the blinking lights to the blinking eyes of the stars. Told me of my dreams, held a dreamcatcher woven with the lace of her hopeful eyes turning over each expression I’ve ever fumbled upon, telling me to speak of my dreams. To let them drift and float away as if a feather if they were bad, to hold onto them and cherish their inspirations if they were good. To follow them, my dreams . . . yet the more I pursued them, the more I felt myself growing up faster then I should have . . . Mother taught me all this. Mother Palomina was the wind beneath my wings as I rose steadily upon the air and headed for the skies, she guided me if flew too close to the sun, blew my feathers so as to ease me towards the right passage of breeze. I can soar because of her.
And it’s the way all things connect in this circle of life that makes me powerful sad at times for certain lengths. I remember bits and pieces of my mother if I catch traces of a certain scent, if I journey down a certain road, if I happen to hear a certain song, if I happen to raise my head at just the right moment to sight the setting sun upon the horizon and witness the return of another starry night, if I hear the wind call my name, if I feel a rush of sudden air, if feel hushed wingtips graze my back, if I glimpse a shadow hovering above my racing figure . . .
Then there she is, as if something from a dream. No longer a distant memory and I remember her all over again. For a few fleeting moments, the feeling in my paws give way, something, then everything, tingles and the wind begins to rush and fall in great gusts against my face. My mane and tail are whipping wildly behind me as my vision blurs and nothing matters except for blindly chasing away the pain of yesterday or the sorrows of today or the torment for tomorrow . . .
Till the shadow I hang below begins to glide slower and slower . . .
And I collapse into place, legs numb and chest heaving, my eyes groping the sky for any sign of reassurance, thinking I’m alone . . . then here comes the eagle once again and she circles gracefully above my tired frame. A mighty caw or two later escaped from her beak and I was suddenly upon my paws again, racing longer and farther. Palomina really wouldn’t let me stop.
We’d never give this up on the days she would visit me. There she was, an eagle soaring above me, gliding and gliding and would not sojourn until I had fully and completely won our race. Weaving through trees in early dawn’s light, urging me onward through the canyon rapids, leading me to leap across the rocky divides, bounding endlessly past countless fields of grass . . .
She wouldn’t give in till my strong spirit prevailed.
ȶ ｈｅ ｍｏｏｎ ｏｎ ȶȶ ｈｅ ｍｏｕｎ ȶ ａｉｎｓ
[ writing extra || told from noah's perspective || 690 words ]
Although starry nights may bring about eagles to a child of the west wind like me, more company comes with moonlit nights. If one is to live along the border of Arizona, it’s quite likely that they will experience an encounter with a tribe skirting by . . . which I’ve seen along the mustang reserve, their staid faces illuminated by the moon’s bowed shining light.
I would often forget of the other reserves in close proximity to my own reserve and it was a surprise to me on this occasion of meeting them by division of the fence marking our boundary. I had stared at their solemn faces with great fascination as a slight breeze fluttered the feathers tucked between their long tresses. At first seemingly as stoic as warriors, yet when the first spoke, the tribal members’ countenances flooded with curves, twists, wrinkles too . . . a young one around my own age was the one who spoke and was amiably leaning across the fence of our divide with a wide grin, breaking their previous somewhat frightening composure.
“I’ve seen you before. We all have. Why have you not seen us?”
“This section of land . . . I don’t visit it often . . .”
“Why not? Are you afraid of something?”
“No, it’s a different matter really! If I had known you all visited here often, I would have come soon―”
“You are tired.”
“How can you tell so well?”
“It is not as apparent at first . . . but the way you stand, not slouched but as if you cannot carry yourself. Your sunken and swollen eyes as you blink slowly. Your speech is rough, coarse, scratched . . . as if a spear on stone.”
“You are correct, my friend. My name is Noah Creed.”
I wagged by head in a more jarring nod then I had intended as I felt my weight fall forward and I had nearly completely fallen across the fence as I came to the realize the true reality of my exhaustion.
But, I was caught under my chin by this Kalon’s firm head and I felt myself nimbly heaved upright again, “Well, Noah Creed, I am Running Brook . . . You have only just met us but you call me friend. You shall be known as Takoda. Friend to all. You like it very much I hope?”
I nodded again and a faint smile wrote its way onto my crinkled paper muzzle. I knew Running Brook had felt my nod, because without wasting a moment, he brought me over our fence divide and led me to the tribe’s homestead. Then, for the first time, my head draping low, I saw the others who had originally accompanied Running Brook. My eyes traveled from kits prancing around their mothers’ legs, fathers and their sons, elders and their grandchildren, aunties, uncles, nieces, nephews . . .
Then quite suddenly, pulling me away from my wandering thoughts, a kit with amused wide eyes was squinting up at me, a paintbrush in one paw. And before I could sense the wet of the brushstrokes she’d marked upon my leg, Running Brook spoke again, “Us here. We see you running everywhere. We see you fall tired on your knees. We hear your music . . . We know you are strong. Do you?”
New friends emerging from this lonely world, one I’ve come to love. Here they were with me, finding my broken wings. And here they were with me tending me as if I were a wounded warrior. The paint seemed to seep through to my veins and renew me with strength, energy, and a sense of fresh power to take on the world again―no longer as Noah Creed―but as Noah Takoda Creed.
As they fed me the food and drink of their culture, I looked each and every one of them in the eye smiling sincerely and saw Callista . . . saw Palomina . . . saw them all in one. Then the pull of sleep tugged at me once again as my eyelids sank. I breathed an altogether relieved sigh.
̲𝑠̲𝑝̲𝑒̲𝑐̲𝑖̲𝑎̲𝑙̲ ̲𝑡̲ℎ̲𝑎̲𝑛̲𝑘̲𝑠̲ ̲&̲ ̲𝑐̲𝑟̲𝑒̲𝑑̲𝑖̲𝑡̲𝑠̲ ̲ wrote:
aahhhh, I have many people to thank for helping me with this form !
firstly, thank you to 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒚 for allowing me to include your kalon callista for the relationship prompt !
next, thank you to 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕 for your wonderful art piece depicting noah and callista together !
thank you to ever-patient 𝒕𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒚 who sacrificed her time to review and critique my form !
last, but definitely not least, thank you to 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 for your amazing coding skills !
you have all been absolutely amazing and extremely helpful to me and I really appreciate it all !
coding by ♡Chocolate♡ ／／ art by waterfront ／／ art/animation by me ／／ writing by me
