--short stories and vents--

--group of vents--

The impact could be felt from miles away, shaking the wood floor below her feet as she struggled to make her way down the stairs to the basement. Her legs shook with fear and adrenaline. She gripped the railing, steadying along. If she could make it down there, she could survive. It was like all her energy was just channeled straight into that one task of getting somewhere safe, like her brain was just playing the command on repeat to step, steady, step, steady unendingly. The cement around her crumbled, dusting to the floor as she made it the the reinforced wooden door, her body slamming into it as she dips down with exhaustion. She grips the doorknob, forcing her way into the room, dark and damp. Flinging the door shut behind her, she slides down the inside of the door, breaking down into sobs.

----

    Across a crowded arena of souls, a speck of dust sits on a railing, spectating. This speck gets blown off and breathed in and breathed out like it's nothing. This doesn't bother the speck. It likes spectating from new places, learning new things and feeling an environment that is not its own. It has no set home, and it likes this. It likes the freedom it gets from being used and pushed and blown and breathed in and out, because it does not know that this is wrong.

----

    When she leaves, most don't notice. A small glimpse of an empty chair and then a dismissal is all that she is to most people. One person notices her absence though. This person hasn't been there for forever, as many people might believe. This person hasn't known her for long, but already she feels lost without her presence. This person misses her wittyness, her charisma.

----

    The graves stand, still and silent, against the backdrop of midnight. In the far left corner of the cemetery, the pale moonlight shines down onto an opening in the soil.