This week's stories and poems are the winning works of Word Capsules '21, an online writing competition organized by the North and South University Communication Club (NSUCC). 

SHOUT is the media partner of this event.

Why must the sun on my skin be hot? The waves, flooded forever? The sirens roared in the highest pitch, obscene. I first push my feet away from the edge and into my infinity. Paying blood and bloody shards time and time again, what you don't understand is whether my absolute lover is like you, I also transcend the soul.

Under my breath, I impose this curse on myself that will never become complete, fragments and fragments that will never be thrown at me by them, ulterior gazes and phrases that will never distort and sway. Exhausted, I promised the Holy Pillar that my intention of resurrection was time to become my own salvation.

No matter where I go, it will cast a shadow on my frame. People told me to stand straighter, but they didn't know that the sharp claws pierced my shoulder, and they didn't know what my going and what could have been a ghost. 

It whispers to me, my glorious years and what I have lost. It reminds me of how I did this to myself. I let myself fall. I messed up. I lost. I did, I chose, I failed, me, me, me, me, me, me. I. I lost the path to my dream. The ghost is here to make sure I know. 

I have denied it a million times.

But today, I will agree. Today I want to make friends with my ghost. Take its paws off my shoulders and put them on my shoulders, hoping to learn more. Yes, I ruined me. But I did it here. Therefore, I will be friends with my ghost and walk side by side to the future.

This version of you wreaked havoc in my mind all night, not who you are now, and who you will never be. Yes, at first, it felt like my head was split in half, and my heart crawled up my throat and suffocated me, but I think I have found some clarity through it now.

I fell in love with a version of you, just like our fleeting flame of love, just dissipating in the air. If I can turn the world back, I know I will always be trapped in those moments, but I am not God, and you are not my hero.

When he walked out of the other room with a heavy heart, I knew what had happened. All my memories began to flicker before my eyes. I want to cry, want to hurt, but I feel numb again. Still holding the broken bracelets, silence slowly obscured my sight.

I leaned my head on the pillow for a while, and then it happened. I was in the car, "Santa Monica Dream" was playing on the radio, and she was there, alive, nodding to the song. I never thought I had to relive my worst memories. All this happened again. The same signs of brokenness, the lighthouse near the cliff, and the roaring thunder. However, this time is different. The storm seemed to have changed our minds, leaving us safe and sound. 

We stopped in front of the lighthouse and sat on the bench by the cliff. Our eyes are on the red sky, and the wind is talking. The sun is setting from the horizon, and the wind is rising all the time. She shook my hand and I felt free; the siren inside of me was waiting to come forward. When I opened my eyes, I felt the same wind. I leaned against the window to feel the rain, playing with the shape of the cloud. Because I know that one day you will come back and you will be proud of the people you see.

I thought about ending you. Well, no. Even in my imagination, I am too restrictive about violence. Therefore, there is no violence against you. How to dismantle? Just like those Lego figurines. Make the picture more tidy. Just remove the parts. Then put them in a heavy hydraulic crusher to turn them into fine powder. Dust them and throw them into the incinerator to ensure complete destruction. Cool, right? But then, I felt empty. You see, you took away some of my colors. So I came up with another plan. You were resurrected by me. I tried to scrape the color off the statuette. But I persisted, and it became more of a polishing job. My colors look brighter on you, and I use the remaining colors to correct small imperfections. I even drew you a new bow. My days and nights have been integrated by this project. When I reached the bottom of the paint bucket, I realized it. It's time to end you again.

But it was useless last time, was it? Every time you kill you means to resurrect you later. Keep my colors; maybe, they are yours. I can replenish my inventory and create new ones; there are many possibilities! And, it’s time to resurrect myself, don’t you think so?