Romans & histoires Bubble Letter Alphabet Graffiti

I picked up the paper and nothing was written on it. My first thought was a fire-reveal letter so I lit my lighter and the flame flickered across the paper revealing the words, " THE ALPHA IS WATCHING YOU" What did this mean? I stood guessing and thinking on who could have sent such letter but nothing came through. As a way of total surrender to the needs of my brain, I fell asleep, paper in my hands FLORA POV "Aaaaaaaaaaahh" I heard a scream so loud and piercing. " Aaaaaaaaahhh"

Black paint dripping like blood, letters carved out of hatred and mockery. My breath hitched, cold dread slicing through me. My pulse roared in my ears. It wasn’t random graffiti. It was deliberate. A mark left for us to see, a reminder that no place was untouchable. And it was addressed to us.

Inside the bubble something flexed—the suggestion of a smile, wrong and flat and too wide. R I— The letters traced themselves on the inside of the blister in a smear of rust. Susan didn’t wait for the P. She snapped the tin and the parchment together in her fist, crushed, then flicked the mix into the bowl. The pellets hit the film and hissed furiously, eating a hole through it. The bubble sagged and imploded; a thin jet of red water spat up, splattering Gabe’s cheek. It burned like ice. The brass disk went hot as a stovetop. Gabe swore, wiped at his face with his sleeve, and stepped back.

A distant bell rang, reminding me of a game Anna and I used to play as kids, a primitive substitution cipher we made up to gossip freely in front of our caregivers. We’d named it the butterfly alphabet, and it mostly consisted of adding b- and f- syllables to normal words. Nothing complicated: even rusty as I was, it took my brain only a few seconds to untangle it. And once I was done, I had something. I had three whole words: L. E. GRAYSON

The bass rattled the windows. Simultaneously, the digital smart-boards in every classroom, the cafeteria menus, and the hallway announcement screens flickered black. A logo appeared: A pixelated, 8-bit Wolf wearing sunglasses. Then, text began to scroll. BREAKING NEWS: BRADEN "THE ALPHA" STERLING’S SEARCH HISTORY. 1. "How to grow a mustache fast" 2. "Do girls like poetry about biceps?" 3. "Is it illegal to steal lunch money if you're rich?"

BUBBLE They want me to come out They want me to break out But how can I break out When I don't even know how I want someone to teach me how But there is no one. I hope you know what it is What a bubble is. It is round, transparent And fun to pop Only that mine can't be popped. No one can break my bubble It is as hard as a rock Even though it is a bubble You can't use a hammer to knock Because it will only bounce back

The text blooming on its skin—VOLUME 10, CHAPTER 3: THE FIRST CLASS—was written in the precise, razor-thin font of the High Treasury, a tiny but stubborn piece of corporate graffiti trying to brand the dirt. Xander knelt in the clover, his heavy, calloused hand hovering just above the stem. The amber ember beneath his scars remained dark, but his fingers were steady as he plucked a nearby blade of wild grass and laid it across the violet leaf, shading the tiny text from view.

There was a huge framed photo of me, one Chase had taken at the aquarium that day, blown up and propped up like a centerpiece. Around it were words. Positive affirmations written out, framed, some written on balloons. My eyes started filling with tears before I finished reading all of them. Then I turned to the other side and burst out laughing. Ruben's name was printed in large bold letters. No picture, just his name, and underneath it was a list of all the awful things he was, titled The Jackass Ex. Chase had not held back. Not even a little. There were balloons too. Clusters of them tied around the space with a small handwritten sign that read: Pop one. Cuss him out.

But I had seen too many years not to recognize when something entered that man’s body and settled there. Then he rose. I wanted to say something. Anything. That it was just a sticker. That a four-year-old didn’t know anything. That the chart didn’t mean anything. That this house didn’t have enough walls for everyone who had suddenly decided they had a place. What came out instead was, “Poppy, the letter in Bunny is wrong. That’s not a Y.” Poppy looked at it. “Oh.” She grabbed a crayon and corrected the letter with full concentration.