Super Extra Bonus Material Ultra-Excuse: This is not really a chapter or even an epilogue. Instead, it's a poem I wrote for school, prompted with the word 'dizzy', which ended up suiting this story right down to the ground. I spent about ten minutes writing it, and about another ninety tweaking the meter. Try reading it out loud, because I'm still not sure it works. And after all that work, the literary-magazine contest was cancelled, so I thought I'd share it with you, as at least one person asked about an epilogue. (It's still not an epilogue!)
Disclaimer: Any gratuitous Sandman influence is totally coincidental. This poem is copyright to me effective now, if not yesterday.
Bonus Chapter 0: Destiny and Doomsday
Can I spin the threads of doomsday and be touched by what I see if the stuff that it's composed of cannot ever touch with me? Can I look into the future and be struck by what I know? Can I see into the days gone past and still withstand the blow?
If I spin a dream of time gone by will it always pull me in? And if I am not the weaver's loom then must I be the one to spin? Am I dream or am I dreamer and do nightmares ever die? Must I face a darkened future from a shattered crystal eye?
If the world is crushed and broken will I stand here all the same? Can I be just a player and not be part of the game? Do the hands and feet that move me do so by my own design? As I weave the threads of other lives is someone weaving mine?
If I am but a shadow then who else is casting me? If I look into the darkness then what can I hope to see? And if I am just the spinner and I watch the wheels spin and I become too dizzy will the pattern pull me in?
Can I escape the weaving that I've set about us all and if we're sinking ever lower do we have as far to fall? When I look into the shadows are the shadows looking back? And at what point do the followers become the hunting pack?
If there's a purpose to the pattern it evades my desperate glance for the path the weaving takes is not by me but up to chance, so the shape behind the shaping yet remains a mystery but it's evident at first look that no creature wanders free.
Entrenched within the threads that cross the planes of time and space we act as if our actions have no past or future trace. The effects of your decision tug other lives and other strings despite your clouded viewpoint on such universal things.
Spinning out beneath my fingers weaves the web that holds all lives as they endlessly endure frantic leaps and desperate dives and I watch the middle distance lest I look and really see—in the fear just my reflection will be what looks back at me.
Thank you for your attention. This is Le'letha, signing out.