There is a tent surrounded by roads. On a small island of sidewalk in between a traffic circle and its tributaries with its back against a railing above the beginning of a tunnel. Cars and buses and ambulances add ambience; the tent lives in the shadow of the buildings that bridge the ground to the sky.

This tent is not nice. It’s old and cheap and barely big enough for someone to sit up straight and listing to one side. But there are also flowers woven up and down the seams, potted tropical plants on either side. Blooms press against the worn plastic and hide the rips and tears. At the very top of the ‘door’ there is an old street sign that reads ‘Sheep Crossing’ with a little image of a white sheep trotting along pressed onto it.

They say humans are creatures of habit, which is true, but not entirely. Humans are also creatures of beauty. Even when they have virtually nothing, they decorate that nothingness with flowers. 

A guy stands on the edge of the end.

He used to be a television reporter, and he had said "when the end comes, we will be right there with you, in your living rooms, reporting on the end." It had been true. The end had come, with green fire, and grey men all in suits. The world had ended. He stood on the other edge of the end. It was over, and the new world began. 

The guy learns to dance the jitterbug in the new world.

The guy learns to break a window in the new world. 

He learns to get hungry, and find food. He learns how to break things. He learns how to get lonley in a fire-scorched city. 

He learns how to raise a kid.

A guy, a baby, and an empty city. 

Definition of "home": a space encompassing one or more persons, where those persons live, eat, and sleep.

Home? No, that's not home. Home is that terrace where you remember sitting as a child, ice clinking coolly in your lemonade while the fragrance of those little purple flowers mingled with the laughter of your cousin. Home is what calls to the pigeon when she's flying somewhere in the Milky Way and brings her back to her destination. Home is that sunlight, that smell, those sounds; the feeling of belonging. Home is the crickets chirping in the long, bending grasses and flipping through the pages of that falling-apart notebook, remembering old names and places and characters that are all so familiar to you.

It's knowing you've come into your proper place. It's the place you escape to when things are a bit too much. The place where you relax and are yourself without worrying if that's a bad thing to be. The place you carry inside you no matter what, that's a part of who you are that nothing will ever change.

Definition of "home": the place where you belong.

Her head tilted upwards, towards the stars...knowing that they weren't there in the dark night sky. Not even a single cloud strays across the night sky, as if shy of the great and grand black of the night. Even the moon shies away in hiding. Perhaps this was supposed to be an omen...not that she paid attention to it anyways. She had to do it tonight, or else...

She sighed. She couldn't think about that, or else she would never do it. And now, she took a deep breath, and ducked her head into a dark and ominous-looking cave.

The top of her head barely scraped against the cave ceiling, even as she was crouching down, doing her best to breathe quietly and evenly. One wrong move, or one tiny disturbance, and...

"Oh," she breathed. What was once a gloomy and dark room had filled with light. And the source of the light was a small jar filled with tiny little colorful and bright orbs. It was the memories and essences...of every single species that had ever existed and had become extinct. All were contained in this jar.

And it was up to her to decide whether or not to free them.

a bit of Jeeves & Bertie fanfiction :)

It was a fine morning, one of those days when you feel that everything's going billy-oh. I had just come out of the bath, and was tugging on the clothes Jeeves had laid out for me, when in walked my Aunt Agatha.

My aunt Agatha is one of those ladies who belong to the Women's Teetotaling Club, and never seem to do anything but go about getting in other people's way. It is a characteristic of some aunts, what Jeeves would call interference, if that's the word I want. And I was just opening up the old mouth to tremulously greet the draconian relative, and looking for some way to conveniently dive under the bedclothes, when Jeeves himself shimmered in. I waited for him to raise the eyebrow at finding Aunt Agatha there, but his face seemed to be made of stone. He wasn't surprised at all.

"Good morning, your ladyship. Shall I place the tea here, sir?"