My Story

Meet 'PUCK'

My Bridge

My bridge—the place I’ve always found the most comfort in, my home and sanctuary. Its waters are luscious, its rapids golden. The rocks guide the water as rips through it's vast canyon. Moving as if three winters had melted off the mountains all at once. The wood holding the bridge together is rugged—smooth and soft in places, but beaten down where determined hands gripped it with little care on their way into the woods. The aged planks will dig into your skin if you’re not careful—I would know; my skin still carries the tattered scars it left on me. But this bridge is strong and ancient, older than my time, and I can’t imagine a world where I can no longer cross it—or worse, that the next kid from my town who stumbles upon it next will have no way to cross it.

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I was blessed with full access to the bridge. I admired its intricate engravings and grew calloused from playing on its ancient planks as a child. From cave paintings to amateur graffiti, the bridge is clearly well-traveled. Few from my town ever make it there, and those who do are usually focused on reaching the woods beyond. But this bridge was a rare refuge for me, a place I could add to history and feel seen by the past and the future.

I wonder who knows this bridge as I do—who feels the rich air rush through them when they pause to breathe deeply upon it, or feel its rare sunlight kiss their soul at just the right moment. The beauty of this bridge is that it’s always open. Its river is never guarded—no tolls to pay, no riddles to solve—just a long, grueling hike to reach it and an endless world beyond.

The hike tears at your heels, leaving blisters, and if you slip, it will scrape your skin with gravel that embeds itself underneath. It takes grit and determination to find the bridge, especially because the base offers calm places to stay and easier paths to follow. If you’re not careful, you’ll get trapped in the mountain’s mud, clinging to you like the smell of track marks in a Nevada gas station gambler’s drawers. Most stumble upon the bridge and skip over it, drawn to the allure of the woods beyond. But I found it to be my refuge.

If you can reach the bridge—mud, blisters, and bruises in tow—you can cross into a vast forest of valleys and peaks. There, people will house you, feed you, and help you navigate your journey. The trails are well-trodden, blazed for centuries, and stretch endlessly into the wilderness.

Living just a short hike from the bridge, it became an essential part of my exploration. As a child, I was warned never to go beyond the bridge and to return before nightfall, lest I risk being mauled by bears. But I was stubborn and ventured into the woods anyway. Eventually, my parents gave up trying to stop me. They let me explore the woods, and I began to see the bridge for what it truly was: my gateway to the world beyond.

As I grew distant from this bridge of my youth, I found myself deep in the woods, lost and confused. 
 

Their Bridge

Wandering for days, I felt the world around me change. The trees withered and dried, their brittle forms breaking under the weight of time. The familiar dirt beneath my feet turned into cold, unyielding sidewalk. The air grew heavy with the acrid smells of burning tires, smoldering wood, and suffocating smog—pungent and overwhelming. Gray and black smoke choked the atmosphere, harsh and unrelenting. Each breath I took was painful, and no souls appeared to help guide me home.

Eventually, the smoke softened into a dense smog. In the distance, the roar of thousands of cars filled the air, their rapid pace echoing through the haze. Murky air enveloped me, but through it, I realized I had reached a new bridge. A bridge I had never crossed before—endless, barren, and unfamiliar.

A wide road stretched down the bridge’s center, though cars rarely passed. When they did, they roared by like avalanches at supercar speed, their winds slamming into me with the crushing force of cascading snow. They never failed to blast a gut-wrenching smell deep into my lungs and leave a pitiful smudge I couldn’t remove from my skin.

The bridge had no clear beginning or end—only an endless stretch of gray and grime. Fear gripped me as the thought of never returning to my own bridge overwhelmed my mind. The intricate carvings I once cherished faded from memory, and the warm air I had once breathed with no thought was completely gone.

The new bridge was cold and lifeless, built of unyielding concrete. Below, black sludge barreled through the riverbed, its current eerily smooth, meeting no resistance. Along the edges, faint traces of artwork peeked through gray splotches, as if buried alive by something horrible.

Looking both ways, I saw nothing but an endless expanse of gray stretching into the haze. The emptiness pressed against me, urging me forward.

As I walked, the bridge seemed to stretch forever. The people I passed wore black from head to toe—hoodies, pants, shoes, and caps—fading into the dull landscape. Now and then, one of them pulled out a spray can or marker, streaking bursts of vibrant color across the endless gray.

One day, I saw a figure painting in the distance. As I approached cautiously, I noticed he seemed friendly but timid. His vibrant, electric work pulsed with life, defying the dull, lifeless concrete. He told me he’d been on this bridge his whole life and had never seen the end. Before I could ask more, he vanished into the fog, leaving his work complete and breathtaking.

Them

Sirens shattered the silence. Two massive black trucks sped toward me from both ends of the bridge, their deafening wails reverberating off the concrete. They screeched to a halt, their doors whipping open as blinding lights seared into my retinas and screaming sirens pierced my eardrums like the screech of hell.

Out of the cars jumped four militaristic men, clad in black uniforms, dark sunglasses, and shiny black badges gleaming over their hearts. Simply serious officers with no emotion. Each of them moved with rigid precision, dressed and postured as if I was about to light them on fire.

“Did you do this?” one of them barked, his cold stare drilling into me.

I froze. “No, I didn’t.”

Another then inspected the artwork while the others fixed their unyielding gaze on me. “Put your hands up!” one of them commanded as I reached for God to give me hope. The officer, doing nothing else, screamed, “Freeze!” at me, his tone searing with rage.

Confused and trembling, I raised my hands halfway, unsure which command to follow. The first officer’s voice cracked with impatience as he screamed again, louder this time: “I said freeze!”

Before I could comply, he ripped his gun from his holster and aimed it at my face, the barrel glaring at me was the unblinking eye of a demon, I had never seen so close. My pulse hammered as I raised my hands, reaching for God, my body rigid and exposed, choking back tears of fear.

The man near the art pulled out an industrial spray can and obliterated the piece in a single motion. The vibrant colors streaked down like the tears of one of the many souls I have shared love with. The stench of aerosol was thick and suffocating, like that of death. It struck me like a physical blow—pain coursing through my veins as though my sternum had just shattered.

Tears welled in my eyes as the officer continued to point his gun at me, his voice sharp but trembling as he repeated, “Freeze!”

Once the desecration was complete, the officer lowered his weapon slightly and scratched his head with the tip of the barrel. Holstering the gun with a smirk, he turned sharply and marched back to his car in step with his colleagues. They moved like machines on a program.

I fell to my knees, my head in my hands, tears like rapids through my grimy hands. The air grew darker, the stench of death saturating my senses. Every fiber of my being told me to crumble, to give in to the void and leap off the bridge.

… then …

From the fog, a figure emerged.

The Rider

The air behind him spun like a blue tornado, alive with energy. He rode a BMX, his presence glowing like a Pacific sunset. His bike gleamed, its endless spokes shimmering like the golden waters of my childhood bridge.

He stopped, leaned down, and spoke quickly and quietly: “I love you. I’m glad you’re here. Your people are praying for you. Get to me.”

He pulled out a red marker, etched something into the railing, then burned out his tire before speeding off, leaving a trail of red smoke in his wake. The mark shimmered with a strange vitality, holding a secret I wasn’t yet ready to understand.

Etched into the railing were the words:

‘Use your heart, not your eyes. Free your mind, and your ass will follow.’

In the distance, a pulsing red light glowed through the fog, its rhythm fast and relentless. It wasn’t just music—it was a heartbeat.

I turned toward the mob behind me, their shadows growing larger, their voices sharp and venomous. They moved as one, driven by fury. The air around them turned a sickly blue-gray, stinging my lungs with every breath.

The red light ahead pulsed brighter, its rhythm syncing with my own heartbeat. Each beat pounded in my chest like an engine roaring to life.

Without hesitation, I turned and ran toward the biker who was long gone, driven by the strongest urge I’d ever felt to get back to my bridge.

The mob’s yelling grew louder behind me, their footsteps pounding against the concrete in chaotic rhythm. But the beat ahead pulled me forward. Each step felt lighter, each breath deeper, and every pounding beat surged through me with relentless force.

The fog thinned with every stride, and the red light grew brighter, promising something I couldn’t yet see but knew I had to reach.

I don’t know if I’ll see that man on the BMX again, but something deep inside tells me I will—sooner than I may realize…