Give up. You will never be good enough.
How many stories go untold, projects forgotten, or dreams destroyed simply because people listen when they’re told they will never be good enough? This affront sometimes escaping from the lips of a parent, teacher, or even perhaps your own.

Why does it deter you from creating something beautiful?
 
How do you know? How do they know if you’re not given the chance to try? To learn. To grow.
 
Creating is all about trial and error, isn’t it? 
 
‘You’re wrong!’ Jono declared. His paint brush caressing the canvas, each stroke getting louder to block out the coarseness of criticism. ‘You’re telling this now to the kindergartener whose pictures and paintings you hung on the fridge; the primary schooler whose art you gave a gold-star; the high schooler whose photograph you took when he won the art competition. Don’t you realise it starts with the scribbles and it ends with art? If I’d listened, if I’d stopped, I’d never have made it to where I am now.’ 
 
‘But you need to stop Jono. This hobby will never get you anywhere in life.’ Jono’s father huffed. Pressing his fingers to his temples he tried to explain, ‘I was a writer once: a childish dream that I could make a living from it. No matter how hard I tried, or how many hours I spent typing away until my fingers bled, it was never good enough. They hated my work. I hated my work. I burnt out. Unhappy. Embarrassed. I had to quit and get a real job.’
 
‘Writing is a real job! Painting is a real job!’ Jono exhaled, placing his paintbrush down. ‘All creators have their ups-and-downs: wish they could change aspects of their previous works; be noticed more for their efforts. It is routine, even normal. Do we give up at every down?
You know there are pieces in my art gallery I can't even bear to look at. I look back on some of my art that I used to be so proud of only to realise it was shit!
I realise I’m not perfect. That my art is not perfect. I learn from the criticism. I try to understand where I went wrong. I apologise to those I’ve hurt through my work – even if it was unintentional. I apologise for being so harsh on myself.  But I don’t give up! I will never give up even if people tell me I will never be good enough.’

The room fell silent as the father considered his son’s words. Still, he attempted to shift the younger man’s viewpoint. ‘A year's worth of work is only a day's worth of entertainment. You waste hours of your life only for someone to scroll through and nod or walk past and keep going. Your art, while full of meaning is ultimately meaningless.’

​‘That is a view that can be held, though I firmly disagree,’ Jono replied.  He took his painted canvas off the easel and set it aside. ‘When a creator dies their work transcends time itself, resonating with people from all parts of the world regardless of age, class, or background. It may take me years to finish, but they are my years, and my art will exist beyond me.  I understand my art isn’t for everyone – and some may not even know of its existence, but for those who do stop by and take a chance to appreciate it, their lives could be impacted in countless ways, just as my life is impacted through its creation. And that is worth not giving up.’
 Edison Bridges © 2024 

I sat in the dimly lit office, the steady hum of the army base outside even within the quaintest hours of the night a distant reminder of the world at war. These moments I held dear to me. The moments where I could ignore the turmoil of the world and lose myself within the words of letters. Words can dance off the page and show the projection of the heart and mind. It is one of the only things within my own heart that reminds me there is still a world out there. That there is still one waiting for me after all this. That one day, life will not just be the common mantra of deciding whether my enemy sees their family, or letting myself see mine if the jarring sound of bombs and artillery shells ever end.
Handling the piled correspondence within my free time is such a gift to me. Many wonder why I choose to volunteer for such a task when I could distract myself with things that do not correlate with war, but they don’t see what I see. They don’t see the warmth in the words that I feel during the cold nights, they don’t see the sparking hope gleaming off the pages when a wife finds out her husband is safe, and they don’t see the importance of giving that to the world when their daily life is filled with the darkness of death all around them.
Throughout these letters however, one name particularly presents itself the most, especially within the undelivered section. 
Charles Miller.
Much like the bleeding of the ink of these frayed letters, written amongst various hands, his named bled into conversations amongst the base. His name pricked the ears and tongues of almost every soldier I have ever known, particularly due to his now infamous title that has plagued his identity; ‘The Lost One.’ His name is the only one that can send my hands into hesitation. Unlike other soldiers missing in action, neither his body was found nor existence ever confirmed despite his name befalling every person’s ear. Unlike most MIAs, he has more letters written to him, more than any other, all marked ‘URGENT’ yet undelivered letters sent to the squadron. Every letter contained desperate pleas, screaming off the pages and into my chilling curiosity. Every sender squabbling for informational updates and concerns for his wellbeing. 
With every letter, my own curiosity struck. How could a forgotten or maybe even imaginary man fall into the heartstrings of so many letters and stories? It wasn’t until I read further into these letters that my curiosity turned into action. I noticed an unsettling pattern. After the various writers shared an anecdote or two to potentially stimulate remembrance of better times, the stories turned into troubling incidents that suggested something more had occurred within Charlie’s life. Something large. 
“Mr Ellis?” 
The meek voice jump started my mind back into reality. 
“Yes Private?” 
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think it’s best you retire for the afternoon. I’ll take over.”
I stretch within the rickety chair and wearily view my surroundings. The candle I was using to light up the space was on its last legs, weakly flittering through the whispers of the wind before succumbing to the breeze’s strength. 
“I suppose you’re right,” I lazily admitted, standing up and dusting off my hat that hung on the wooden hook on the door. “Don’t stay up too long either. You never know when you’ll be needed.” 
Once I shut the door and trudged down towards the quarters, I pulled out a small notebook I kept within my back pocket and scribbled down my latest findings.
October 26th, 1943
Dolly May (writer 6) describes Charles Miller partaking in troubling conversations about a confidential mission before his disappearance.
October 30th, 1943
Jack Thompson (writer 8) recalls a suspicious figure within Miller’s quarters.

It’s unhealthy. I know that. Jotting down and documenting this stranger’s life that has already been lost to the testament of time and war, but something within me burns to find conclusion. The way these various writers describe him, their pain, needing to know more, makes me hold onto the frayed photo of my family tighter. It reminds me of how they write to me and how so many have written to their loved ones in the hopes of believing they’ll come back to them. It purged my head and etched into my empathy in ways I cannot describe. 
However, now I have finally collected enough information to turn my pondering into conclusion. 
To finally find if the lost can ever truly be recovered. 
End.
Tamika Retallack © 2024