March 2026: Chance & Luck

FEELING LUCKY?
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made by the Chief Graphic Designer of the Cake of Life Team

Welcome, or welcome back to the Cake of
Life Magazine!
We share a slice of our stories from our teens
for YOU to read!
Flip a coin and place a bet!
This month’s theme is LUCK or FORTUNE!
Now that’s enough from me, let’s hear from
our talented peers on luck! Enjoy the
wonderful pieces of writing!
“The Sonnet of the Gilded Wheel”
___
Ray
Upon the board where Fortune idly reigns,
Young Ace lets fall the polished bones of chance;
He toasts the dawn, unmindful of its wanes,
While Cyrus keeps his post with measured glance.
For luck is but a whisper dressed as gold,
A fleeting warmth that brushes empty palms;
It crowns the reckless, makes the timid bold,
Then slips away like half-remembered psalms.
Fair Violet threads her charms through twilight air,
A bloom against the hush of creeping night;
Yet Lilith smiles at every offered prayer,
For she has watched hope falter in its flight.
Trust not the coin that sings against the stone—
It spins for none; it claims us all its own.

“The Midnight Gambit”
___
Ray
The air inside the Silver Spades clung heavy, as though the room itself had learned to breathe in
wagers and exhale regret. At the center table sat Ace, a man myth had mistaken for luck. His
fingers traced the rim of a card—not out of nerves, but ritual. Still, tonight, the deck felt
unfamiliar in his hands. Cold. Unwilling.
Across from him, Lilith watched.
She did not fidget. Did not blink more than necessary. Where others believed in chance, she
believed in pressure—in knowing exactly when something would break. Her gaze lingered on the
fine sheen of sweat forming at Ace’s temple.
Between them rested a velvet pouch.
Inside it: the docks. Livelihoods. Futures.
“Fortune favors the bold,” Lilith murmured, her voice smooth as poured wine as she slid the last of
her chips forward. “But she has a habit of abandoning those who need her most.”
In the far corner, Cyrus leaned against the bar, polishing a glass with quiet indifference. He had
seen this scene play out in a thousand variations. Different faces. Same ending. People liked to call
it luck—he preferred accuracy. Consequence, simply delayed.
His eyes met Violet’s.
She stood beneath dim amber light, adjusting the fall of her shawl. Then, without hurry, she
drifted across the room—more suggestion than movement. As she passed Ace, the soft brush of
silk ghosted his chair.
And then—
A single violet flower slipped free.
It landed on the back of his hand.
Small. Weightless. Impossible to ignore.
Ace paused.
Not at his cards—but at the flower. Something about it—its softness, its stillness—cut through the
noise. The tension. The pressure. For a heartbeat, the room released him.
And in that brief, fragile quiet, he mistook calm for certainty.
“I’m all in.”
The words fell heavier than the chips that followed.
Lilith revealed her hand first. A full house. Clean. Certain. Final.
The room stilled.
Ace turned his cards over one at a time.
Four of a kind.
A ripple—sharp and silent—passed through the air.
Lilith did not react. Not truly. But the stem of her glass trembled just enough to betray the
fracture beneath her composure.
Ace exhaled, something between a laugh and disbelief, as he pulled the winnings toward him. His
hands shook—not from fear, but from the strange aftershock of surviving something he didn’t
understand.
He turned, searching.
The singer. The watcher.
Gone.
Cyrus no longer at the bar. Violet no longer in the light.
Only the faint scent of crushed petals lingered in their wake
And the quiet, unsettling truth that some gambles are never won by chance alone.

“Promised Paradise”
___
By Allison W
I stood silent in the barren wasteland, overgrown with vines, covered in ruins. My own parents had sent me
out here, as they normally do. They needed ‘time alone for themselves’, but I knew that they just wanted
me out of the house. And so, when they saw a tattered poster advertising a beautiful utopia just a few hours
away from home, they had already made up their minds. I had listened to the soft rumbling of the bus as I
slumped in the seat, gazing out at the window. I was alone on the bus, but I didn’t mind. It was better this
way. In a world of cruel people, being alone was the best choice for me. When my parents had announced
that I would be ‘going on a vacation’ to a ‘perfect’ city that was famed to be home to the richest people on
the planet, I thought I had hit the jackpot. But as I stood in that ruined city, the promised paradise slipped
away from my fingertips like sand. At least I was alone.
I trekked through the wilted and decrepit city with nothing but my backpack sitting firmly on my shoulder.
As I walked, the feeling of uneasiness loomed over me like a menacing beast. Every slight noise sent a
rush through my body, the feeling of a breeze gliding around me made me flinch. I whipped around every
few seconds to check my surroundings. Scared, and hungry, how was I supposed to survive this? But
through it all, my starving stomach and strange noises, I had seen, and felt hope. The warmth of the sun
that had lazily fluttered over my skin, a single daisy blooming through the cracked bricks. It felt as if the
very gods were cheering me on. But my peace did not last for long, as I knelt down to pick the daisy from
the ground, a snapping of the branches made me lift my head from the tiny flower. I stood up so fast I
stumbled over. It was a monster of flesh, its limbs growing out and twisting in unnatural ways. Its body
was so mauled I couldn’t even make out what it was, the thing left a trail of blood wherever it went, its
teeth snapping, making these awful growling noises. It was coming straight for me, and it was hungry. I
couldn’t run. I couldn't think. Couldn’t even scream. All I could do was watch and stare as the monster
closed in on me slowly. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for a painless death, bracing myself.
The first thing I heard was blurry voices, gradually getting louder. As my hearing sharpened, a piercing
sound rang through my ears. I opened my eyes. I guess the afterlife existed after all. Crowded around me,
the people finally seemed to notice I was awake. They exclaimed excitedly and offered me some water.
“Where-? Who-?” I began to say, but my questions were cut off as they handed me food.
The boy next to me, Thomas, his name was, explained that he was out gathering food when he managed to
see me just in time. I guess I wasn’t dead. For the next few days, I stayed with the people. Surprisingly,
they didn’t kick me out of their home. Quite the opposite, they offered me sufficient food, water, and a joy
that I hadn’t quite experienced before. I prayed to the gods and thanked them everyday for these friends
that I had never had. It felt lucky, to be close to someone and to feel wanted. To go to sleep knowing that I
had people who cared about me, that wouldn’t use me for their own benefit, but were genuinely kind.
Perhaps this was the promised paradise I had hoped for all along.

“Fortuna”
___
Stephanie Yuan
O’ Fortuna,
Bless us with your cornucopia
Overfilled with glistening red apples
Prosperity brimming the rim of its fruitful goodness.
O’ Fortuna,
May Neptune’s ocean wash down upon your capriciousness
For your eyes, wrapped beneath the guise of a soft cloth,
Treat humanity with utter impartiality.
Fortune strikes us with complete unpredictability
As rain pouring its soul down on a sunny day.
Young scholars beg for your mercy
Before their fateful exams.
But your eyes don’t hold bias.
O’ Fortuna,
Sailors place your statue upon their oak ship’s wheel.
You steer, not only the ship’s winding path,
But guides their rudders into unforeseeable destiny.
As their wheel rotates to the sun or to the moon,
You clasp their lives in your gleaming hands.
Your white sheer robes flow with the evening breeze
The wind dares not to fumble with your veiled fairness.
For you stand as our rudder,
And we steer as your vessels.
O’ Fortuna,
We pray for our fortunes.
Navigate us in life’s capriciousness,
Seek for the gentleness outcomes,
We gift you with fresh fruit—
Apples, gleaming under the sun’s reflective rays,
Grapes, plentiful with its lush green juice,
For your cornucopia overflows with our praises!
Bless your impartiality
But favourably steer our rudders.
For you are our Fortune,
You are Luck.

“she, the automata”
_
Saanvi Bishnoi
The catarrh, foggy disease
Cradles me, mist, feverish
Silicone, my skin froze,
Cracking. Strands of plastic
Glued to my scalp like felt, thin and
I stand freezing.
Fog rolls, rolls,
Rolls, quietly. A tsunami, water on
My wires. My heart, a machine,
The gears fail, squeaking, tearing
Lungs and bone, bone, bone. My heart,
With her.
A false substitute, the gears grind,
Failing. Failing. Sputtering, the metal
Shrapnel in my lungs. I breathe
In the disease, black gold spilling,
Flood, over my legs, legs and
Womb. It’s mechanical, sputtering, sputtering.
The gears groan; make it stop.
They tire.
The womb breathes smoke, makes smoke,
Black gold spilling. Treasure pure and greasy,
Old. I gambled it away. The heart
To a player. A gambler. I’m left with failing,
Sputtering, imitations. Tiny ridges,
Squelching blood, vein, black, wires.
She displays it, holds it, passion.
In a display.
I stand, seeping it in, the fog
Invasive. Blunt. The machine crumbles, gears
Failing, falling, into my womb. The womb,
Gambled. Played. It’s wrecked, the machine, the
Disease, the catarrh takes me. The woman with
A heart and
A womb
Of rusted steel, gambles it to a woman who
Is flesh and bone and
Flesh and bone, her plastic hair,
The colour
Of mine wraps her,
Strands thin. The bleeding woman
was a gambler. The bleeding woman
Bleeds oil. Burns with
Gasoline in her veins.
She told herself, in the disease, the catarrh:
You play, you win,
You play, you lose.
You play. It’s the playing that kills her.

“Chance and Luck”
___
Jade
Boom, crackle, pop!
99 missiles. 1 firework. How long will it take to find the one?
BOOM, an explosion!
You died, try again?
BOOM, an explosion!
You died, try again?
BOOM, an explosion!
You died, try again?
Try again?
Try a gain?
A gain?
To gain?
To gain your heart?
Is there really anything to gain?
Why am I doing this again?
BOOM, an explosion!
You died, try again?
BOOM, an explosion?
One of ultraviolet life
Sparks fly, worlds collide
My eyes roll back at the sight
The sea reflects intoxicating lights
It really did take 99 tries
But it was worth it all for this oh - so - sweet surprise
…try again?
BOOM, an explosion!
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
99 tries await me
Now only 95 to go!
I’d like to think I’m good at this now
But I’m no fool
Only a fool for you
You got me wrapped around your finger
As I pull another trigger
Watch the smoke trails linger
BOOM, an explosion!
You died, try again?
It’s probably all in vain
I’m loving the gamble more than the gain
Boom, crackle, pop!
Can you feel my heart drop?
It shouldn’t feel this good
But I don’t think I can stop
You tell me that I need to
But failure gets me off
Your love is moves fast
But mine remains slow
I just want something real
But now you want to go?
Do I even want you to stay?
You’ll never love me -
but my love is enough for the both of us
It was just a one time thing -
and what’s one more time?
You think I’m disgusting -
so do you think about me often?
I’m nothing but scum -
But I’ll willingly be the scum on the ground
Under the sole of your shoe
My jaw pressed on the concrete, your foot shoved in my mouth
Silent or silenced?
I’ve never felt quite this way before
Saliva pools on the cold hard floor
Hard and wet
What a feeling, how lucky I am!
BOOM, an explosion!
You died, try again?
98 more to go
BOOM!
97

March 2026- ‘Chance and Luck’
___
Serein
The Butterfly Effect
We like to believe our lives are shaped by grand decisions: the careers we
choose, the risks we take, and the people we love. Yet often, the most decisive
moments arrive disguised as accidents—a small delay, a chance encounter or
an impulsive choice. The moments that build our identity do not arrive
dramatically, but as accidents. Whatever may appear trivial, in retrospect,
may reveal itself to be the beginning of everything.
The butterfly effect is a faint rhythmic reminder in the universe that even
tiny, forgotten, and frivolous actions can set in motion consequences far
greater than a mind can imagine. It is an unsettling paradox wrapped with an
essence of truth that the smallest events caused by a mere chance or bad luck
can affect our ethics.
We are often taught and structured to view success and failure as the direct
result of discipline and intelligence. To us, such a belief is comforting because
it conserves the illusion that life is fundamentally fair to those who obey it.
Yet, the butterfly effect provokes this logic. A missed opportunity may lead to
a better one, a small slip up in a conversation redirects an entire future. In
this sense, life is not shaped by merits but rather in an unpredictable,
calculating chess game between chance and luck.
Not only does the butterfly effect alter the external structure, but it also
reshapes the inner architecture and pillars of a soul. A chance betrayal may
produce caution where trust once existed. An accidental kindness may restore
faith in humanity. A single failure, arriving at the wrong moment, can harden
someone into ambition or bitterness. Chance does not simply determine what
happens to us; it influences who we become. Our ethics, our habits, and even
our emotional reflexes are often formed not only by conscious principles, but
by the unpredictable experiences that leave their mark on us.
The butterfly effect is just a reminder that life is not governed by big choices
or careful gestures, but by fragile chains of chance which unfold over time.
Though it does not make human efforts meaningless, rather humbler. At the
end, we are not the authors of our destinies; we are shaped by the
imperfections and accidents we never saw coming. And perhaps this is what
makes life most unsettling and profound, that everything begins with
imperfections and accidents too small to notice. This is what makes us
humans.

“Wandering Fortunes”
___
Alena
Chance and luck are strange companions. They stalk through human life, hungry, unannounced,
owing nothing to anyone. They seize without warning and vanish without apology. What it devours
in one breath will never return.
There is something deeply unsettling about this. A quiet fear that the ground beneath effort and care
is rotting. Softly. Invisibly. Long before the foot falls through.
People insist the world obeys reason. Effort should bring reward. Care should prevent disaster. Good
judgment should lead to good outcomes.
These are not just beliefs. They are contracts, quietly struck with a universe that never agreed to the
terms. And so people build on them anyway: careers, relationships, futures assembled piece by piece,
as though the architecture of a life could hold off what is random by being deliberate enough. The
contract feels solid. It feels earned. That is what chance destroys. The hope of fulfillment.
When luck tears through, it does not merely take. It reveals that the taking was always possible, stoic,
that the ground was never as promised, that every careful structure was also, in some parallel truth,
always about to fall.
This is what people cannot bear. Not bad luck. The knowledge that good luck was never anything
more than luck. It lives in anyone who has ever built something and quietly wondered, in the space
between one breath and the next, whether the ground beneath it was ever solid at all.
A coin tossed into the air does not know the hand that throws it. The cards in a deck hold no
sympathy for the person who draws them. Luck drifts from one life to another like smoke that cannot
be held. It answers to nothing. It remembers no one.
This may be the most disturbing truth.
If fortune were cruel by nature, people would hate it. If it were kind, they would court it. But chance
is neither. It is indifferent. It is a void tearing through the world the way a flood moves through a
valley: without grievance, without satisfaction, without any awareness of what it has left submerged.
It does not know your name. It never did.
And yet, people chase it. Not passively, not reluctantly. They lunge for it, with a greed they would
never confess to in daylight. They place money on tables and call it strategy. They make choices that
depend on the universe bending toward them and call it confidence. They know, somewhere beneath
the wanting, that chance owes them nothing, and they reach for it anyway, because wanting has never
required permission, and hope has always been its own kind of con. The hypocrite and the gambler
are the same person: both certain the rule that applies to everyone else will, somehow, not apply to
them. It is the belief lying in all who have ever hoped. Everyone who has ever been afraid of losing
something has already reached for it twice.
Yet luck rarely stays.
It passes through, restless, uncommitted. Choosing no one. Favoring no one. Leaving no explanation
behind. What remains is what was built in the silence between its arrivals: the work done without
guarantee, the people loved without certainty, the choices made in full knowledge that the outcome
was never entirely in hand. These are not consolation prizes. They are the only things that were ever
truly owned. In the long logic of a life, every windfall is borrowed. Every streak ends. What endures is
only what was made by human hands, in full defiance of the fact that it might not matter.
Chance drifts on. Indifferent. Already forgetting.
It is the people who remember. It is the people who return to the table.

I can’t believe my eyes; we’ve had nothing
but AMAZING pieces of writing so far,
but why not feast your eyes upon some art
that could perhaps bring you luck!
This is the art/photography category.
Hope you enjoy!
“Chance and Luck”
___
Cameron West

“The Magician”
___
Michele Pole

“Luck”
___
June

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Also, I know right now that it’s exam season for many, so good luck
on your exams!
Good luck for everything that you will try an accomplish!
Until next time,
The Cake of Life
Magazine
The Cake of Life
Magazine