Candle, Burn Bright

Candle, Burn Bright

Day #7 of the Reckoning

(You can read the last story of The Reckoning here: https://ohmynatis.wordpress.com/2017/08/05/the-river/)

In the darkness and chaos of my mind, the first thing I heard was the soft clopping of hooves on ground. I didn’t understand who I was or where I was or even why I was. I opened my groggy eyes to find a piercing pair of black points boring into me.

“Gah!” I screamed, scrambling back against what felt like tarp. The eyes followed me, calm, unblinking. They were set into the face of a man with brown skin and a bored demeanor. The man was sitting on his haunches and staring at me.

“Pulled you out from the mouth of that river just in the nicka time, I reckon.” He drawled, without preamble. “Clinging on to a broken branch, you were. Real tragic story waiting ta happen.”

I struggled to remember any of this, but pulled a blank. The man did not notice or care, and continued.

“Well, we heading to the capital. Sure you can find somethin’ or someone there to fix ya up.”

A fierce burning desire sprang up inside me. The capital. That was where I needed to be. I did not understand why or what the urgency was, but it did not matter. It was the one burning conviction I had within me, and I would follow through with it. Of course, I had no idea that I was a person of any significance or importance, but something inside me was convinced that I was important, that I was of value.

So, as people of importance are wont to do, I screamed in impatience, “Why is this blasted thing moving so slowly?”
The horse whinnied and stopped. Slowly another man, as glassy-eyed as the first, showed up at the entrance to the cart.

“Now…what’s all this hollerin’ about?” He drawled. Just as I was about to speak, he continued, apparently not done. “You spookin’…Desiree.”

“Why does this entire scene seem built to inspire frustration and disdain??” I yelled as I got out of the cart. “I need to get to the capital, now!”

The two brothers (I assumed they were brothers, because if people like that were actually spread out amongst the gene pool, then there was no hope for humanity) looked at each other and laughed.

“Look at this fool, actin’ like he gonna change the world if he gets to the capital.” One of them said.

Before the other could respond, I screamed, “Oh my good bleeding Natis! The world may change, it may not. I will change, and for once, I will consider that to be of importance.”

I ran to the front of the cart and untied the rope binding it to the horse by the time they had ambled there.

“I’ll send someone for you,” I called, as I climbed onto the horse. They just stared at me, their eyes only slightly wider than usual. “Probably.” I added, as I rode off.

The two brothers stared at my retreating figure before turning to each other.

One of them muttered, “Proooofound wasn’t it?”
The other just stared for a beat (which for them meant a minute) and said, “I’m fucking your husband.”

Now that that was wrapped up to a satisfactory and sufficiently ambiguous ending, I focused my thoughts on the road ahead. My dashing escape hadn’t been the most elegant solution, or the prettiest. But the time for ruminations and navel-gazing and intense characterization was past. I was truly in the Great Game now, sacrificing subtlety for efficiency. My viewers had probably doubled, from two to four.

Well, now that that weird bout of barbed commentary was over, back to the narrative. I was galloping hard on Desiree, navigating on instinct. My mind was consumed by a burning candle, which illuminated every corner of my mind. Something was growing, blooming.

The world was a blur as I raced alongside the river, its roar matching the beat of my own heart.  When I finally reached the point where I had to ford the river, I did not know how much time had passed. I jumped down from Desiree to cross the river. As my feet touched the water, I felt a surge of energy and power.

The river flooded me with memories, of the life that I had lived, of whom I was, of whom I am. My eyes blink, and right in front of me is me.

Finally figured it out, huh?
Didn’t I always know?

Silly, silly Ari. Always fighting, always struggling. Always believing that you are magical, mystical forced destined to heal the world. Fighting friends all over, pretending that somehow changing them will change you.

Nothing’s said. Where is the motherfucking point?

You forgot that I can see your thoughts.

I didn’t.

Oh, so you also know that I am your thoughts? This brave, amazing façade that you have is only because of me! Without me you would be nothing! Another insignificant ant, scurrying worthlessly around like the rest. Your fight with me is what defines you, but you forget what I am.

We are closer now, the blade is out and Ari has pointed it at Ari’s heart.

Bitch, I am your Reckoning.

The blade is at my heart.

I step out of the river, out of my own arrogance and grandiosity, out of the enduring notion of immortality and onto the fragility of life and spirit.

I fall on my sword.

It pierced my heart and went through me as I embraced myself.

“Yes, you are.”

The sword’s in my hand as I look back to where I stood. Throwing the sword into the air, I step back into the river.

All this while, the horse has been staring at me in what I could only assume to be a baffled expression. It whinnied as if to say, “Mannn, do I hate my masters. All of them are fucking trippin’ and none of them share.”

Smiling, I got back on Desiree, took a deep breath and off we rode, light as the wind or those who have had a series of life-affirming epiphanies. We rode into town, hard through the cobbled streets, passing startled pedestrians and, like any good action chase, upturning fruit carts.

Close to the castle, I saw a familiar crested tunic swaggering towards me. I spurred my Desiree on, promising her the good shit if she followed through. Incentivised, she rode faster, and resisted the temptation to turn away as we ran straight into Barnacle and tramped him underfoot. This seems like a perfect end to his narrative, one that he asked repeatedly to be excluded from, and which he was not supposed to be part of in the first place.

I disembarked from Desiree right outside the castle, kissed her man, and ran right past the guards before they were able to comprehend my presence. (Pretty shitty guarding, if you ask me.)

I burst into the Grand Hall, dripping wet and ready for action (Just like she was).

I straightened my back and tried to walk grandly down the hall. Courtiers whispered greedily and the dandies exclaimed in sharp, salacious refrains.

The King watched me amusedly from his throne.

“They told me that you had run away or died,” he observed.

“Reports of my death have been-” I began.

“Yes, yes. Nobody likes a cliché, even before it has been coined. Now, I assume you have something new ready for us.”
“I do.” I said.

“Even though you seem to have nothing on your sopping wet person,” he observed drily.

“I have it memorized, Your Grace! I will narrate to the court, shall it please-”

“Yes, alright! Enough with the pleasantries. Get on with it. After all,” he continued, turning and talking straight to a point above everyone’s heads in a jaunty and dramatic voice, “This is the moment all of us have been waiting for!”

Unfazed, I nodded and began.

 

In a dark room in the loneliest place in the world, there burns a single candle.

 That candle is the sole thing that keeps most people alive in that darkness. It is their only source of light, their only source of hope in a crushing loneliness. It is the idea that there still remains a way not to succumb. There still remains a way to survive.

 But while that candle burns bright for a while on its own, there will come a time that it will need you to sustain it. You will need to bleed for it.

 You will cut away at your skin, you will cut out your flesh, you will pour out your soul into this candle. You will give it everything you have because that candle is the only thing you have.

 There will come a day when you will have nothing left to give. The light will be sputtering; you will not survive in the total darkness.

 You are ready to die.

 You will not die.        

 You will try the door again, a desperate move that you didn’t think would ever work, and you find that it is unlocked. It can open. You can escape.

 The very idea of this gives you hope again, your body and soul is partly restored. You get up to possibly leave this darkness.

 You hesitate.

 With this new renewal, you can sustain the candle for some more time. It would mean that you had to stay in darkness, but it would be safe. This has sustained you before, and can again. You don’t need to venture into potentially dangerous territory and leave this last bit of light behind forever.

 You hesitate a little while more.

 You leave the room.

 You are thrust into a world that is confusing and chaotic. It has so much more darkness, so much more anger and hate, but that’s not all. It had light and hope and love. It had, for the first time in your life, a choice.

 You search through and try to make sense of this world, of your own life. After a long, long struggle and bouts of hopelessness and despair, you finally heal. You find a little bit of peace.

 But it isn’t enough for you.

 You want that candlelight.

 It was the light that sustained you all along. It was what you defined yourself by. It was what you are, what you have become. It has burned itself onto your mind, and you want it back. You want just that light back.

  So everywhere you go, everything you do, you are comparing it to that candle. You try and replace it, you try and replicate it, but nothing works. It is never the same.

 This makes you angry. This makes you upset. You lash out at the world, nothing satisfies you, nothing makes you happy anymore, and you chase the idea of this one thing that you lost, this one thing that continues to elude you.

 The burning bright yellow flame of the candle in your mind turns dark.

 You decide that there is only one way to get that light back. You need to go back to that dark room.

 So you go deep within yourself and find that place. It has no windows, and the door seems unlocked. You push the door open, bracing yourself.

 There is no candle in the room.

 There is also no darkness.

 Spread across the room, bathed in natural light, are the mementos of your life, memories and things that mark important occasions, important moments of growth. You are confused for a moment before you understand.

 It can never be the same.

 And that’s okay.

 The darkness that prompted the necessity of that candle was gone, and so that light was gone. It wasn’t needed any more. The price for getting out of bad places is that we often have to give up the good things those places afforded us solace in. If even damnation was poisoned with rainbows, sometimes we might need to turn away from those rainbows to escape damnation.

 That did not mean the rainbows were gone.

 I looked around the room of my heart, smiled, and walked away, leaving the door open. I brought up the image of the sputtering candle in my mind, the candle that I had spent so much time and energy sustaining long after the darkness, and I let it die.

 I was not weakened by it. I was not hurt or upset. Instead, as time passed, I felt stronger; I felt a rush of energy and hope every day. I did not understand this until one day someone said to me,

 “I love what a bright and loving person you are!”

 I was the candle in the darkness.

 I was light.

 I sustained myself.

 

I stopped and closed my eyes. It didn’t matter what happened next. I was okay.

Footsteps echoed around the room and hands encircled me.

I was drawn into the hug as the room burst into applause.

The King stepped back, a slight smile.

“That is the only time I am permitted to give a royal embrace,” he said.

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Well,” he announced, “I think it’s safe to say that you’ve been Reckoned with!”

The room cheered and burst into louder applause.

“Although,” he said, leaning in and whispering, “You can do better.”
I smiled, finally finding my voice.

“The day I can’t do better is the day I have died.”

War of the Words

The Reckoning Day #5

You can read the previous story here: https://ohmynatis.wordpress.com/2017/07/21/love-thy-fellow-poet/

Whiteness.
Blank white nothingness lay in front of me and around me. I was alone, as always.

I wouldn’t be for long.

The whiteness in front of me gained texture, like the whorls and bumps of a carpet. I bent and ran my hands over it, feeling the papery skin of this place. I was filled with a sense of power and responsibility. The world was mine to create. It was mine to destroy.

I took up my weapon, with a long, feather-grip handle and a pointed tip. I wielded it like a sword, ready to paint the ground black.

I was ready to take up the mantle that I had cast aside. I was ready to find what I had so foolishly lost. I was ready to embrace my destiny.

I was ready to write.

But about what?

At this thought a hazy, unformed shape materialised in front of me. A cold wind blew across the field, whispering the same thought to me, “About what? About what? About what?”

I was paralysed for a second before I swept into action, waving the dark blobs away with the point of my sword. They scattered but did not dissipate.

They did not matter to me. I would write despite them. I would write about eternity, I would write about the endless struggle of humanity against the tide of time and death. I would pull together all the broken threads of my soul and weave them together into a beautiful tapestry.

The blobs came together once more and a voice whispered, With that unsteady hand and mind, you’re more likely to stab yourself. Not that you haven’t done that before!

A younger version of me sprang into existence on the field, putting the edge of a knife into his skin. No, no, I muttered as I swiped my sword across the image. It hit the image the same place that the knife hit the skin.

I winced as the image disappeared, and my discomfort seemed to fill the air. The blobs started to take form. I ignored it. I needed to write. I needed to write to be free of the distractions and despair filling my mind. I could not focus on everything that was holding me back. The future lay ahead, free of these.

I would write about that future. I was that future. I would only be that future.

I turned my back on the dark blob and I started making shapes in the air with my sword. Wherever my sword went, the air was rent open to reveal shining, shimmering lights beneath. Slowly these lights transformed, they began to change the very fabric of reality itself. A mountain arose from the sky and touched the ground. A bloody knife plunged into the ground and from there sprung a beautiful tree. I was on top of the beautiful tree, looking down at a bed of flowers. I was in the sky, gazing down from among the stars.

How pretty. How untrue.

The blobs, in a vaguely humanoid mass, formed in front of me. They began to take on a shape, and as they did, everything I had created began to tremble.

Did you really believe that you could so easily get rid of me?

Everything was shattered. The mountain fell to the ground and crumbled. The flowers wilted and grew rotten till they stank of death. The tree below me aged and collapsed under my weight. We both fell until I was lying face down in a sea of destruction.

I flipped over to find the point a quillsword at my throat. The monster once again stood above me, a maniacal gleam in their eyes that looked like mine, in a smile that seemed too much like mine.

Hello, Ari. Ari here.

I’m not you! I swung my quillsword and pushed theirs away. I jumped to my feet, slipping on the ruins below me. They let out a long, low, animalistic laugh. Why won’t you leave me alone, you horrid thing. I readied my quillsword. Why won’t you simply let me be?
They chuckled. But what is a bee without its honey? What is a world without its sky? What is a story without its Ari?

 I screamed and swung at them. They parried easily. The dance was on.

We circled at each other, me swinging hard, them dodging easily. They managed to reach me much easier, managed to strike at me much easier. Soon I was cut, and the drops of my blood were absorbed into the ground. Where they fell, a sapling or grass grew from the ground. I didn’t have time to examine them, because the other Ari attacked relentlessly. Using a burst of energy, I swiped hard at them. They managed to avoid most of it, but the attack grazed them. Drops of black blood fell on the ground and sizzled. From the blood, a voice hissed, We are figments of imagination within figments of imagination within a large figment of imagination, and that author is only creating us because he cannot imagine anything else.

 I stared confusedly at the place where the voices came, and raised my head just in time to see the butt of monster Ari’s quillsword slamming into my head.

My perspective shifted. I was high above the field, watching myself face off against the monster. We fought hard, but I was clearly outmatched. I was going to lose. I was going to never be able to write again. The Aris blurred together and I soon couldn’t figure out who was who, who I was.

No. I knew who I was. I may have to die, but I could choose with how much dignity I would.

I closed my eyes and let darkness engulf me. I felt all of the monster’s blows striking against me; I could feel all of my blood flooding the ground. All the negativity, all the darkness, attacked me.

I let it.

It couldn’t change who I was.

The blows stopped. I opened my eyes.

I was surrounded by lush greenery all around me. Trees, flowers and grass spread as far as I could see. I was cradled in a tall tree, the bark cut out in the shape of my resting body. The monster was nowhere to be seen.

I was calm. The chaos raging inside me was gone for now. But when I looked down at myself I saw that there was nothing inside me at all. I was a formless husk, drained of blood and bare of bone. I had no energy left to write.

 

 

The story should end here. But very rarely do things end the way you want them to, the way they’re supposed to. A loud sound reverberated across my world, and back in my study, I lifted my dripping quill from the empty parchment page. I turned around in time to see Barnacle barging into my study.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I shouted angrily. “You were supposed to be a one-off joke character, and now you’re in every story!”

Barnacle sneered. “I’m certainly not going to miss you saying shit like that.”

He waved his hand and three of his guardsmen entered my study, including…Abd-Al. Abd-Al sneered with the rest of them, but he avoided my eye.

“I’ve decided that I’m sick of you,” Barnacle was saying. “You’ve disrespected me one too many times. So I’m not waiting for you to come up with some horseshit that the King will lap up.” He glanced over my shoulder at the blank parchment. “Not that I have much to worry about on that account.”

I stood up, ready to defend myself, but he just laughed. “Do you really think that you’ll be able to fight me, little Ari, let alone all of us?”

I looked around and knew it was hopeless. There was no way out.

“Now I would have just cut your throat and been done with it, but it was pointed out to me,” He made a face, “That it would be too much trouble to dispose of the body, and leaving it here would make too much noise. And I never want you to found, so the world can think you ran away like the coward you are. So we came up with a simpler solution.”

At his indication, one of the guardsman held out a large burlap sack. Before I could do anything, Barnacle hit my head with his mailed hand. I collapsed against the wall, groggy, and they surrounded me. I could feel someone tying my hands and feet. I was shoved into the burlap sack and hoisted up.

I tried to struggle, but every time I did I was hit on the head once more. I stopped trying to struggle, and after what seemed like an eternity, I heard a soft gurgling. It grew louder and I knew what was coming. I knew where we were.

When the gurgling was a roar, a voice near my head whispered, “Goodbye, Ari. This is the end of your Reckoning.”
With that, metaphor was made manifest and I plunged into the river.

 

 

Love Thy Fellow Poet

The Reckoning Day #4

You can read the previous story here: https://ohmynatis.wordpress.com/2017/04/22/back-to-the-forest/

I stared into the dregs of the ale. It seemed like I had been staring at it immobile for months, doing nothing, saying nothing. But I snapped out of it and jerked my head up. It was time to listen.

She walked onto stage and everyone went silent. She was the only person in the town who could command such respect with her mere presence. She did not require any parchment to hold while she spoke, she did not require any prompts. She just opened her mouth and let the words flow.

Her voice was soothing and calm, but full of passion brimming below the surface. The words tumbled into one other, like lovers falling into each others’ arms. Like honey they poured into our ears and left the insides of our brains feeling sweet and warm. Everyone was mesmerized by her, unable to take their eyes off the beauty she radiated.

I hated her.

She was such an extraordinary human, resilient and graceful. She commanded, even demanded attention so effortlessly. I admired her. And I hated her.

Or do you want to be her?

 Oh, look, it’s the sarcastic twit in my head, stating the obvious once more.

Better a sarcastic twit than a mopey pity-fest.

That’s…actually a fair point.

And yet, so incapable of doing anything about your pathetic life. Right and right again. Let’s drink to that. I called for another ale and drank deep. I watched the enchantress perform on stage and I drank deep from that well of hatred. I watched every other poet stand up, lesser than her, lesser than me, stand up and read out their beautiful inscrutable horrendous verse.

Ooo, that’s it, isn’t it, you bothersome bitch? They’re lesser than you.

You know what? Yes, that is true. They are lesser than me. I’ve gone through so much. I’ve seen the world end in front of my eyes, I’ve seen everything burn to ashes in the crevices of my mind, and had to rebuild it with my bare hands every time just so that I could see it crumble and fall once more. The cycle never ends, the world is distorted and unstable, and these people, these fucking people, they’re always going about their life as if nothing happens. They get the adulation, they get the accolades, they get every bit of praise and love that I deserve, that I want. Oh, good God, I want it so much.

I waited for the sardonic remark, the scathing cut down, but it never came. I guess I had gone so low even my shitty sidekick didn’t need a quip to bring me down. What a prize I was.

I emptied out the remaining ale, slobbering all over my chin and tunic. I looked like how I felt. Why couldn’t I stop talking like this why couldn’t I stop thinking these thoughts why had the alcohol loosened my tongue and my thoughts why had I come to this place why was I so full of hate hate hate

A man came on to the stage, another pretender, another charlatan. His words were not beautiful, his words were not kind. His words were malicious, cutting. He made fun of all those who came before, he threw insults at every downtrodden community. People may have been entranced before, they may have been fascinated before; but this was what they truly resonated with. They wanted to feel this visceral hate and senseless rage because it was easier. They related to this on a purely surface, superficial level, a level on which they didn’t have to empathise or hope or actually grow like human fucking beings.

And that was the difference, wasn’t it? Between me and these pretentious preening prattlers. My words had meaning, my words had the ability to impact real change. I had honed my craft for years, practiced and practiced until it was perfect, and here came some pleb with a quill who thought they could say whatever came to their mind and bask in the applause. Because, really, that’s all that mattered.

I didn’t matter.

I was about to stand up, to rage at these false prophets of song, when a fresh mug of ale was tentatively lowered onto the table in front of me. I looked up to see a guardsman lower himself into the seat next to me.

“Greetings, Ari,” he muttered hesitantly.

It took me a moment to recognise him through the haze of alcohol. It was Abd-Al, a guardsman under Barnacle’s command. I stiffened, ready for a fight, raring to launch into something that would probably leave me bruised and battered.

“What’d you want?” I snarled.

Startled, he stared at me for a few seconds before he lowered his eyes and said, “Oh, not to worry, I am not here in any official capacity. I am not here in any capacity, really. I’m…” His voice trailed off.

I understood. I was familiar with the look that he had on his face.

“You want to perform but you’re afraid,” I said simply, the surprise cutting through the fog.

He nodded, a reluctant confession to a sordid crime.

“Don’t expect that from one of Barnacle’s lot, do ya?” He murmured.

“Well, your valiant leader does dabble himself,” I sniped.

He grimaced. “Please, I’m not like that.” He said, his voice stronger and full of disdain. “My work is…” His voice trailed off.

“..Important.” I completed, my voice quiet.

He nodded. Then he shook his head. “No, that’s just something I say. ‘Tis not true. Never has been.”

I pulled the ale towards me and sipped slowly, contemplatively. “Why would you say it is not important?”

“Because…” he said, struggling to understand the words before he waved his hand helplessly. “Because it is nowhere as near as good as this verse here. It never will be”

“Well, if you never try, if you never practice, how can it ever be?”

“Aye, but…look at their…sentences…look at their words. How can I ever match up?”

“Pretty on the outside doesn’t mean hollow on the inside.”

“But people don’t look at anything other than pretty. They just act like it doesn’t matter, like it’s inferior.”

“Do you think it’s inferior?”

“I…” He stopped talking and stared into his ale mug. The internal conflict was laid bare on his pockmarked face. “I…don’t know.”

I didn’t say anything, simply waited for him to continue.

Uncomfortably, and with no small measure of shame, he continued. “Just…just look at them. And listen to them speak. And then look and listen to me. Why, just why would anybody want to listen to me or what I have to say?”

Gently, I asked, “Yes, but don’t the words you say matter?”

“But who cares?” He exclaimed, drawing attention from nearby patrons, “All I write about is what I think and feel. I want to touch people, I want them to feel what I feel, but why would they? What’s so special about what I think? Why would it matter?”

For a moment, I was quiet.

“You’re not special,” I muttered. His head shot up, eyes full of shock and sorrow.

“That’s why you matter.” I said, my voice stronger now.

Before he could react, I continued.

“The thoughts you think, the feelings you feel, all of those feelings are not only yours. They are feelings that have probably been felt in some way or form by everyone in this room, by everyone who has ever occupied this room. No matter how tired or scared or worried you are, the words you speak might reach and help someone, anyone. It may not seem like you you are worth much, but the moment you show to the world that you are aware of your worth, that you are aware of the love you possess and give, you will give so many people hope who do not believe that they do not have love. As long as your intentions are pure, as long as you try your hardest to be honest, you will succeed. It doesn’t matter if people don’t feel like they’re listening to you now, or they will anytime soon; but eventually they will. If you try hard enough, and work true enough, your work will reach the people it’s supposed to, even if it’s not exactly the ones you want.”

He was quiet. He watched someone perform, and didn’t say anything for a while. When he had both finished our ale, he said, “That all sounds very nice and all. But, but how do I do that? How do I just show who I am? What if they mock me? What if they use it to hurt me?”

“Can they mock you for breathing? Can they mock you for walking? How could they mock you and make sense if you truly believe what you are saying is natural and beautiful?”

More quiet. “How? I agree, and I want to, but…how?”

“Poetry…life…is a river. We keep trying to determine the flow of the current, trying to pretend like we know where the river can go. We swim upstream, we try to stay afloat, we try to act like we’re in control. But we’re not. We can’t control the river, we need to be the river. We need to be able to become the flow of the poem, the sound of the water. We need to be every grain of silt on the shore, and all of the water along its length. We need to be able to feel without compunction, to breathe without regret. We don’t need to simply write poetry, our lives need to be poetry.”

He absorbed it all, and he stood up next to perform.

When he did, there was a smattering of applause. Nobody really paid attention.

I thought he was beautiful.

 

 

Back to the Forest

Read the previous story here: https://ohmynatis.wordpress.com/2017/04/15/fever-dream/

The Reckoning Day #3

I soaked in the sunlight, feeling its familiar warmth all across my body, a warmth that was quite different from the searing pain that I had been in for so many hours past. Now, after food, washing, and some movement, I felt human again. Well, as human as I ever felt.

What the fuck are you always talking about?

I froze in the middle of a deserted street. What was I talking about? What was I doing?
Where are you going with this? Who are you talking to constantly with that funny little questioning voice over and over?

I…

Who are you narrating to?
This is just…this is just the way people think. This is just the way-

No, no. Nobody narrates their life as they’re living it! Oh! Could it be?
 I shook my head. I wasn’t going this path again, no.

Aw, poor little Ari.

I started walking quickly away from town. I had an idea of what was coming, and I couldn’t face it, I couldn’t do it anymore.

Haha! This is exciting, isn’t it?
I started to run, run, run faster and faster, trying to outrun my thoughts, trying to outrun what I didn’t want to hear, what I don’t want to go through again.

Run, run, run! Go faster!

 I ran into the woods near the town, and I began to run down the rough path there.

Oh, look out for that branch there!

 Frantic, I looked up only to trip and go sprawling headfirst to the ground. I groaned in pain.

You know what they say, you can run but- well, I guess you can’t run either!

Shut up, shut up, shut up!
I’m a voice in your head, aren’t I? So I guess you need to shut up.

 No, I’m just going to ignore it. I got-

–Can you really ignore something that you’re actively acknowledging to say you’ll ignore it?

I got to my feet, goddamnit. I’m fine. I’m fine.

The only people who have to tell themselves that over and over are people, who are, gasp, not fine!
I’m fucking fine and I’m fucking walking deeper into this forest. Oh Natis, this forest, it has so many memories, so m-

And what fine memories! Of your greatest work in fact.

No, I don’t want to think about that right now. No.

Whaaaat? Could you possibly be ashamed?
NO! Don’t you fucking dare say I’m ashamed of it!

Hey. I’m just saying what you refuse to say.

 STOP! I almost sobbed. All this while I had been stumbling around, voices echoing back and forth in my mind-

Hey, back to my original question: Who are you providing all this context for? Who’s here besides me?
I ignored the voice and looked around to see where I was. When I did, I forgot to breathe. I was in the clearing where I had written most of my last work, where I had spent endless days and nights poring my heart and soul onto the page.

That’s beautiful. How did that work out for you, by the way?
No. No.

Did the, ah, stories you told get much attention?

 Shut up. I practically sobbed as I slid down my favourite tree, knowing what would come next, bracing myself for it.

Because that’s it, isn’t it?

…

Ohhh, no more begging? I was enjoying it.

Get on with it.

Welllll, if you ask so nicely.

…

You know, if you aren’t going to say anything, then this becomes rather strange. So why don’t I take over your meaningless narration? You know, so your imaginary listener doesn’t feel left out.

 

I don’t care.

Good to know! I jumped up, stretching my limbs out. Hey, everybody, I’m Ari now! So let’s do it, huh? Let’s tell you all the big secret Ari, oh, ahem; I have been unwilling to tell you! I’m so excited! What about you, voice in head?

I don’t care.

I threw up my hands and whooped. Freedom was good.

Ah, yes. Our story. Well, our story is actually a story about stories. I guess you could say…the story of the story is the story. I giggled. Then I turned to the tree I had been leaning against and stroked the bark lovingly. This tree had seen me through so much, oh my. It had watched me while I had destroyed myself for something so truly beautiful that even I had loved it…but no else cared about.

Some people do care.

Oh, yes. Some people do. You can count those people on the fingers of one hand, can’t you?

…

And there is! The true problem. The reason you “can’t” write. Poor little Ari is feeling ignored.

It’s not that.

Oh, yes, yes. Let’s now talk about your illness and your loneliness. All its life, poor little Ari just wanted to be heard. All it wanted was to be loved, to have people listen. To not feel, sorry, I’m tearing up here; to not feel so alone. I mean, is that too much to ask?
No.

Of course it is! The world owes you nothing, you dumb piece of shit. You’re alone, and we’re alone, and none of us are really there for anybody else.

I refuse to believe that.

Oh, of course. If you believe that, what point is your worthless life, right?
What point is anyone’s life?

 Oh, there’s plenty! As long as there’s a drink to be had, as long as there’s somebody left unconquered by my lust, as long as there’s poor willing saps to be swindled out of their money with garbage that’s easily produced, there’s plenty left in life!
You disgust me.

 Then why don’t you do something about it? Oh, that’s right, you can’t. Because what will you do when no one’s listening? I could scream right now and no one would hear. If a storyteller stands in the middle of a forest with no one around and reads out a story, is the story really being told?
Yes.

Excuse me?
I said yes.

Suddenly my head jerked up and I stared at the tree. Images and memories flooded my brain, of writing, of crying, of laughing. Immense joy flooded my body at the memory. I didn’t understand what was happening when my mouth opened, unbidden, and words spilled out of my mouth:
“I have magic. I have stories.”
I tried to close my mouth, to stem the flow the words, but they could not be stopped. I was not the one who was speaking, and then, suddenly, I was.

“When I first come to this forest, I was broken, but through the very act of writing, the very act of telling my story, I was healed in a way that I could not have been before. That was the reason I wrote, and that was exactly why the story turned out beautiful, not because I wanted it to be. That is the true magic of the story. That is what is important. And in the end, I have no choice but to try and let that be enough.”

There was silence for a few moments.

Goddamn it.

I smiled and left the forest. But the Forest would never leave me.

 

Fever Dream

Read the previous story here: https://ohmynatis.wordpress.com/2017/04/09/what-a-pain/

The Reckoning: Day #2

My body was on fire.

But it was my mind that burned.

After what seemed like days, I was able to move. I was able to make the smallest of movements, to flip myself over to my front, which felt like it was about to explode again. True to his word, Barnacle and his cronies had left my arms relatively undamaged, but what solace is an intact branch to a charred tree?
Slowly, agonisingly, horribly, I pulled myself to my feet, which threatened to collapse under me. I grabbed hold of something, my vision was blurring, I couldn’t see what. I managed a few steps before I fell once me to the floor. My mouth opened wide but only a soft “Ah” came out. No, no, no, this was not how I went out, no.

I forced myself to focus through the pain, to see that I was at the entrance to my room. I didn’t attempt to get up again; instead I dragged myself pathetically across the floor to my bed. I took a deep breath, but ended up coughing badly, which led to my lungs threatening to burst out of my chest.

Let’s try this. Again. Can do it. Yes, yes.

So I braced myself and pulled myself onto the bed. I lay there, unable to move, unable to feel anything the pain that consumed me. If it had been simply my body, it would have been bad enough, but it was much more than that. The physical pain was the lit match that had ignited the powder keg in my brain.

My mind was flooded with disparate images and thoughts; I had no control over any of it. A hooded man in a long black cloak wielded his paintbrush like a weapon. What happens to those afraid of the light? A creature with long flowing hair and a bruised face danced in a ball of moonlight. Can a door that has been forever closed be broken down? Can you simply saw around the lock? A broken sword has no master. A woman dressed as the Muse roared with laughter.

I had closed my eyes but I did not sleep. All night I lay there, assaulted by this unbridled stream of consciousness until finally, inevitably, my mind settled on a single thought.

Why should I try to write?
Why, why, why should I bother? Why should I try to do something that has caused me so much pain, that has brought me to this state, that has brought me so much anxiety and isolation and suffering why why why?
Gradually, a fever crept into my brain. As the pain in my body subsided, the fever took its place until suddenly there was a new, renewed burning all through my body.

When the sunlight hit my eyes, I opened them, but I didn’t see the ceiling of my room, instead I was in the middle of a library, a huge room where the shelves extended endlessly, farther away than my eye could see. Dusty scrolls and rough-bound parchment littered the floor. I hesitated, and then bent to pick up one. I froze. It had my name on it.

Looking around, I saw that all of them had my name on it, and right before my eyes, they started to unfurl themselves and out popped large, floating words, Sun, Flower, Wind. They circled my head before becoming the object the portrayed. In the blink of an eye, a miniature sun hung above my head, a flower was blooming at my feet, a rough wind buffeted my face. I ran as fast and as hard as I could, the words following me, dropping by as they transformed, being replaced by new ones. There was no end in sight, but I kept running until a huge piece of parchment shot out in front of me and hovered there while it unfurled, slowly, slowly, until it was as tall as me. On it, only a single word was written: You.

The entire library began to rumble, the walls shook and the floor crumbled, but the place where I was standing was unaffected. The parchment caught fire at the bottom, and it consumed the entire thing within seconds, and in its place stood a monster.

The monster looked exactly like me, the only difference being its eyes. They were shining bright and maniacal, eyes that had seen the worse of humanity and were not afraid to embrace it all.

The monster’s wicked smile stayed frozen on its face, while its all-too-familiar voice spoke in my mind.

Look, look, at the worthlessness of your stories. You will forever run from your power, and everything you believe in shall crumble to dust and die.

 I tried to move but couldn’t. Unbidden, I said, “Why should I write? Why why why?”
Why indeed?

I blinked and the scene had shifted.  I was standing in a crowded tavern and Barnacle was on a stool, reading off a parchment.

“To find a pox on society

Look no further than the woman

She believes she is human

But it’s mankind

And she is a whore

Who won’t sleep with me.”

 

The men in the tavern erupted in cheers, and someone picked Barnacle off the stool and put him on his shoulders. They walked around the room while Barnacle high-fived everyone.

Even idiots like him will be more famous than you. Everyone will laugh at you and your “brilliant” ideas. Nobody will ever believe that you’re worth anything.

So why?

Why subject myself to this pain, why bother trying? Why why why?

The fever burned hotter, burned with an intensity that made me want to scream but I couldn’t scream because my throat was dry and there was no point in screaming because who ever heard me?
I blinked and I was surrounded by a sea of flames, licking at me, dancing in anticipation of my fast-approaching death, all of them asking, “Why? Why? Why?”
I closed my eyes, I was ready to succumb, I was about to surrender myself to the flames so they could dance on my grave when a small voice cut through the noise:
“Why?”
When I opened my eyes again I was in an old, musty bedroom. It was moments before I recognised it as my parents’ old room, and then I saw my father on his bed, crying into his hands. Next to him stood a small child…me.

“Why?” The child asked again, pulling at Father’s sleeve. It was the first time, the only time; I had ever seen Father cry. He was usually so stoic, so aloof.

He only then noticed me and tried to wipe his tears away. “Hey, kid. I’m sorry, I…” He couldn’t say anything more, and I knew it even then.

The child sat next to him, and put an arm around him. “Father, Mama is fine.”
“Really?” He asked, smiling slightly. “How do you know?”
“I know because I know her. She was so beautiful and kind. She must be living in a castle in the sky as a princess. She’s helping the angels and making sure they take care of you because she’s not here.”
And my Father, despite his sorrow, despite his pain, smiled. He hugged me for the first time in a long, long time.

The fever’s grip loosened. My breathing eased up. I closed my eyes.

“Why?” A soft voice whispered.

I opened my eyes and I was in my study, at a point when it was still clean and organised. A version of me was here as well, face screwed up in concentration.

“Why?” The other Ari muttered. “Why can’t I get this last line? I’m almost there…”
Ari paced the floors for a full minute before they stopped, their face full of an ecstasy that I had not seen before. With that one look, I knew what night this was.

Ari ran to the desk, picked up the quill and, face glowing, body resplendent in the moonlight, wrote down a line. The last line to my most beloved work.

Ari just stood there, staring at the parchment, unbelieving. “It’s done,” they whispered. “It’s done, it’s done, it’s actually completely absolutely done!!”

With that, Ari ran out of the house and I followed. Whooping, they ran up the road, uncaring of the people they woke with the noise. They ran to the top of the tallest hill and screamed at the top of their lungs. Guards came rushing to apprehend them, but it didn’t matter. Ari dropped to their knees and began to sing. Nothing else mattered.

That was why I wrote.

To bring joy to even one person.
To bring joy to myself.

Because it brought me a happiness that nothing else in the world could compare to.

The fever broke.

What a Pain

The Reckoning #1

(You can read the prologue here: https://ohmynatis.wordpress.com/2017/04/03/the-reckoning-prologue/)

 

 

 

I stood upon Vision Hill, the whole of the kingdom stretched out in front of me. From horizon to horizon, the resplendent beauty of the land in the early sunrise dazzled me. Anybody standing upon the hill would marvel at the wonders of Creation, anybody but me.

The Creation that I was musing on was of a different kind, a kind that once I had been intimately familiar with. It was a unique kind of power, a power that could only be felt when one turned the depths of their soul into physical form.

I didn’t possess that power anymore.

Aww, poor widdle baby.

 There was a time when I could stand on this hill and visualise an entire world, layered onto this one, full of subtle differences and exciting new prospects. Now ideas flashed in front of my eyes, just out of my reach, but every time I tried to focus on them, my mind rebelled, a voice in my head started to scream.

Hey, hey, don’t knock me for your failings, buddy.

I looked around at this wonderful, magnificent kingdom-

-that I quite possibly would not see again within a week.

It started then, the sensation that the ground was collapsing under me; the gut punch that knocked all the air out of me. I clutched my chest, breathing hard. No, no, no, this was supposed to be over, I was supposed to be done with it.

I stopped, composed myself. I was done with it. I couldn’t do it anymore.

Gradually, my breathing normalised, my hands steadied. I sucked in mouthfuls of air, like a drowning man just come to the surface. I looked around, there were a couple of people pointing and giggling. I turned and started to walk fast.

It had been months since I had felt like that, the treatment had been working. Now it was back, no no no.

And then the images, the sounds, the sensations, all of them came rushing back. The way it used to be, afraid to step out of the house, afraid to interact, afraid to eat or breathe or exist. I couldn’t, I couldn’t go back. NO!
How did I get through it? How, how, how?
I had reached the bottom of the hill when. Oh, God. There had been only one solace to carrying the burden of the world. There had been only one way to soothe that monstrous beast, cease that ceaseless torment.

I wrote.

And now. And now, oh my bloody holy irredeemable irascible God. Now I was left without that.

Ah, what a quandary, what a conundrum! Fancy words soothe troubled minds, nay?
No. Must not let monster come back. Must fight. How? How?

Need to write.

The only way to prevent the monster from coming back. Need to do it to save myself.

That’s it.

I needed pain to overcome. I needed the pain to write.

Yes, yes, yes. That was it. I needed the incentive, I needed the motivation. I needed the dogs of despair and doom nipping at my heels, pushing me to run faster and outrun them.

But how? I can’t risk letting the monster back in, I can’t let his pain back in, no; I had worked too hard for that.

Wait. There was another way, yes there was.

I had been walking around aimlessly, muttering to myself, ignoring the looks of everyone around me, but now I turned towards my house. I knew what I had to do, and I was willing to do it. The cost didn’t matter, the cost was the objective.

I reached my lane and saw him there, standing in his puffed-up peacock stance, talking to some women with helmet in hand and a hard grip on his spear, something that was painfully obvious he craved from them.

I walked up to them as they laughed and said, “Haha, yes, that’s a really good one.”
They paused and stared at me, surprised.

“Did you hear about the time dear old Barnacle here arrived early to his mistress’s gala? Let’s just say, she wasn’t surprised.” I said and laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

He didn’t understand what I meant immediately, but the women, from a lot of experience, I guessed; understood and roared in laughter.

Barnacle figured he was being insulted and flushed. “Don’t you have better things to do,” he asked, flashing a cruel smile. “Like writing anything at all?”
The women giggled, but at the same time, seemed unnerved by the edge in his voice.

“Oh, know a lot about writing, do you, Barnie?”
“Why, actually, I do.” He seemed rather pleased with himself at this point. “Every morning, in fact.”
“Oh, Barnie,” I sighed. “I know that you have a big ass for a mouth, but your daily shit is not considered poetry.”
BAM. The wind flew out of my lungs again, this time because Barnacle had punched me right in the stomach. I staggered back a few steps and then straightened up, breathing hard. I smiled. It was a good start.

“Damn, that was a good punch,” I continued, grinning. “I bet you spent a lot of time as a kid punching people who called you a girl, huh? Couldn’t handle not being a man, huh, Barnie?”
He stepped forward and pushed me so hard I fell to the ground. “And what, you’re better off? Not a woman, not a man. You disgust me.”
“So?” I said, getting slowly to my feet. “You must be used to that feeling, eh, Barnie? You own a mirror.”

“Aargh!” He screamed, socking me straight in the jaw and sending me sprawling to the ground again. “My name is Barnacle!” He yelled.

I wiped my mouth and laughed again. “Are you sure you want to yell that out loud? I mean, you want people to know that? Hate to break it to you, man but you were just named for the sake of a shitty pun.”

Barnacle stood over me, steadily getting more and more enraged. He spotted two of his lackeys walking past, and yelled out to them. They came over and he muttered something to them. I was in for it now.

They each took me the armpits and dragged me into my house. They let me fall to the floor in my study and Barnacle loomed high above me. He said simply to the other guards, “Leave the arms. No excuse for not writing.”
Without further prompting or preamble, pain engulfed me. I was assailed from all sides by a flurry of leather. Boots slammed into me hard, over and over and over. I yelled from the pain but it did not cease, it did not dissipate, it grew stronger as the kicking grew harder.

I could tell how long it was till they stopped, but I know that when they did Barnacle brought his face close to mine, sniggered and then punched my head, slamming it onto the floor. Then his face disappeared.

I was alone with my pain.

Just like I wanted.

I was a fucking idiot.

My vision blurred, my head was spinning, almost every inch of my body was on fire.

I let the pain engulf me. I let myself feel every single bit of it; I let it soak into me. I let my mind drift; I let images flood my mind. Images of death, destruction, war, horror all filled my imagination, but there was no light, no hope. There was no sense of fighting through it; there was no epiphany or incredible sense of purpose flowing through me. I was just a person in pain, lying on a floor, with no answers whatsoever.

Again.

Maybe I was better off dead. If I couldn’t write, what was the point of all of it anyway? I deserved this pain, I deserved all the pain and sorrow because I was unable to make any use of the gifts I had been given. I was pathetic and useless. I couldn’t even use it when I needed it, to get through the pain.

But what if that wasn’t its purpose?
I had the ability to write my way out of a hurricane, to survive when the world around me was burning. But did I have the right to expect that same strength and ability when I was the one who had set the fire? It’s an act of heroism to be able to fight, to be able to endure under horrible circumstances; it’s an act of idiocy and self-indulgence to create those same circumstances yourself so that you have something to fight.

In the middle of my pain-addled mind, the voice of an old sage rang loud and clear:
Only one thing made him happy

 Then he let it go

 Now everything makes him happy.

I couldn’t expect writing to save me. I couldn’t expect it to carry the world or magically make everything better or even make anything better. Because the moment I expected it to be something, it lost the ability to be anything. And that’s what art is.

The Reckoning- Prologue

A blank piece of parchment lay before me. I had dipped my quill in the pot over and over, leaving my fingers more stained with ink than the parchment before me.

Hesitatingly, I put the quill to parchment and scratched, “The ink was a deep black, almost as dark the darkness that had consumed my soul-”

“No, no, no,” I muttered, tearing up the parchment. “Trite, predictable, overdone!”

And what’s wrong with that? Your earlier work is full of that.

“Which is why I don’t write like that anymore,” I muttered.

I picked up a fresh roll of parchment and spread it across my desk. Back to dipping my quill. Back to darkening the one spot at the top left of the page, the beginning of the sentence never written. It was like a bad punch-line to the joke that was me.

Ooo. That’s a good one. You should write it down! Oh, wait.

How do I work the line in? What’s the context? Is it going to be another self-deprecating poem? What about as a sarcastic retort to a stream of continuous bad thoughts?

Ha! That’s going to translate reallllyyyyyy well.

At least I know I still have a grip on sarcasm. Would it work? Should I put this line aside and try and work on something else?

Do you have something else to work on?

Tap tap tap tap went the quill on the same inky black spot harder and harder until I slammed it so hard it tore through the parchment. Frustrated, I pulled the quill down by the nib, tearing the parchment as it went. I screamed as I took the parchment with both hands and tore it into smaller and smaller shreds before hurling them into the fireplace, where the hungry flames greedily fed on my rage and hopes.

I put my hands on the table, breathless with rage, looking at the tools of my deceitful trade, all my quills, pens, ink bottles.

Are you going to sweep everything off the table? Are you going to be one of those people? Do it, do it, do it!

I stopped myself from doing it, instead taking an ink bottle and throwing it at the opposite wall…

…Just as the door opened.

The visitor raised his hands and most of the glass pinged off the armour he was wearing, the ink was not as accommodating, however. His face was doused with a thick coat of the stuff.

We both were paralysed for a second before he turned slowly towards me and I jumped up. I was about to apologise profusely before I realised that it was Barnacle, the resident asshole guard. Then I apologised cursorily. He didn’t buy what I wasn’t selling.

“Fling a lot of ink bottles for fun, huh, Ari?” He said, taking his glove off and wiping his mouth gingerly.

“Oh, no, I find it helps me focus.”
“Oh, really? You must give your ink supplier a lot of business then, huh?”

That stung.

“What are you here for, Barnacle?” I said stiffly.

“His Highness commands your presence.” Here he smirked.

“For what?” I asked, startled. This was sudden.

“I guess you’ll see.” His smirk grew ever wider.

I didn’t say anything. He looked around for a second before asking, “Got anything to clean up with in this place? I can’t tell what’s not junk.”
“Why?” I asked, handing him a rag, “It’s a nice change of pace for your sliminess to show on the surface for once.”
He didn’t say anything. He ignored my rag and went to my half-opened armoire. He opened it, and soon located my finest tunic. He then proceeded to pluck it out and wipe his face clean with it. Needless to say, the ink had been an improvement to his look.

“See you later, Ari,” he grinned as he threw my tunic to the floor and walked out.
“Blistering Barnacle,” I muttered.

 

***

 

Here I was again: The Royal Court.

Wearing my second-best tunic I had approached the castle. The guards had given me strange, unnerving looks as I had passed.

The doors to the Court opened and the room went silent. It was the reverse of an explosion – all the sound being sucked from the air in an instance.

I walked down the long, carpeted aisle to approach the throne. Gaudily dressed courtiers eyed me as I walked, watching my every step. There was a pity in them, like I was a dead man walking, but also a hunger, as if I was going to be killed right in front of them.

I wonder what would happen if you fell just about now!

I almost tripped, and the world seemed to take a breath, ready to laugh, but I straightened myself elegantly and continued to walk. I reached the end of the hall, where the King sat on his gaudy throne. It was a gold chair made of intricately curving tree branches, each inch inlaid with impressions of musical instruments, quills, paintbrushes and other tools of art. It wasn’t as impressive as the neighbouring kingdom’s throne made out of the swords taken from their enemies, but it was still pretty impressive.

The King was a large, fat man with a penchant for drink and a strong heckling voice- the perfect patron of the arts. He had a long, flowing beard that was merely a prop he used to stroke so that he could masterfully convey how deep in thought he was. His thin, intense eyes fixed on me as I bowed low and he gave me a dangerously cordial smile.

“Greetings, Ari. I hope that you are doing well today?”
“I’m doing quite alright, Your Highness.”
“That’s refreshing to hear, considering Barnacle reported quite a scene at your place of residence.” Here his smile grew wider and several of the courtiers broke into titters. I tried to stop the colour rising to my cheeks.

“It was merely a…misunderstanding, Your Highness.”

“Ah. Of course,” He said ironically.  “Oh, the tragedy that the poet is misunderstood!”

The titters and chuckling grew louder around me. I merely nodded.

“Fortunately,” the King continued as if nothing had happened, “There happen to be no small amount of poets in this kingdom, and I think I understand quite a bit of them.” He leaned forward and stared right at me. “But you. You say you are different. You say you are special.”

“I- I never claimed to be better than anyone-” I stuttered.

“Of course, of course.” He said smoothly. “You just waltzed in here, years ago, thinking that because you were one of the first here, because you were the prodigal poet, you would remain that way forever.”
“Sire, I have to ask what this about!” I raised my voice, agitated. I was in dangerous territory, but I didn’t care. I may not have much dignity, much respect left, but I had enough not to bear this.

Hahaha, you really think so, don’t you?

The King did not seem affronted. On the contrary, he settled back in his throne and said simply, “Perform something new for us, Ari.”

I froze. “Ex-excuse me?” I asked.

The King did not say anything, but simply raised his eyebrows inquiringly. He knew I had heard. Everybody had heard.

“I…I could recite something I had previously written? I recall that a particular favourite of yours is The-”

The King froze me with a look and simply shook his head. It must be something new.

“I…” I needed to stall. I needed to ask for time. I needed to figure out an excuse.
What if you pretend to faint? Or say you have a headache? Maybe he’ll eliminate it then by cutting your head off hahaha.

No. There was no way out. I would just be brought back here again later.

I could not avoid saying it.

“I have…”

You could have cut the tension in the air with a sword.

“I have not written anything in a long time.” The words stumbled over each other in a rush to get out of my traitorous throat, to get out of my grieving heart.

Nobody said a word. The King opened his mouth to speak, but for some horrible, terrifying reason, I found myself speaking again.

“And I do not know if I can ever write again.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. There was a hard glint to them, but no surprise. Not a trace of goddamned surprise.

“Ari Berg!” The King roared, rising to his feet. The whole room recoiled; I took a few steps back and slipped on the carpet, falling right on my rump. “You have stayed in this kingdom for many, many years now. You have strutted around, doling out advice and wisdom as if you had all the answers, as if you were the supreme writing being. You have done nothing else but claim to be a writer, but you rest on your laurels, you rest on stories written years ago without contributing any more to the kingdom. You heralded yourself as the beginning of some magnificent revolution, the flame that would spread across the world, yet you fizzled out like a cheap candle! And because of this, I say to you now,” He paused for breath and dramatic effect, “Ari Berg, this is your Reckoning!”
“No!” I screamed, but my scream was drowned out by the wave of sound that crashed into me from the sea of courtiers. They were hoping for this. They had wanted it. They were craving it.

“Yes.” said the King. “I trust you know what happens next. You have seven days. If you don’t craft something truly masterful within those seven days, you will be exiled and never allowed to return. Your work shall be considered plagiarised, and all copies of it will be burned. You will be considered a cheat, a fraud and no one will let you near a piece of parchment ever again.” He sat down. “Now get out.”

He turned away from me like I didn’t exist and became absorbed in a conversation with one of his advisors. All the courtiers, however, never took their eyes off me as I shakily got to my feet, turned around, and fled.

 

***

 

I ran full speed all the way home and collapsed right there among the broken glass, the spilled ink, the torn parchment, garbage-all that I was capable of producing anymore.

A Reckoning had not been invoked in decades, it had not been deemed necessary. Minstrels who had been churning out utter tripe for years were permitted; poets who gave up writing and had moved on to other work were left alone. It was only to be used for the frauds, for those who pretended to still have the spirit of writing in them when it had left them- or never existed in the first place.

I jumped up and opened the cupboard, rifling through all the copies of my printed work. These existed, these were real, I had written them. They were mine.

But if these truly had come from me, where was that person now? Why couldn’t they write anymore?

Had the spirit of writing truly left me? Was I truly abandoned by something that was once the essential essence of my being?

I think so. You do too.

“Shut up!” I screamed, dropping all the papers and clutching my head. I staggered and hit the table, spilling some more ink.

This parchment hasn’t seen that much ink in a long time!

“Stop!” I screamed again, staggering and slipping hard on the ink.

My body went down, crashing hard onto the floor, stabbing itself in multiple places with shattered glass.

My soul dropped even further down, like a heavy rock in a deep ocean. Deeper and deeper I went, into that abyss of despair, into those waters of grief.
What it found there was relief.

It was a shocking emotion, but so welcome it brought tears to my eyes. There it was. The idea that this farce might finally be over; that I might finally accept the truth I had been denying for so long:
I might not be a writer anymore.

And then a deeper, harder question pierced me, took my breath and tears away:

Did I want to be a writer anymore?

 

Culture of Indifference

The woman in the pink churidar stood alone at the bus stop, looking down the street with her brown eyes, anxiously waiting for the bus to arrive. She had just retied her black hair so it wouldn’t fall over her face which was simple, yet pretty. The bus was late, as was not unusual in any part of the city of Mumbai. She wanted to catch a taxi home, but she didn’t have enough money and there weren’t any in sight. So she waited for the bus.

The bus pulled up after five minutes, and she grabbed the railing and pulled herself up, a little labouredly. Almost immediately a man appeared behind her and quickly tried to push past her, in the process rubbing against her breast. She was startled because she hadn’t seen the man anywhere. Had he been waiting till she climbed up so he could brush up against her…? It wouldn’t be the first time. She didn’t have any proof, though, so she just glared at him and told him in Hindi to watch where he was going. The young man just cracked a grin and went and took his seat near the window in the middle right row.

Laxmi surveyed the rest of the bus. The driver and conductor seemed unconcerned by this outburst. There were a few other women scattered around the bus, of different ages. None of them had looked for long once they had ascertained that it was not going to be a prolonged fight. Laxmi bought her ticket and took a window seat in the left row, towards the back.

She was staring out the window when the man sidled up next to her. She started and then gave him a hard look. “What are you doing here?” she snapped in Hindi. “There are so many seats, why must you come and sit beside me? Go sit somewhere else!”
Unperturbed, he smiled that disgusting smile and said, “I like the view from here.”

She flared up and signalled the conductor. He came near her and asked what the problem was. She told him that man was harassing her. The conductor looked at the man who said, “Women, like this only no?” and they shared a laugh. Laxmi, outraged, said, “You’re not going to do anything?”

The conductor sneered. “Why should I, madam? He is a man; he can sit wherever he wants.”

Laxmi was so furious she was rendered speechless, which the conductor took as an opportunity to move away. Laxmi snapped at the man next to her, “Get up so I can move out.”

“Why should I move?” He sneered. “Go from there,” He indicated the narrow space in front of his legs.

Laxmi in her fury didn’t realize what the man intended and as she edged out from in front of him, he spanked her bottom hard.

WHACK!

An instant later, Laxmi had slapped him across the face hard. There was complete silence as everyone looked at Laxmi. The man stood up and started yelling at her and she yelled back. The women just stared on, not doing anything. The conductor came there and started yelling at Laxmi as well. The driver suddenly screamed, “EH!” and the three of them shut up and looked at him. “If y’all don’t sit down now, separately, I’ll have both kicked off the bus.”

The man glared at Laxmi at sat down. Laxmi glared back and sat down on an aisle seat a few rows ahead, opposite a young, wide-eyed girl who was staring at Laxmi but didn’t say a word. Laxmi stared back for a few minutes before she turned back to see the man who was still glaring at her. They stared at each other angrily before his eyes suddenly lighted up and he looked at the young girl. Laxmi saw his intentions and as he was rising, she got up quickly and sat down next to the girl. She glanced back and saw the anger simmering in his eyes.

The girl looked startled and a little frightened to see her. “I’m doing you a favour,” Laxmi said, “That bastard was going to come sit next to you.”

The girl looked too scared to look back but she nodded a little and said, “Thank you. My name is Sati.”

“I’m Laxmi”

Sati nodded again a little and straightened herself in her seat, looking straight ahead. After a few minutes, without changing position she asked, “Haven’t you ever travelled by bus before?”

“I have. So?” Laxmi asked, raising her eyebrow.

“’So?’” Sati seemed bewildered. “What do you mean, ‘so’? You know that men will be men. They will do these things. We are women, we must let them. Don’t all these sort of things happen to you all the time?”

“They do, but that does not mean that I must tolerate them!” Laxmi snapped. “It does not mean that you have to, either!”

“Of course we do! How are we to stop them?! They’re so strong! And besides,” her voice dropped lower, “We’ve always been the lower gender. If so many things are happening to us, don’t you think we deserve it?”

Laxmi just stared at her. “Is that what you really think? That you deserve this?” She almost whispered. She had never thought that.

Sati finally turned to face her. “What else can it be?” her voice was almost nonexistent. “All the girls I know have been abused or molested or raped by men at some point in their life and they are all powerless to stop it. Even I…” she shuddered, and Laxmi understood. She squeezed her eyes shut for a minute, took a deep breath and then opened them slowly and continued, “We’re groped every we go like we’re pieces of meat walking around for their satisfaction. Where’s the decency in that, tell me? When we’re called bitches, it is a compliment, because animals are treated better than us, they’re worshipped.

“You know what will happen in the end? We’ll just get an arranged marriage with a husband who has the same chauvinistic attitude and will never understand our suffering. Do you know why? Because according to men, it ‘happens to everyone’ and everything we face is ‘no big deal’. It is better to accept our fate than fight a war we cannot win.”

Laxmi stared at her, at a loss for words. She could see the sadness etched into Sati’s face, the evidence of sleepless nights and a lot of crying. She didn’t know what to say to this girl that would erase everything that was around her, that had happened to her. Sati seemed to sense this, gave her a sad smile, looked out the window and said quietly, “My stop’s not far. Yours?”

Laxmi was startled to see how far they had travelled, luckily, though they had not crossed her stop yet. “Not far,” she murmured. She looked around the bus and saw that more people had also come onboard. There were some women and a few men. The lecher who had been harassing her was still sitting alone, though, staring at her.

They came to a stop. One or two women got off and a man climbed on. Laxmi realized that the next stop was hers, though it was a little far. She got up, without looking at Sati and moved to the front. She glanced back warily and it was good that she had. The beefy man who had just climbed onboard was deep in conversation with the lecher and he was pointing at her. They swaggered up to the front where she stood with her back to the front, watching them. The lecher said to his minion, “This is the woman who tried to defy me.”
The minion stepped close to her and looked at her, “Thought you could humiliate him for no reason, huh? Apologize now.”

The whole bus had gone dead quiet. Laxmi could feel Sati’s eyes on her, imploring her to apologize. She knew that if she did, she would probably be able to delay them long enough to get out at the next stop; that it was better not to get into this, but it didn’t matter. She stood her ground. “He should be the one apologizing to me for harassing me, the creep.”

The force of the slap threw her against the wall. A few people stood up, but nobody stepped forward, nobody said anything. The minion snarled, “Now how do you feel? Apologize and say that my friend here is a good person and that you wrongly accused him.” When he saw her looking at the people around, he laughed, “She thinks these people are going to help her!”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Laxmi said softly. “Nobody helps. All of us here are seeing this happening to me, yet nobody is doing anything. All you women have had this happened to you at some point or the other, and yet nobody comes forward to stop this happening to somebody else! You men have mothers, sisters, daughters and yet you sit idly by, allowing the kind of men to exist who might very well do this to your women one day! That is why this happens to us! That is why women are treated like trash, because unless it is happening to you, it doesn’t matter!” Everyone was looking at her, even the lechers seemed suddenly wary.

“The absolutely best part is that at some point this has affected you and will, and you know that it will and yet you do nothing. The reason we’re losing this war, the reason there is such rampant disregard for women is because we let it be there! How can you win a war if all your troops are not fighting?!”

Nobody moved. The bus driver had stopped the bus and was also looking at Laxmi. Suddenly the lecher laughed and said, “A lot of drama this one does. But I didn’t hear an apology. So give it to her!”

The minion smiled and raised his hand. It was caught by a woman before he could bring it down. One by one, the others also got up out of their seats and grabbed them and started beating them. The conductor and driver didn’t do anything, just stood there, watching. The lechers were on the floor, screaming and getting kicked from all sides when Laxmi yelled, “Stop!”

All of them turned to her in surprise. “Violence isn’t the answer. We should take them to the police and act as witness against them,” She said. “The police will also have to take us seriously when we are united against them.” She paused.
“If we as a people inflict more violence in response to violence, the situation will only get worse. We need to need to change our minds, not stain our hands as well. When the culture of indifference ends, that’s when the culture can truly make a difference.” They all nodded and cheered. When Laxmi looked at Sati, Sati was smiling.
Every individual forms a part of a culture, every individual change adds to bigger.

Last Journal Entry, Dated 13th November

“I don’t know just where I’m going.”

I laughed, reaching a fever pitch inside me. It was done hoohoo heehee. I was done.

Who am I?
You’re me. You’re the bones that rest in my body, you’re the flesh that I cut through, you’re the blood that flows out of my veins.

You stand up and you feel like you should bandage your hands, as if a little blood ever harmed anyone. It was when someone was harmed that blood was there in a little. Or a lot.

But so much blood often didn’t spill. The wound was inside the head, the blood haemorrhaged, the veins clotted, the panic grew, the heart beat faster, the soundtrack thumped louder, until at the crescendo he jumped and sprayed blood everywhere , spurting it all around, on his hair like the drops of the fountain of youth. Get it? ‘Cause blood keeps you alive!

Nobody gets it. Nobody gets your magnificent wit, sir, he said to you. I agreed.

Who are you?
That’s what he asked. Are you really this person? Are you really his madness that possesses you, sweetheart? Or are you better?

Nah, he’s not better. Neither is she. No one is better. We’re all this mad, we’re all this destructive and chaotic. Or maybe “they” are all boring. Maybe only this wonderful craving is in you, master!
Does he like this chaos? Does he secretly crave this madness? Does he want it to take over? Is that it, bitch? Do you want to take over?
“NO” Hahaheeheeho, madness said. I want to kill you. And I’m doing it because you want me to.

That’s it. You don’t want to get madness under control. You want to stay mad, it’s become too much to keep hoping and praying. Fuck all that. Fuck you. Fuck everyone.

What am I doing? How much am I hurting everyone? It’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t it something you’ve secretly wanted? To hurt? To show everyone what a horrible person you can be? So that they stop pushing you around? So that it will earn you your perverse joy? So that when you finally attain some sort of joy in your own death? In the death of all I was, all he was, all all of us were. To give into the pen to write this madness, as if this were Ulysses and you’re some hero that can save anyone. You’re a failure, not a saviour. You’re nothing.

So it’s agreed then. The book was closed, the tool of destruction was lifted, ready to commit its nefarious purpose.

It was unanimous. For once, none of the discordant voices in the human who was both the most and least human’s all were at a consensus. They were all agreed that it was time to end.

Her Call

The air envelopes you slowly, inching down your throat, making you cough. The very act of breathing is suffocating you.

The soft knuckles of her long fingers brushes gently against your cheek. You shake it away, ignoring her. She looks disgruntled but patiently awaits.

Sitting on the last bench, you try and focus on what you are being instructed on, but there is nothing. No more instructions will permeate your brain. No more telling you what to do.

You gaze at the faces around. No more, there is nothing more for you here. But you can’t give up. You’d rather be alone than be with her.

Later, you talk to the people you know. But the words are just sounds emanating from their throats. Your words are still words, but they make sense to no one around you.

As you walk away, the question occurs once more to you: Are you mad? Are you “special”? You certainly don’t feel special. You feel more mad, and the madness is creeping further into your mind.

You like it. It makes sense.

You wanna say what you’re feeling but your madness is washing off you like a stench you carry around, causing everyone around you to choke a little when they breathe too, pushing them a little further away. She asks you if you want her, but you push her away and keep searching.

Oh, look at you, you say. Existential and all. Think you’re impressing anyone? Think you’re cool?

Fuck you, you eloquently reply.

Old helping hands slip away. Friends get lost in the space of doing nothing, achieving nothing and being perfectly content with it all. But you, you clever bastard, have done so much. So happy, yeah? No? Aww.

There is no one on the road anymore. Maybe you’ve been doing it all wrong. Maybe it was meant to be. Maybe you loved her all along and didn’t know.

You turn and there she is, smiling.

You’re dying. You’re suffocating. She calms you by putting her hand on yours and leans in close to embrace you. You don’t resist and accept her.

She puts her luscious lips to your ear and whispers her name. She whispers it so seductively that you can almost run your tongue, over the sound, licking it, revelling in your newfound acceptance.

It tastes like loneliness.