Creative Writing Capstone

Transcript

2. Lauren Radaker 10 December 2021 Creative Writing Seminar Zachary Savich Entering the final stretch of the Creative Writing Concentration with the Senior Seminar at the Cleveland Institute of Art was much like captaining a ship into stormy seas; a ship which has already been beaten and battered and had to be patched with duct tape, because that was all that was on hand at the time. But I sailed on into that dangerous territory because, in the end, despite the rips in my sails and the danger that lay ahead, I truly loved sailing. I came into the Creative Writing Concentration planning to finish a novel that I had been writing for most of my life, but ended up completing a rather different project, largely due to my BFA. Alongside working on my capstone for Creative Writing, I was also working on my BFA thesis film for Animation, which proved to be no small feat. There were many sleepless nights where I wondered if things would all come together in the end. Yet, it was during these troubling moments that I benefited so much by being able to turn back to my writing and work out my emotions and stresses through story details that allowed me to push forward with my BFA, and in the process, discover more of my style as a writer. So, in the end, over the course of the Creative Writing Senior Seminar, I created an artist book sampling of my work. I have poetry, sections of both short and long-term stories, as well as comic pages, all of which have allowed me to try new writing methods and expand my abilities as a writer. While writing this semester, I was able to delve into writing techniques that I had tried to an extent in the past, and now bring many of them to the forefront of my writing, the first technique being the use of repetition. Repetition is a useful tool in telling one’s reader exactly what to remember and what is important in a piece, whether it be with the simple repeating of a
3. specific word or phrase, or littering the same idea or theme throughout a larger body of work. An example of repetition in my capstone comes from the piece, “It’s Simple,” with the stanza, “An open pit/Takes the air in/And in and in and in and in and/Heaving,” (lines 5-8). The simple repetition of the word “in” creates an endless cycle for the reader of air going in but not yet allowed to be released out. Therefore, the repetition emphasizes this intake and builds both a sense of physical and psychological tension. This tension is then kept throughout the rest of the poem, speaking to the poem’s explanation of a panic attack. Another example of repetition in my work is in the short story, “Livingston,” with the lines, “I can still hear it chime, from the bottom of the lake. It still ticks. And ticks/and ticks/and ticks/and-/I want to scream,” (3). The repetition of the word “ticks” exists with the intention to transform the words into the sound of the aforementioned clock itself, while also playing into the character’s own anxieties from not being able to escape this endless noise. “Livingston,” proved to be an important piece for me to explore many different styles and techniques of writing, and allowed me to push concepts I ordinarily would have been afraid to explore. This short story dealing with a protagonist turned bitter after her lover’s death, no longer wanting to help guide lost souls to the afterlife as is her duty, allowed me to not only play with repetition in language, but also repetition of another technique that has become a key component of my writing: poetic visual descriptions, especially those dealing with color and tactile objects. A staple of “Livingston,” is the juxtaposition between the colors grey and red. Grey represents the death that constantly plagues the Livingston estate while red, a color commonly associated with love and passion, is used both as a symbol of this love, but also as a reminder of love lost with bloody iconography. This use of color exists throughout the story, but is especially poignant in the line, “Red painted lips and red rouged cheeks matched plain red gowns that burned away
4. the grey whenever she entered a room,” (3). The visceral visual of red burning, especially being preceded with so many descriptions dealing with the color grey, serves to show the protagonist’s vivid emotions while taking the story a step forward. An additional example of visual imagery in my work comes from the sample chapter, “MoonRay’s Chambers,” which stands as the third chapter in my larger novel, “The Moracore Chronicles: The Rebellion.” This chapter focuses on introducing the wolf-king MoonRay and his curious behaviors as he prepares to execute his plans to dominate all of Moracore’s kingdoms. I implement visual imagery descriptions throughout the chapter to ground the reader in the fantasy animal world, including the lines, “His ghoulish gaze traced the string of caverns careening through the cave floor and his own exposed skin, and he found himself staring at the crystal-clear waters with great longing,” (2). This alliterative line mixes the visuals of the stone cave floor and the wolf’s skin littered with scars. This combination makes the two objects almost indistinguishable before transitioning to show MoonRay’s object of desire: the magic pool in his cracking floor that could heal his cracking skin. This visual description combies the objects so they are associated together as problems that could also be solved together, bringing up an important story moment with the pain and costs associated with drinking from this magic water that MoonRay has acquired. So, in the end, the use of poetic visual descriptions serves several useful purposes in my writing; to welcome the reader to a new world, to emphasize important story aspects, and also to introduce new aspects of character motivations and desires, all without having to flat out tell a reader anything in plain certain terms. A final writing technique that became important as I created my capstone was the use of comparisons, namely metaphors and similes. The use of these comparisons, as with other techniques in my work, allowed me to introduce and emphasize something’s importance without
5. having to say it flat out. These comparisons in particular could also bring up additional ideas to consider and question when reading, in the fact that certain elements were being compared in the first place. An example of this in my writing comes from the poem, “I Painted a Picture,” which in its entirety is a metaphor for a conversation between mother and daughter and a metaphor for creating things that some would see as overtly positive and pretty versus things that may seem disturbing on the surface, but have meaning and significance to the creator. Specifically, the poem uses the motif of pink butterflies as a metaphor for the request to create pretty things. This can be seen in the lines, “Amber eyes wet with tears they didn’t know they could cry/Whiskers trembling, wondering if this is the end./Why are they so sad/You ask./I decided/They don’t have any pink butterflies./Well why don’t you paint them some,” (lines 37-43). This poem helped me realize that many of the poems that I create are complete metaphors littered with smaller metaphors as voiced through conversation, which is how I have discovered my brain first begins to process information. Eloquent words with double meanings are often easier to write than concise language dictating how one exactly feels, and the very nature of these double meanings and comparisons speak to the complexity of thought and how difficult it can be to pin down exact thoughts in the first place. Then if a writer chooses to write in poetic metaphors on end then abruptly change tones and styles of writing, attention is directly called to that area of change. This is exactly what I implemented at the end of the poem, “Obit,” a piece speaking to my mental state and means of coping during a state of quarantine. The end of the piece reads, “I am/All his. No longer shared. No longer laughing./A statue among the graveyard of joys so/Quickly forgotten. The cracking of stone/And the rattle of chains, finally free from/The bright box holding me prisoner. I/ Amble to the relief room, trading for a bright/Bottle. When life is beyond your control,/ Control what you can. Dye your hair,” (lines 12-20). This abrupt change in
6. speaking voice, both in tone and who is being spoken to, calls direct attention, making the ending very dry and witty in comparison to the rest of the poem. Going forward, I will continue to use these writing techniques utilized in my capstone to flesh out the stories that I have started and to create new stories in the future. They have become a staple of my writing style and helped me to define who I wish to be as a writer. Going into this class, preparing to sail through storming seas during my senior year of college, I knew only one way that I could write, and that was the way in which I had written the novel that has been a part of me for so many years. I found one way of writing that worked for me, and I allowed myself to become complacent in that, fearing to try anything else. I had to come to terms with the fact that the worst possible outcome to trying something new was failure. And all failure means in the sense of writing a capstone is crossing out a section of words, or balling up a piece of paper and moving on, keeping in mind what did not work, and moving forward with something else. I had to move past this fear of trying new things as well as a fear of diving headfirst into the “odd.” A workshop-based class has the potential to be overwhelming, with so many voices able to give an opinion on how they feel about how you attempt every little thing at any given time, but ultimately the option to have feedback whenever I needed it was very useful, and I credit that to the wonderful group of writers I was able to learn alongside. I believe that all of us now have the potential to pursue publishing our works, as so encouraged by our professors. This encouragement was priceless in creating my capstone. In the past, I found it difficult to push myself to write about things that I felt passionate about in the way that I wanted them to be written: full of colorful language and ambiguity tied together with specifically vague comparisons. These were the times I had to lean back on some words of encouragement from Dr. Cori Winrock, a professor on my BFA committee, who urged me to go full force into the “weird
7. descriptions” that are unique to me and that I love so much, and to write about “odd” things. This encouragement was solidified by the seminar professor, Zachary Savich, who never told me no when I came to him with a new idea. Instead, I was met with a nod and a grin and a roadmap for how I might make my idea work. My confidence was later bolstered with the gift of a book by Emily Kendal Frey entitled, “The Grief Performance: Poems.” Reading through this book solidified the usefulness of ambiguity for my work. It made me realize that, especially with how I approach poetry, I do not care for my audience to have a crystal-clear view of an entire story. Instead, I find it much more useful to hone in on specific moments that may be ambiguous in their events, but undeniable in their emotional content. As long as I can convey an intended emotion to my audience, no matter what I may be writing, I am satisfied.
8. Chapter 3: MoonRay’s Chambers (2021 Edition) Do not let the rabble deceive you with their desperate hopes; Darkness does not hide from the light. Instead, it knows that much more can be accomplished in the shadows. More effective, it is, to crawl into the dreams of the damned, so that they must carry you with them throughout all their days. The light loses its brilliance when one can only recall the inky outstretched talons of the inevitable night. -BMM, Author Unknown The steeds of Eru shook sleep from their eyes, the lionesses of Onyx flicked flies from the faces of their yawning cubs and the early birds of Shrenetta greeted a red rising sun with open feathers, as the king of all canines wrestled in the land of the un-waking, sunken eyes seeking to sink deeper in his dark skull. The masses under his reign had already set to work, as king MoonRay’s eyes were finally forced open by the prying rays of an intrusive sun. The beast’s tattered ears flattened as the rest of his form refused movement, still racing in another plain beyond the physical. Cloudy images slunk their way through his mind as new cogs and wheels began churning: pictures of barren lands and immeasurable moments of suffering were his breakfast and today’s served up in five courses with a side of incinerated remains to taste. The great wolf’s eyes shifted to the left where a heap of torn tapestries not quite as large as his own lay bare. He blinked. No distractions, he thought. His mate had been moved against her wishes to a cavern in an entirely different rock spire than his own days prior. Focus had returned to the ruler as he wished, but now her absence only highlighted the emptiness of the largest den in Nookon. For along with his mate, all of the intact tapestries and décor that had lived in the space for countless moons and depicted the triumphs of the wolven kingdom had been recently removed and ordered to fill an already full Tree of Justice. The king would not say why, but then again, he did not require a reason. The orders were carried out swiftly, with only a few priceless artifacts being sacrificed to the roaring waves below the spires as they were transported along rickety rope bridges long in need of repair. Now all that remained in the den were the piles of fabric on which MoonRay slept, a faded blue cloth to give him privacy from the guards posted just outside, and a shimmering pool of crystal-clear water lined in marble stones which over flowed into the naturally growing cracks in the den floor. The immense wolf rose to his paws, juddering. He opened his maw, releasing a fang- filled yawn and the stench of death flowing from his throat. He shifted his weight among his massive paws, allowing his claws to add another set of scrapes to the ground before clicking their way over to the pool, his lengthy tail dragging behind.
9. MoonRay’s grave reflection starred back up at him. He sneered. His pelt which was more scars than fur was exceptionally ragged this morn, and his ever-bloodshot red gaze made it appear that he hadn’t even attempted sleep. His appearance inspired nightmares among the canines of the isle, both young and old. Many wondered as to the origins of his many scars, as Nookon had not experienced full direct warfare in many years, but none dared to ask. They did not believe us, a voice said in his head. Yet here it is. He shook his large head, chasing the voice away. His ghoulish gaze traced the string of caverns careening through the cave floor and his own exposed skin, and he found himself staring at the crystal-clear waters with great longing. MoonRay moved his massive head closer to the pool. He considered taking a drink. No. A voice shouted within. Not yet. There is still much to be done here. Yet his conscience did not protest the coolness that began to spread over his paw. MoonRay saw a new trickle form in the rocky ground from the pool. As more of the water reached him, it began to ascend. Suddenly a small stream wove its way up one of his massive paws, snaking its way up to the bend of his leg. As the water worked, it took traces of his dried blood and puss-filled pockets, dissolving them into nothingness. It was excruciating. The wolf king sneered and extended his claws. It took all of his strength not to buckle and break his own presence. The water was frigid, and it felt as if thousands of tiny icicles were rearranging his skin cells as it worked. The air grew thin. The cave grew dark. And just as suddenly as it had started, it had finished. The water dropped like the scruff of a pup from a neglectful mother’s jaws and dissolved, leaving behind a paw that looked like it had never trodden the wastelands brought on by war. Taking a deep inhale, his majesty bent over, considering when it would be time to take his next fill from the fountain. He studied his reflection for several moments, looking over every jagged scar adorning his terrifying face. Then his reflection began to change. The waters rippled as a new face appeared, a dark face staring back at him with an intense and uneven blue stare. Why doesn’t he share your lovely eyes? He could not meet its gaze. So scrawny too. It’s a pity really. Bile rose in the wolf king’s throat, and he had to swallow down hard to keep it from escaping. Really dearie, the whole thing is a true shame. Oh yes, but I believe in you, love. So long as the little mongrel does not act like his-
10. “SHUT IT!” MoonRay screamed, swatting at the vision in the pool with his renewed strength. A shuffling noise sounded from the hall. He grimaced then rolled his eyes. “I know you are out there,” he growled. “Enter or take your troubles elsewhere.” Slowly, the entrance curtain parted to reveal a sheepish white wolf inching his way into the room. He stopped many feet away from his king, head low and tail tucked between his legs. “Straighten up boy!” MoonRay barked. The albino wolf staunchly obeyed, snapping to attention with his chest out and ears tall. The bear-sized king looked the young recruit over. “You are Alka’s boy aren’t you? State your business.” The young wolf dipped his head and nodded, “Yesh shir, he ish my uncle.” He choked on the word uncle. “I wash instructed to eshcort you to—” “Silence!” MoonRay shook his head and sneered. The white wolf’s ears flattened as he slurped his drool as it trickled down his muzzle. “Alka said nothing of your-- of this--,” the king paused. He marched up to the cowering creature. “Open up,” he barked. The white wolf blinked. “Open up your mouth!” The young one obeyed. Inside his mouth, saliva bubbled around a misshapen tongue. It appeared that half of muscle was missing. Upon closer inspection he noticed small scars lining the edges of his muzzle. The king sighed, meeting the trembling wolf’s gaze. “Straighten up son.” The white wolf did so slowly. “Speak only when absolutely necessary. Show this to no one.” The young wolf looked at his own paws and nodded. MoonRay looked him over once more. The flesh on his head masquerading as ears flattened as he let out another exhale.
11. “Best not to make your weaknesses the business of others. Stay silent, and you shall stay strong.” The white wolf looked up in surprise. His tail almost wagged. “What is your name, son?” The young one hesitated for a moment before spitting out, “Pollucksh, shir.” MoonRay nodded. “Well, let’s be off then, Pollux.” Pollux quickly nodded and turned to part the curtains for his king, who followed the new guard out into the hall. The stone walls were flooded with golden light, and a salty breeze greeted the pair. The two walked only a short ways before the hall was at its end and they stood overlooking a large opening. MoonRay blinked, his eyes struggling to adjust to the brightness of the clear sky stretching out above the churning seas below. Waiting for them was a rickety bridge of thinning boards that always swung with each step. Naturally, MoonRay ushered Pollux to head out in front of him to the next section of mountainous spires, for it would be a shame if the bridge decided to collapse while both were crossing. With the guard going in front, there was always a chance that only he would be claimed by the surging sea beneath. Taking a deep breath, Pollux began to head across the wooden planks, trying not to appear too eager to get to the other side. Eventually both creatures were safely positioned on the next spire, the one which lay at the center of all the others. They continued proceeding down a stretch of hall, until Pollux made a sharp turn to the left. MoonRay found himself gazing at a bustling group of creatures all going in their own set of directions within the grand throne room. Pollux held back the grey-blue tapestries that served as a door, and MoonRay wasted no time in making his way inside. Blue and silver tapestries hung from the ceiling, each bearing the silhouette of a species which called Nookon home. A white vixen tended to the cleaning of MoonRay’s massive wooden throne at the far center of the room, adorned in blue and gray carpets and cherry-red beads. The other, smaller, thrones meant for visiting dignitaries encircling the stone room's perimeter were being tidied as well. A sharp bark echoed throughout the cave, and all busy work instantly ceased. An albino wolf nearly as great in size as the king stepped forward into the room's center. His green gaze pierced Pollux's very soul. Knowing it was unacceptable to freeze in his presence, Pollux marched ahead, a few steps behind his king, stopping only a foot away from this intriguing presence. He stood with his tail rigid, as this wolf came dangerously close to him. Their muzzles nearly touching, the large albino wolf exhaled deeply, his hot breath racing across Pollux’s face, causing warm water to form in his trembling eyes. "Alka, how grand it is to be graced by your return. I assume you have some business to
12. report?" MoonRay inquired in his own brand of cheer, breaking the wretched silence. The vixens still attending the thrones began a barely audible nervous chatter. Alka had been absent from his post for nearly a moon, yet the king did not question his whereabouts. A hyena bringing a bucket of clean water to the cleaning crew stared a moment too long at his captain and king, but fortunately only caught the worried glance of Pollux. "My liege," Alka said, ducking his head down low, and tucking his tail between his bent legs. "I am sure you will find my reports to be enlightening. We have much to discuss." Alka gave a shrill howl, informing Pollux's now ringing ears that it was time for him to depart, and he turned to bow to the king. Relieved to be able to leave the king's side, Pollux hurried from the throne room, making his way back to his post in another section of the spires; he was not meant to hear his Captain's report, nor did he want to. Alka grinned, turning to the king. “Well, shall we then?” ***** Alka led MoonRay to a small chamber filled with crimson and grey-blue draperies, intact rugs cascading over feathery pillows and furniture carved out of the very stone of the cave. The room was lit by a single slim opening letting in the light of a dissolving sun and sky promising rain. It was the only room promising true comfort in the Spires. Yet, there was a sickly-sweet odor lofting throughout the room; a perfume set on masking something horribly wretched that flies had journeyed from far and wide to come and see. MoonRay seated himself soundly, pleased to face a graying morn. Alka instead turned to a wall housing what were barely passable as refreshments, but always MoonRay insisted were not ready to be thrown out. The dark king turned. “You needn’t do that yourself, have one of the vixens do it,” MoonRay said. “Oh, I don’t mind,” Alka said with a chuckle. “Afterall, I haven’t been around to fix you refreshments for some time, old friend.” Alka took out two large seashells from a shelf carved into the wall and a canister from where it rested among a pot of glowing red coals. MoonRay said nothing. He watched the great white wolf at work. “So, I see you’ve finally met Pollux then,” Alka proposed, turning from the king to prepare a shell of tea for them. “I have,” he said flatly. Alka took the vessel of tea in his jaws and began to pour. He let silence flood the room.
13. “You lied to me,” the king said. “Did I?” Alka muttered, jaws still clenched. “You did not tell me of Pollux’s speech impediment, I mean the boy is missing half of his tongue for gods’ sake!” “Ah, then I did not lie,” Alka guffawed, setting the tea down, “I merely omitted the details of my nephew’s condition.” MoonRay rolled his eyes. “He will do well,” the captain said, setting tea down before his king, “I would not have recommended him if I did not think he could handle things.” The dark wolf sat quiet, starring into the brown liquid. He nodded. “I return to a land ruled by a seemingly eternal king, and I see nothing truly has changed. You are still a nightmarish form who looks like he hasn’t slept in a millennium. Well done, majesty,” the captain said with a wink, sitting across from him. MoonRay nods, watching Alka with an intense blood-stained stare as he drinks from his own shell before testing the one presented to him. “How is eternity then?” “What?” “How do the endless thralls of time treat you oh king, one who has bested death himself and secretly dines on the blood of all who oppose him?” Alka let out a hearty laugh. MoonRay managed a smile. “So that is what they are saying?” Alka nodded, “I daresay old friend, you truly know how to inspire the masses to stay in line. Even those stranded on Porvaya still murmur your name in reverence to your wickedness.” “Wickedness? Now now,” MoonRay jested, clicking his fangs, “I am simply doing what needs to be done. For it seems no one else will.” He grinned a full grin this time. “I am pleased to hear that you have found the Porvayan camp then. Now we can snuff out the queen to show her worker bees that their efforts are fruitless.” Alka swallowed, “Well, yes your majesty. I believe I have located the rebellion’s base camp.” MoonRay paused mid sip. “You believe.”
14. Alka nodded, “Yes, in the very heart of that barren wasteland, I found it: a cave system so large it could house countless of traitorous beasts. It must be their nest.” MoonRay was silent, daring Alka to explain himself further. “I took a small battalion to infiltrate their hideout. But we were sabotaged. It was Firefeather’s school of misfit flyers. He alerted our position in a foolish stunt and the rebellion was able to rally one of their strongest flanks. They were led by her, majesty.” A small fire began in the pit of the wolf-king’s stomach. “And where is she then?” His voice was horse. “Dead, m’lord. Firefeather’s doing. The only good thing that fool managed. And she won’t be found neither. The fire made sure of that.” As long as he does not act like his- MoonRay nodded, slowly. Why doesn’t he share your lovely eyes? “And the other task I entrusted you with,” the wolf-king spoke slowly. “Has it been retrieved?” Alka growled, “Stolen. The Receiver died in the fire as well, but that gryphon ran off with the gem. I sent word to some of our allies. All are keeping a keen eye out for the turncoat Firefeather.” MoonRay shared in the captain’s anger. “Well then,” he said seething. “It seems he has worn out his usefulness.” Alka nodded, “Just another brainless creature thinking he can best an eternal king and get away with it.” The white wolf paused, looking over the king. He could swear he was shaking. “I did however, my old friend,” Alka leaned in slowly, lowering his voice, “manage to make something of that fateful day.” They did not believe us, and yet here it is! MoonRay did not look at him, he sat rigid. “Expect a rather marvelous delivery soon. Something to satiate your hunger for justice and something else to ease… well, your physical hunger.” MoonRay’s mouth watered, and he licked his chops, pleased.
15. “Though there are some who may want you to share,” Alka leaned back, chuckling darkly. “Just this morning I dragged out an old coot making a scene at mealtime. He was practically rabid, crying out for a taste of flesh and the good old days. It seems some still aren’t too pleased with their fruits and veggies and their promise of peace among nations. I took care of things swiftly and discreetly of course.” Alka grinned, “But don’t worry, though I know you don’t mind eating things far past most would reason fresh,” he flicked his tail in the direction of the wall lined with spoiled refreshments,” he will not be included in my gift for you. He was already far too spoiled.” “Oh please,” MoonRay snickered, “You seem bent on making my stomach rumble.” Alka laughed, watching the king take a long sip of his tea. “How is Lathra?” Alka asked, muzzle half in his own cup. “I trust she is well?” MoonRay blinked. “Stargleam is doing simply fine.” The king leaned over and took another long sip from his drink. Alka shook is head, a sly grin spreading across his muzzle. “I hear you have chased her from your side. I can’t say I blame you. Her beauty surely is quite a distraction. Hard to stop a revolt when you can’t even get a good night’s rest. I know I wouldn’t.” MoonRay’s eyes narrowed into a poisonous gaze. “Indeed.” A thud could be heard from outside and not wishing to push his luck any further, Alka got up and made his way over to the opening in the wall to have a look. “Ah, right on time! Your gift has arrived.” MoonRay slowly rose and joined Alka at the opening. Below he could see wooden crates, one laden with chains, being hoisted off of a rickety raft on to an equally rickety dock. The one with chains shook vigorously and the attendants had to act quickly to prevent it from falling into the watery depths. “Excellent,” muttered the king. Not taking his eyes off the shipment he inquired one final time, “So, everything is in order?” “Precisely on schedule, just as they should be.” “In that case I will continue to prepare for the coming festival.” Alka coughed, clearing his throat. “Do you think differently, Alka?”
16. “Of course not, m’lord.” Alka paused, eyeing him cautiously. “Only some in our ranks seem to question our means of eternity, and they suspect a rise in the number of mandatory evacuations. I beseech your opinion on the matter, is all.” “Beseech you say,” the king guffawed. MoonRay smirked, watching as the ragged old paddler of the raft struggled to get the last crate onto the dock. “You worry too much, my friend. You have served me well. Soon, the Rebellion will be fully infiltrated and disbanded. The Council shall be pleased indeed.” “Aye, sir.” Continuing to watch, Alka saw as the crates were divided among which would be dispersed among the creatures of Nookon and which were to be sent directly to the king. The troublesome chained crate was part of the latter. “I should take my leave, your highness,” Alka muttered, offering MoonRay a small bow. “Very well,” said the king. He turned to watch the captain leave, calling out as soon as he reached the entryway, “And Alka, before you continue preparing for the meeting, I’d like you to inform your guards that there will be no more evacuations after the next full moon. No need to risk adding to the Rebellion if those fools manage to keep surviving.” Alka grinned, “Excellent, your majesty,” he said, as he ducked out to deliver the marvelous news.
17. It’s Simple In and out In and out My fingertips clutching at cold air Trembling An open pit Takes the air in And in and in and in and in and Heaving Blinking quicker Curling up Not even realizing it is happening Twitching So horribly heavy But entirely preventable Right Just take care of yourself Simple as that
18. I Painted a Picture I painted a picture of a butterfly. Bright and pink and pretty. I held it up for you And I smiled Just like you asked me to. I painted a mask at school today. It was a class project. It’s blue and shiny and smiling. Now I wear it Everyday. Just like I was taught to. I wear it to the library I wear it to church I wear it to school And even sometimes at home While I paint butterflies. I forgot what I painted today. Does it really matter? I should be doing something else with my time. I know you agree. That’s what everyone says. I painted a picture of a meadow today. It’s purple and grey and grey. Why is it so dark? Um the sun is going down. Then add some pink rays. I lost the blue mask today. But that is okay. I have several spares. In so many colors. But don’t worry, no rainbows. Only pink butterflies. Now I paint pictures of burning kingdoms. And crying animal faces. Twisted muzzles agonized by living flames
19. Amber eyes wet with tears they didn’t know they could cry Whiskers trembling, wondering if this is the end. Why are they so sad You ask. I decided They don’t have any pink butterflies. Well why don’t you paint them some.
20. Achilles I stared at the ceiling in utter disbelief. Air forcing its way into forgetful lungs. How had it known? That before I could fully wipe what I pretend is sleep from my eyes, That this song needed to reach my ears. The harsh strum of a tired violin echoed Throughout my thoughts, Wearing thin But with a message it desperately needed to convey. A name spoken firmly and deliberately, Over and over again, Hoping that if it was said enough times That maybe people would start to pay attention. Something rose in my throat As dry attempts at saving lives mixed with The message of one all too pleased at the possibility of every hope Left within a body Coming to an end. Get off the roof. Together they preached. Voices aching to take over the other. The tired violin finding vigor as hope once again rose
21. In the legs of one questioning giving up For the last time. They may have been convinced they were singing to Achilles. But I wouldn’t be too sure. Dulcet tones rise and fall as I still wonder, Eyes fixed on a cracking ceiling Unaware of how broken it is But completely uncaring regardless As throbbing beats die off And come to an end Leaving me with hot eyes And the strength to get out of bed.
23. Obit Soft. Too Soft. A lifetime of building walls To keep people from getting in, now lead To this. A world of locked doors and an Endless orange hallway. Silence ringing In my ears. Finally, it had happened. A caravan of joy and acceptance found When it was needed most, forced to Close the orange door and say goodbye. I hear a scuffle from behind. A black furry Face with curious lime eyes, boring into My grey, dry, aching orbs. He is perfectly Content with the condition of things. I am All his. No longer shared. No longer laughing. A statue among the graveyard of joys so Quickly forgotten. The cracking of stone And the rattle of chains, finally free from The bright box holding me prisoner. I Amble to the relief room, trading for a bright Bottle. When life is beyond your control, Control what you can. Dye your hair.
24. Livingston by Lauren Radaker There were golden days, warm days. At least I believe there once were. It's hard to recall. My mind is so clouded now, weary of keeping the things in the shadows at bay. But I swear I once knew warmth. I swear I once knew love, knew the sounds of birds chirping in an open sky. The days when we would sneak away as children to that secret glen, not knowing what lay on the other side of the hedges, basking in an afternoon sun instead of attending lessons on sewing and French, deciding the scolding that always followed was worthwhile if it meant more time by your side; they are long gone now. And yet, my memories are all tainted with tones of grey. ***** On the Livingston estate, flies were often the first indication that someone had passed on. Other times it was the sound of shrill screams filling the night air and the sight of the last light from the highest window being snuffed out. Or sometimes it was the Undertaker arriving at dawn, insisting he was in the presence of death, demanding to cart away a body. Or even on occasion, death was signified by the transparent form of someone who was alive and well yesterday materializing at the foot of my bed, shaking me awake and proclaiming that they are in fact dead, and asking what I was planning to do about it. “You are the lady of the house,” they always said, “and it seems that I have met my untimely end on your property! So, what shall you do about it?” It never failed that only the most entitled spirits found their way to my chambers. “Do?” I always asked. “It was your own unfortunate decision to come to an estate named for the living but cursed by the dead, and yet you still are surprised when you end up dead yourself?” This was usually followed by some rather unsavory remarks, and questions as to why I was the head of such an estate. But I would always simply roll over, as I never bothered to get out of bed for this next bit, and I would fish around in my nightstand until my fingers met with the jar of purified salt and sage I was constantly refilling. I would beckon the abhorrent specter closer, pretending to concede and claiming that I had something that would ease their passing to a better realm, then in an instant, throw a handful of the mix their way. The result was always the same; a puff of smoke
25. and betrayed wails as they disappeared, sometimes appearing in another part of the house, other times to who knows where. But either way, I was then able to roll back over, pull the sheets high over my head and go back to rest, pretending not to hear the cries of the bodiless damned coming from down the hall. In those days I strode about with purpose, heeled boots clicking on each creaking board that melted in with the moans of the lost souls trapped underneath them, and those wisely staying out of my path. In those days the spirits knew who was in charge. Most knew not to bother me with their trivial desires and their futile tears as they mourned being stuck between our world of the living and the next. Those who wasted my time with their wants found themselves nothing more than a puff of dust and a bad taste in my mouth. I could feel death in that house. Everyone could. It was tangible. I held its frigid hand with a domineering grasp the way the nanny grips the arm of a wicked child so they may not escape. I breathed in death every day; a dust that layered my lungs so that I exhaled it on anyone I came across. The Livingston estate was a burden I was charged with, but commanded with an iron fist, so even Death himself would fret taking me to live with him someday. I stopped at the cracked mirror at the end of the hall, eyeing it over. A pungent green mold was starting to form along its golden casing again and would need cleaning soon. I had tried to throw away that mirror countless times, yet somehow, it always ended up back in its post on the wall. My eyes glossed over the cracks in the glass and settled on my own solemn face. I tucked my dark flyaway waves back into the bun where they belonged and adjusted the buttons running up the neck of my grey fitted gown. Everything back then was grey. The house, my dress, the flat overarching sky, all desaturated to dissuade Life from stopping by Livingston for some tea and an afternoon chat. And it always rained. Rain clung to that place like a man to a woman when she says she isn’t his. It was ever present, and I seldom remember a time when my boots and skirts were not caked in mud when returning home, if it can be called that. Home is too kind a word to ever belong to such a place. The only true color that would grace those halls was red. Because she was red. I can still see her, though I try not to. Her auburn spiral curls cascaded down her bare ivory shoulders as she would poke fun at my accent in her own thick dialect. Red painted lips and red rouged cheeks matched plain red gowns that burned away the grey whenever she entered a room. It seemed she could never get enough of red, but red could also never get enough of her. It decided to claim her.
26. It stained her. It took her forever. I detest the color red. Her burning smile flickers away and is replaced with dripping crimson stains. Every time. They lied. I knew it was no accident. It couldn’t have been. At a place with such a horridly ironic name, Death had taken her from me. Death broke the mirror and pushed over the clock that crushed her. Forever stuck at three, while her red soaked into the carpets. I can still hear it chime, from the bottom of the lake. It still ticks. And ticks and ticks and ticks and- I want to scream. For all that would come and visit me in the dead of night, why couldn’t my Isobel be among them? When the Undertaker arrived the morning after, unannounced and uninvited as usual, he took the last bit of color in that estate with him. The head housekeeper and several of the maids had held me back as I screamed and tried to pry her out of his clutches, and for that, they were all sacked, along with the rest of the house staff. They begged not to be let go, when they should have been thanking me. They were only concerned about their livelihoods, when they should have feared for their very lives. That day was the last I remember venturing off Livingston property, when I went back to our hidden little glen by the pond. The very land was in preparation for mourning her, coated in a glistening dew with indents of brown grass where we used to lay for hours staring above and wishing that things would one day be different. The spot where she asked me if I would ever marry, and I told her that I wouldn’t if I could help it. The spot where I held her as she told me of horrible things the refined gentlemen she served every night would do and say after only a single pint. The spot where I told her my parents has no son, and that I was to be the lady of Livingston. That day my feet felt like hot coals, prodded and poked at as I ventured steps further from the estate. It was a curse, one of several, that reminded the Livingston family where their place truly was and that they should stay put. But the Fates could have thrown a whole heap of burning embers onto my head that day and it wouldn’t
27. have pulled me from that spot. Nothing would. Except for what I saw over the hedges. How had we never bothered to look? How had we never cared? Moving past pricking bushes to see what the trees beyond overshadowed, taking steps that could never be retracted, I saw it. The horrid, horrid joke. All those years of talk and play, wishing away the days, wishing we could stay together there forever, we were only a handful of feet away from the O’Reiley family plot, so far removed from the other gravesites, the space had forgotten it was one. Before me lay the final resting places of what few relatives Isobel had here in England. And there was space in front of them recently distrubed, with dark churned earth beneath the gravedigger’s shovel. ***** I closed the doors and shuttered the windows. I dissuaded anyone from coming near Livingston after that. Yet some still found their way in. Most claimed their condolences, but I knew better. No one ever approved of Isobel, so they never received any sympathy from me when most of them ended up leaving the manor the same way she did. Things had changed, and I needed to adapt. Before Isobel was taken from the house, spirits came to Livingston seeking aid in passing on and were attended to diligently. But afterwards, Death himself walked those halls day and night, claiming subjects for his kingdom at a rate too quick for anyone to comprehend. So I didn’t. The spirits were left to their own devices as I was content to live the rest of my days as the Lady of the Livingston alone, no greater than a shade myself. But it was the day I found the silver key on my nightstand when everything fell apart. Attached to the key with a bit of twine was a note that read: Use Me. Unlock Me. Find Me. I laughed. I had no patience for riddles or games and would not be tricked into some trap or tumble down some spirit’s rabbit hole. I tucked the key inside my dress pocket, intending to store it in the trunk of occult goods I had compiled over the years, and went on with my day. Everything played out as it always had. The empty piano played in the grand hall the same songs, the pictures whispered as I walked past, chattering on about gossip just loud enough for me to hear, and the kitchen furnace turned off and on while glasses smashed on the floor. It was all in order. Then I saw the water on the staircase. Only it was not the water itself that caught my attention. It was the ribbon soaked and mangled, traveling up the bannister like a strangled serpent and a splattering of red that bled into the spreading puddles. Red. My shoulders tensed. I sneered. For all the undead that roamed the grounds day and night, knew that that hue was highly forbidden.
28. Just as I was considering dusting the entirety of the manor in holy water and sage, I heard the grand front doors fly open and from the top of the stairs I could see a man dressed in a gray suit with a stiff handlebar mustache. It was also in that moment I wished I had bothered to lock the doors. He wore a red bow tie. “Hello! Is this house still occupied by the living, or only the dead?” he called out. I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath, picking up my skirt and shuffling to the side of the wetness on the staircase. “Ah! There she is! Niece! Still lovely as ever, though a bit paler than I remember.” “Hello Uncle Damien, what brings you here? Decided to come back and finally take over the estate, have you?” I forced a smile. He laughed deeply, shaking his head, and put a hand on my shoulder, “Of course not my dear, this place runs in your family’s blood, not mine. But I couldn’t possibly hide my concern when word in town reached my ever open ears. Is it true? Are you trapping the dead within these very walls?” “You mean, have I stopped that arduous task of remaining at the dead’s every beck and call? Simply putting it, yes. Is that all?” I had stopped smiling. Uncle Damien stopped as well. “Have you gone mad?” “Quite the contrary.” He eyed me closely. His hand slipped down into his pocket and fished around for moments that felt like months. “I didn’t want it to have to come to this, I really didn’t,” he said. “For I knew how much this might upset you, but I can see no other way to make you see reason.” I took a step back, imagining what he might have brought. From his pocket, he lifted a silver chain and a delicate silver locket encrusted with brilliant rubies. My face flushed. I gently touched the matching silver key that still lay quiet in my own pocket. “H-how did you come by that necklace?” I stammered. I swear that he chuckled. “Don’t you see?” he said. “It is her. She has returned.” “No!” I screamed, “You’re a liar!” “My dear Adelaide, why would I lie about something like this?” “Why would she go to you? You always detested her!” “Perhaps it is because she did not trust you to aid her as you should.”
29. My knuckles were white. My blood boiled. I could have killed him right there if I thought it would do any good. He held out the locket with an extended arm, and I stumbled back, like a demon repelled by a crucifix. I fell against the stairs, unable to hide hot tears that bubbled over. I had collapsed in a heap of pathetic heaving sobs, grasping at the bannister with hands not strong enough to lift me. “Don’t you see?” he went on, “Isobel wants you to do as you should, continue as your great family always has for generations.” “Stop! Do not torment me so!” I screamed through tears that sought to choke what life I had left out of me. “Take your cruelty elsewhere!” A thunderous laughter shook the estate, and I clutched the railing closer. “Why can’t you understand? You have ignored the only purpose of the entire Livingston line! You are meant to help with spirits crossing over into the next realm. Instead, you keep them prisoner here!” He bent down on one knee, bringing the locket only inches away from my face. “Take it away!” He shook his head. “You have bastardized this entire estate, now no better than a hellscape of the damned! Why? To what end is your wickedness? It knows no bounds!” I screamed back through chattering teeth, “I never wanted this! To be a herald between worlds and a servant to Death! I did everything as I was told, and then what? Everything I cared about was ripped away and carted off in a body bag! So why should I serve the dead if Death only desires to mock me?” The perfectly groomed man’s face darkened. I swear a single hair sprung up from his quaffed mustache. “And for what was all this for? Why me? Tell me why! What did I do to deserve this?” “You always were a selfish brat, only thinking of yourself.” He looked as if he could strike me. There was a cracking noise beginning above me, but I had not the strength to look up. Dust rained down onto us, dirtying Uncle Damien’s perfect facade. “Then tell me what Isobel did to deserve death!” Her name clung to my lips like bitter fruit. He spoke flatly, devoid of any emotion. “Death does not discriminate. He takes all kinds in his kingdom; saints, savages, and even red-hooded harlots.” I wanted him dead. I willed it with all that was within me.
30. He dropped the necklace into my shaking lap. It was then I thought I could hear her voice in my head. For the first time in years, I could hear her, echoing louder and louder until my ears rang and I could not hear my own screaming protests. Adelaide. Adelaide where are you? I wanted her at my side, but not there. Not in that house, in a sea of suffering souls I was all too happy to send to somewhere worse. But something else came to my side. Black flowing fabric crossed my gaze as a long curved blade landed before me. It took several blinks to clear my tears and realize that this blade blocked me from another, held by my uncle’s hand which had begun to tremble. He could see it too. The black fabric shifted and I saw the outline of a figure vaguely human. It held up the thinnest, boniest finger I had ever seen to where its lips should have been and made a faint hissing sound. Slowly and purposefully it lifted the locket from my lap and placed it on the scythe before me. My uncle wisely lowered his dagger. The images that appeared in the reflection of the curved blade still stain my mind like a spilled glass of wine on a white table cloth. No matter what, you will never be rid of the crimson color. That specter showed me everything. I saw Isobel in her brilliant red dress, headstrong as ever. She was closing the door to my chambers. Then I saw Damien alone with her in the main hall. They were speaking, and I could tell, per usual, Isobel did not agree with whatever my uncle had to say. I saw him thrust her into the wall. I saw her red dress catch under her feet. I saw her head meet with the mirror, and Damien’s arm to her thin neck. I saw her try to push him back. I saw her trip. And the clock fall. Dong dong dong. The clock struck three. I saw red. Damien ran. I ran out too late.
31. The figure lowered the blade, turning it slowly so that the sharp end pointed at the trembling chest of my horrid uncle. His own dagger dropped and clattered to the floor. “You.” I had to force the word from my mouth. “You.” Damien’s gaze was constantly moving between me and the cloaked figure. My muscles remembered how to work. I rose, pointing a furious finger at the murderer who had caused me so much pain. “It was you!” “Oh shut it!” He yelled back through clenched teeth. “What was I supposed to do? That tramp was bringing shame upon this household, and you only encouraged it! I told her to leave, she would not listen!” It was my turn to laugh. Long and hard and cruel. “Shame? Is that it? You were always so bitter that this house was not your own, that you were not burdened with such glorious purpose as being a Charon of the earth!” I shook my head, blinking back more tears. “I would have let you take it! Everything! This entire estate! But now, I think it is high time you call Livingston home. Forever.” I strode ahead on my protector, scooping up my uncle’s blade, poised and ready to strike. But the figure protested, putting a hand with skin stretched tight ahead of me. They once again made the hissing sound from their teeth, and pointed their massive scythe at Damien, slowly moving towards the cowering fool in my place. Dong. Dong. Dong. My shoulders tensed as the invisible clock rang out. No, that can’t be possible. Damien had arrived in the early stretch of the afternoon, how could it possibly be three in the morning? My attention drifted from the scene before me to the curved window above the doors. How had I not noticed the darkness creeping in? Like thick globs of ink, a dark matter was inching its way through cracks in the walls. It had nearly covered the ceiling. What was this that had so suddenly appeared at my side? My rescuer? There was a skittering behind me, and I turned to seek its source, but just as I did, a blood curdling scream shook the world. It came from my uncle. I closed my eyes, ignoring the pitch black hall. I took a deep breath and completed my turn. I saw him lying there. A pool of red was spreading underneath him, the creature’s scythe still lodged in his torso. He was practically in two. His quaffed mustache was somehow, of course, still intact.
32. I clutched at my mouth stifling a gag. I had seen more than my fair share of carnage, but nothing quite so brutal: Damien was not dead. His feet kept twitching. I could see his lungs pumping, desperately trying to provide air to something they were no longer connected to. This was the only time I ever felt pity for that man, trapped between life and death in a house that did not allow its caretakers and their families to die, at least, not on its property. I considered dragging what bits of him I could outside, letting his misery end, but the cloaked figure turned, staring at me with empty sockets where eyes should have been. Still watching me, it clutched its blade, easily dislodging it from Damien and the floor beneath him. It reached for something from the folds of its cloak. I dared not move. It revealed a piece of parchment with a skeletal extended arm. I stood in my place. It shook the parchment, seemingly aggravated. I took the few steps, closing the gap between us, and took the note. “I don’t understand. What is this?” My eyes moved like a pendulum, back and forth over the words presented to me, most in a language I could not understand. But the words in big bold letters at the bottom were hard to miss: Eviction. Discharged from Service. I can not entirely recall what happened next. I know it happened in seconds. The figure stepping in, the glint of the scythe overhead, the sound of a thousand screams coming from the hall behind me, the notice falling from my hands. I don’t much care for the missing details. Because I do know that when I woke up I was somewhere warm. There was a single gaslight lantern pulsing gold light in the darkness. And I was in her arms. She was humming and curling my hair with her ivory fingers. Both of us were bathed in trickling red.
33. Secrets Nose buried with eyes and mind elsewhere. Going deeper with ears covered. Don’t hear it. Take deep breaths. Turn the next page. Really. Everything is fine. The Lady doth protest too much. Well what if I don’t protest at all? I indulge all of my secrets. Every last one. To any ear willing to listen. That’s called unhealthy. Or so I have learned. Wanting to be on someone’s mind Instead of just on everyone’s nerves. Giving up traumas and tribulations. Reaching out a hand to the nearest passerby Saying, “Listen, I’ve seen some real shit.” I’m sorry. I am not supposed to swear. I am not supposed to do lots of things. On the very straight and narrow I must have slipped somewhere. Not sure if I fell off the edge. I must have Or else I wouldn’t have said- Zipper those lips shut honey. They were born to do wretched things. And you can’t even help it. You were born a sinner. Be perfect anyways. Cloudy eyes turned dry Until they were grey.
34. A mind too tired with Fingers wrung and numb And shaking Always shaking. You are so wonderful darling. Pumpkin pie, grab a brush. How do you feel today? Add a little blue and make it better. You look like you are running on sixty percent. Tell me about it. I am running on thirty. Maybe it was the paint fumes That made me tell her When I wouldn’t tell you. I stopped protesting and saying “I am just really tired.” Like a movie reel in my mind, The lines, the mirrors, the color red. You should have said less. Because your tears nearly killed me. Hands back, your head shaking. I didn’t know what to do. No no no no no. Tell me it isn’t true. I had never seen loving someone hurt so bad. We decided it was best if they did not know those words were mine. They could belong to anyone. Anyone could say “I am so ridiculously sad I don't know what to do.” Anyone could protest too much. And then just stop talking.
35. Years and eons onward. Always the same. A racing mind with words chewed and swallowed. Ongoing expanses blanketed in grey. Yet somehow worse. Yet somehow better. Gripping so tight You are slipping through my fingers. With a tongue tied back I can’t even ask you to stay Not that you would want to. I’m sure of it. Fake energy to keep my eyes open Something in the shadows slinking And chewing on my feet. The only one who really cares. He has his own issues. But they love him anyways. You never call anymore. I just want to know you are okay. I love you. But I think we both know the answer. Or maybe you don’t, because I stopped telling you my secrets A long time ago. Even though I thought I never shut up.