Getting Through Each Day: Honesty

Earlier today, I was informed on a review that I wrote a short time ago that I was wrong when I made a statement (the bread and butter of internet criticisms) and that “what I meant” was something completely different.

Now that first part, it’s easy to let that roll off my back. It’s a pretty common thing to find, and I often use that sort of phrasing unfairly when I am simply disagreeing with an opinion, not meaning to discount it or take it for granted. Everyone has the right to their thoughts and ideas, whether we agree with them or not.

But when you start to question why I wrote what I did, suggest that I was meaning some other, random, hidden message I squirreled away for the observant reader, or that I was too fucking stupid to write the sentence in a way that properly expressed the point you’re trying to make, that’s when I start to lose my temper.

In my life, I pride myself on the fact that I try to be as earnest with everyone as possible about any and all aspects of my life. I’ve never been one to hide things personally, and I see no need to. Sure, I’ve been one to make mistakes, but I’d rather admit to them and allow myself to progress as an individual that hide them and try to forget they ever happened.

The only exception to this rule of honesty is if I’m questioned about the personal or private information of someone else, which in good conscious I cannot and will not share. Rather, I’ll make statements explaining how it’s not my business or place to share that sort of thing, which is still true but not in the open way I’ve tried to form my own life. Just because this is how I live doesn’t mean others need to be subjected to the same lifestyle against their wishes.

This policy started only a few months ago, when my ex, while walking through the woods with me one afternoon, made an important observation, but for this to make sense, I need to explain a certain theme I apply to my life.

Over the years, I’ve felt like I’ve been surrounded by those who value who they want or pretend to be over who they are, putting on faces and acting friendly. It’s a tiresome game that I learned to hate as early as high school, often applying the idea of masks to the situation. Everyone wears masks, hiding their true selves and intentions, attempting to present who they believe is their ideal selves rather than face the flawed person they actually are.

So as we walked through the woods, having a heated discussion over various events that preceded and came after our breakup, I grew rather frustrated and angry at the discovery that, once again, I had been lied to by my ex. At this point, it feels like a rather common occurrence, and one that actively contributed to the end of the relationship. I had begun referencing masks, an idea my ex was far too familiar with, when another hiker crossed our path, asking how our days were. Being polite, I quickly straightened myself up, put on a smile, and let him know I was having great day, and I hoped he did too. As we moved out of earshot, my ex made a statement that will stay with me for the rest of my life:

“You know, for someone who hates masks, you have a pretty good one.”

That simple phrase struck me in a way I cannot fully express, shaking the core of my understanding of how I presented myself.

A common joke in college, being an English major, is that half of my degree was the art of bullshitting. Many of the papers were composed not of my opinions but of those that were expected of me, occasionally asking us to feel profound things that, simply put, I didn’t. Similarly, I had grown rather skilled at lying, making my way in and out of shitty situations through the use of a few falsehoods. Having always had a way with words and people, I never found this to be entirely difficult or challenging.

Yet, prior to this I had never stopped to consider the moral implications of lying, what it is a tool, and what it actively does to us, as people and as a society. Many people use the excuse that they lie because they are protecting others, but that is a heinous and selfish falsehood. Lying is used to protect the liar for one simple truth;

Lies are made to prevent or alter the natural evolution of the status quo. Or, in other words, lies are used to maintain a self-serving status quo.

This is more easily applied to those lies that reference things that try to disguise events or facts that have already occurred but supposedly hadn’t, attempting to maintain and preserve the current status quo rather than allowing it to evolve naturally. It’s surprising how far people are willing to go to hide from that change, to prevent the intense shift of a social paradigm. If such a lie needs to be perpetuated, clearly change needs to occur in order for anyone to get better.

Meanwhile, there are those lies that look to actively change what the status quo is, altering the facts in a way that makes it a catalyst for change. These, I find, are much rarer to come across, but often more damaging in the long-term, shaping lives moving forward based on lies that should have had no impact to begin with. Ultimately, they still maintain the same problems; rather than be honest about the life everyone currently exists in, the liar attempts to alter perspectives to present their idealized status quo rather than what should actually come to pass.

In either instance, it’s clear that lies can be largely damaging, sometimes catastrophic, to the lives of those that are on the receiving end, shaping perspectives and plans that are ultimately fruitless due to them not having all the correct information.

And yes, no one is perfect, me least of all. I still lie time to time, often unintentionally, like a habit. But when I catch myself doing it, I actively try and force myself to correct the lie in the moment rather than letting it fester and perpetuate.

So yes, while some people may not agree with or like what I say, I’d rather be honest and straightforward with those around me than actively contribute to harmful views or impressions of the world at large. Even if that means getting harassed on the internet by strangers. (I imagine that, given time, I’ll find some rather interesting comments on this post in particular).

Getting Through Each Day: Childhood

Children have always been a large part of my life, but it’s only until recently that I’ve fully come to appreciate the full weight of that statement.

I worked as a camp counselor for four years, specializing in the youngest age group (seven- to ten-year-olds).

I’ve always been the family member to adore all my new baby nieces and nephews, helping however I can when I see them, even with diaper changes.

I babysit my friend’s two-year-old on a weekly basis, a little cutie who gets up to a ton of mischief if left alone for but a moment.

And, perhaps most impactfully, one of the reasons why my fiance left me was because they changed their mind as to whether or not they wanted to have children. Rather than airing the fact that they no longer felt the desire to have kids with me (among a variety of other truths left unsaid), they chose to leave, saying that it was for the best.

And, for a time, I swore, to myself and the world, that maybe I didn’t want kids. Maybe kids weren’t an important part of my life, a fact only reinforced by a few negative experiences with them around that same time frame. Having to move out of my ex’s apartment, I found myself living with two children, around the ages of four and seven. These kids, not being relatives of mine, had a somewhat turbulent life up until this point, only made more so by my sudden arrival and the appearance of other factors in their lives (factors which I don’t feel necessarily comfortable sharing here).

Needless to say, these stressful circumstances would frequently appear as temper tantrums or general misbehavior. I would be woken at five in the morning on occasion by their screams as they raced toy cars down the banisters of the stairwell. They would have bombastic freak-outs right before bed due to being kept up well past their bedtime. It became somewhat agonizing, and with my friend’s two-year-old liking to push boundaries (a quality that I previously found endearing but suddenly became frustrating), it was becoming clearer, in my eye, that kids weren’t for me.

As you may gather by my tone or the terms I’m using, I was in denial, partly out of a want to reunite with my ex and partly due to my own ever-shifting life, and seeing it constantly shift out of control. Do I want kids of my own? Maybe. But are children a wildly important part of my life? Absolutely.

All of this became fairly clear to me in a flash. I was playing Hearthstone, an online card game, in my free-time when the seven-year-old who resides in my current residence came up to me and started asking excited questions about the cards on the screen. I began to explain how the game worked, keeping explanations fairly simple and straightforward, showing her just how bad at the game I am. She was incredibly receptive to what I was saying, having played Magic: The Gathering in the past, a fact that, I’ll admit, surprised me. Sure, she wasn’t building the decks herself, but at the age of seven, I don’t know if I would have the understanding or comprehension to really understand that sort of game.

At one point, she asked to try a match for herself, which I happily said yes to, and while she needed a helping hand playing cards or activating different effects, she was genuinely enjoying herself, comprehending much of the game for the most part, and bonding. She would ask me advice about this, that, or the other thing, not just about the game but my thoughts on movies, attitudes, life as a whole. It became clear that I was more than someone to play games with, but some sort of guiding force, someone who could help her get through the world, someone she could trust.

She saw that I had cooked up some food for myself (a steak with some veggies), and asked if she could try some. I cut her a piece, she tried it and found herself elated, saying how good it was and asking for more. Afterwards, she went as far to ask if I could cook her some myself, which I, unfortunately, explained that I didn’t have the ingredients to make more, a not entirely honest statement I’ll admit, but a necessary one. I wasn’t about to step on the toes of her parents, who had a habit of serving them prepackaged meals or simple sandwiches.

Afterwards, she hesitantly asked if maybe we could possibly play Magic or Hearthstone another day when we both had free time. I quickly reassured her that, yes, of course, we could play again at some point. Since then, we’ve played a couple games of Magic, after which she sat nearby while I worked asking various questions about the stickers on my laptop, the work that I do, the music I listen to, and so on. While her parent was quick to remind her that I was working and didn’t need to be bothered, I reassured them that I didn’t mind.

And it all comes back to this; there are few things that make me happier in life than:

1. People
2. Honesty
3. Teaching
4. Intelligent Conversation

My interactions with this seven-year-old satiated all of these high priorities of mine. I was interacting with a person, a meaningful individual who is very active in my life. Some might hesitate to refer to a child in such a manner, but one of the most important things anyone can do for a child treats them like an adult.

We’ve all had those moments when we’ve felt talked down to, handled with kid gloves, not really treated well because of our age, and that’s simply unfair, and often leads to emotional issues later on in life. I’m a firm believer of nurture over nature, ie that the way we are raised makes a larger impression on who we are as people than any innate personality traits we may or may not be born with. I’ve seen this effect very prominently in those kids that I worked with at the summer camp I previously worked at, and I continue to see it in my friends’ kids, for better or worse.

It’s wildly important to be providing kids with positive role models to look up to, people who don’t just act in positive ways, but interact with them in positive ways, treating them like adults early on so they can grow up to treat themselves like adults, nurturing smart and ethical behaviors from the offset.

Much of that will come from a child’s innate honesty. Much of this comes from the fact that kids haven’t faced the world and all its made-up rules yet. What’s considered “socially acceptable” doesn’t matter to them, nor does any concerns for appearing weird or different. They simply are who they are, and this is a mindset that we should all envy and live to be like.

We, as a people, live out of concern for how others see us rather than how we see ourselves. We constantly strive for approval, for being told that we’re good or worthwhile, that we’ve been accepted in a world we feel so alone in. And these feelings are incredibly valid; I feel the very heavily on a day to day basis, especially now. Yet we cannot allow that search to shape who we are as people, as so many of us do. We wear masks in hopes of disguising our true intentions, wants, thoughts, hiding behind platitudes and easy responses.

In the words of Emerson, “In the minds of geniuses, we find - once more - our own neglected thoughts.” In other words, those of us who are emotionally smart enough aren’t afraid of being themselves, allowing to speak of all the difficulties and uncertainties that many of us would hesitate to express even to ourselves.

And the weird thing is, we’ve all had it at some point in our lives; as kids. We were all there, and somewhere down the road, it was lost, suddenly and jarringly. We allowed ourselves to lose that honesty because of our fears of what anyone else might think.

In many ways, children have become role models for me due to this. I want to recover that honesty, combining it with the emotional intelligence that I have cultivated for myself. Someone once said to me, “You know, for someone who hates masks, you sure put on a pretty good one,” a statement that has inspired a revolution in how I see the world and how I hope to continue to interact with it.

But I’ll save that for another time.

In the same vein, as kids are teaching me things about myself, I hope to teach them positive life lessons moving forward. I’ve always loved teaching and had something of a gift for it. I’ve been told by many members of my gaming groups that they would not enjoy board games nearly as much if I was not the one teaching them, due to how well I explain and guide people through the different stages and aspects of each game.I take pride in my ability to present those around me with new perspectives and ideas of how I view the world and various things mean to me.

Perhaps my ability to teach partially stems from that complete honesty I try and foster, that by forcing myself to be as straightforward as possible as I can about all things, I thus make content more accessible through that honesty. That being said, a number of paragraphs ago I mentioned that I had lied, so clearly I have some work to do in that manner. But still, I feel it potentially worth noting or considering whether or not there’s some correlation of these ideas.

Anyway.

At the end of the day, we can only pass on what we have to offer, and while any physical objects will wither and die sooner rather than later, knowledge can be continually passed on. It too will die eventually, but I believe it will last longer and spread more easily than any object. My hope is that the knowledge I have to offer can benefit those around me in a positive way.

But again, a topic for another time.

Many would question how I can have an intelligent conversation with a seven-year-old, how I could learn from someone so young, how I could treat them like an adult. It’s an unfortunate stigma that permeates our society and actively works to damage our kids because of it. When I say “treat like adults,” what I mean is holding them responsible, within reason, for their actions. Expose them to difficult topics in safe environments at appropriate ages rather than shielding them from those things. Arming them with knowledge, kindness, and understanding rather than expecting them to simply find them through experiences, experiences that will inevitably have damaging or incorrect aspects attached to them.

In this way, talking to a child can lead to some of the most intelligent conversations, as many of their questions will inevitably lead to you questioning your understanding of the topic. When I was talking with the seven-year-old, her four-year-old sibling shouted “fuck”, an action that was quickly reprimanded by her parent. At this point, the seven-year-old, curious, said that “yeah, we shouldn’t use that word because it’s mean, and not many people use that word, right?” While my first instinct was to mindlessly agree, I instead presented this: “Well, a lot of people actually use that word quite a lot, often because they are frustrated with the world and don’t know how else to express it. So rather than saying ‘I’m angry’ or ‘I’m upset,’ they say that word in hopes of expressing that, but also to lash out and hurt other people in the process.”

Now, I’m someone who curses. A lot. More often than not, this is done jokingly or without negative connotations attached to it, but the conversation got me thinking about how I speak and whether or not attaching those terms are in fact negatively impacting my ability to express myself. Because while I spoke honestly when speaking with the seven-year-old, I also know that “fuck” doesn’t have to be a negative term, depending on the context and environment it is said in.

Still, the conversation got me thinking about this idea in a wildly different and interesting way, probably in a way that I otherwise wouldn’t have considered it. Thus, I was having an intelligent conversation with a unique individual, one that couldn’t easily be replicated when talking to most adults.

It’s been hard to face much of these ideas or even discuss them due to some deep-seated fears of mine, but this is a topic that, I feel is worth exploring. We can help to make kids happier, healthier, and better for a wildly more positive life than the ones we live, and, in turn, they will help us become better in the process.

Listen

Listen

I don't expect you
to understand.
It's not like anyone
does anymore,
telling me that I'm
too busy thinking
with my heart
to hear my head
screaming itself hoarse
trying to
show me
trying to
tell me
trying to
pull me out of
some abyss I've
dug for myself,
but they're wrong.
They don't hear
the drumming beat
that courses through
my chest,
a rhythm that
invades my very core,
reminding me
day after goddamned day
that I have a choice,
and I'll never give
that up.

There are some
that do see,
though,
those that drum
alongside me,
show me that
perhaps I'm not alone,
that there is a band,
a loving percussion
to march alongside,
however small it may be.
And as the world
stomps along
to its own destructive tune,
I hold on to
the tempo
that's brought me this far,
the silly sonnet
that I can't help
but dance to,
laugh with,
sing at,
love.

There will always
be those whispers
that hiss into my ears
like an airy tape worm,
trying to rip into me,
tear out the good bits,
leaving a pile of
rotting poor intentions.
And I'll rip
each one out
with a self-assurance,
with satisfaction,
with a broad smile
on my face,
the one reserved for those
who can never truly know
what they mean to me.
But,
if they were to ask,
I'd tell them that
it's my way of saying
thank you
for not leaving
me alone.

The Heart That Beats for Many

The Heart That Beats for Many

You may not see it now,
but you are such
a beautiful person.
You hold your head high
when every passing person
seems to want to pull you down.
You see a world
filled with hypocrites and liars,
yet you still seem
to manage to smile
here and there.
You carry the voices
of many,
those lost along the road;
you speak for those
who can't help it anymore.

And yes,
I can see that
your heart is heavy,
that it drags
with the weight
of so much.
I can feel its beat
from miles away,
such a powerful rumble,
such a magnificent sound.
It thumps at the tempo
of a hummingbird's wings,
swaying this way and that
out of the sheer effort.

But that doesn't mean
you have to set down somewhere,
some dank out-of-the-way place,
and be alone.
That doesn't mean
that the world is worth
giving up on just yet.

You never need to face this world alone.
Not while I'm here for you.

It may seem silly now,
may seem absurd and unreal.
And I get that;
most people think that too
the first time I say it.
But those who have stuck around
know better.

Let me carry
some of that burden with you.
It may not be much help,
but I hope it's enough.



I leave you with this quote from Lord of the Rings: The Twin Towers:

Frodo: I can't do this, Sam. 

Sam: I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something. 

Frodo: What are we holding onto, Sam? 

Sam: That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for. 

Leaves

Here's a short story that I wrote for my Writing Fantastic Fiction class. Please give me some feedback and let me know what you think.

Leaves

It took years of practice, but eventually Liam found he could identify a sword simply by plunging it into his chest. It was like shrugging on a new shirt each morning; somehow, he could feel the difference. He suspected it had something to do with the texture, the polish, the rippling shudder that shot through the gleaming metal as it lodged itself in a comfortable place, a familiar cot to rest in.

He had stopped counting how many times he’d done it; there was hardly any point. The scars had tried keeping track for him at first, reaching out from his healing wounds and wrapping around his skin like the rings of a tree. But soon they began to morph and writhe, snaking around one another, knotting themselves together in the cacophony.

Only the humongous scab that coated his sternum remained stagnant amidst the madness, plate armor he could never take off. Liam had tried removing it before, chipping away at it with a chisel and hammer. He had felt around the lumpy clod of hardened pain for a weak point, a chink, some sort of opening that he might break through; all he ever found beneath was more blood. He had wondered if there was anything underneath anymore, if there was a heart still beating below the surface.

He didn’t really care anymore.

Liam had begun carrying a sword with him everywhere he went when he turned fourteen years old. At first, he tried carrying around a dagger, but it just didn’t pierce deep enough anymore; there was no feeling of satisfaction. But, more importantly, he was tired of having to go home and stab himself on his own time. And bed sheets were expensive; he didn’t want to have to ruin anymore. He only got so much allowance for waking up every morning. Sure, it was a chore, and he felt he deserved the cash after all. But that didn’t mean he needed to spend it all so he could get back in bed at the end of the day. He might as well have never left at that rate.

Matthias was the only other person Liam knew of who shared his enthusiasm in blades. He didn’t really use them for anything though; he preferred mounting them in a variety of ways, like a hunter would stuffed animals. He would pose them to fight one another in the air, the swordsmen obscured by the imagination. Some he would simply have sticking out of the floor, like weeds that were found to periodically sprout out of the concrete. Matthias had once tried to make his own Iron Throne after watching a few episodes of Game of Thrones. His ass was so cut up he couldn’t walk properly for a month.

All his swords were medieval in some manner. His favorite was a replica of King Arthur’s sword, which he hung from the ceiling above his head, the blade pointing downwards. He figured if he was to be killed in his sleep, it might as well be in the warrior’s way.

Not that it had ever killed Liam, but he didn’t say it out loud. Everyone had to have dreams, he figured, even if they were hopeless.

Liam was nearly twenty when he first met Elizabeth. The first thing he noticed about her was her hair, a stream of gold shining down her shoulders and back. It captured the best moments of autumn, when the leaves were just the right color, caught in the wind, flowing with a veracity that cannot be contained. It had a wildness to it, an energy that could not be explained. And, down at the tips, red flecks shone as if someone had ignited them; he worried that it was only a matter of time before it all disappeared, burnt away from its own sheer beauty.

The second thing he noticed was her tail.

Elizabeth said that it was a wolf’s tail, although Liam wasn’t entirely sure how she could tell. He insisted it had to be a fox’s tail, not that he would know. It’s not like he had anything to compare it to. Years later, Liam inquired how or why or what or where it even came from, but she never gave him a straight answer; he suspected that she liked the mystery of it all. He asked why she only had a tail. She said she had misplaced her fangs somewhere, giving him a toothy grin. Sure enough, Liam didn’t see any fangs in her smile, only sincere glee.

Elizabeth is an aspiring leaf sculptor. Not was, is. I don’t think she’ll ever give up. It’s one of the things I love most about her.

On the tenth day they knew each other, Elizabeth brought Liam to the valley where she did her work. Try as he might, Liam couldn’t see any grass amidst the sea of leaves she worked in, a constantly churning mass that would rise and fall with the wind, the waves dancing to and fro with a cunning tempo that made Liam’s heart soar.

Elizabeth’s sculptures were incredible to Liam, if only because she was the one who made them. He could never really tell what they were supposed to be. He never asked; that would be rude. But he didn’t care what they were either; they didn’t have to be anything to be magnificent, to capture an emotion so potently that it can’t be explained, to make Liam feel alive again.

He hadn’t felt alive in a long time.

Liam had been raised in a cinderblock box of a house, with the walls, coarse and callous as they were, claiming him for their own. When he was younger, he would rush out the door each morning so fast that they couldn’t catch him, traipsing out into the world of light that shone brilliantly in his eyes, and where there was more than one hue to behold.

He remembered trying to guess what color the sky was each day with his eyes clamped shut, simply by smelling the air; he was only wrong half the time. He would try this with everything; the rough, rotting bark on the dead trees in his backyard, the slimy, stench of the yellowing snails that squished down the street, the steaming-hot cars that would be parked along the road. Sometimes, he would see if he could change the shades of things just by closing his eyes and wishing it really really hard.

He tried changing the color of his house at least once every day.

Hiking was what he enjoyed most of all. It was like walking through a kaleidoscope to him, with all the patterns there for him to reach out and touch. He would run through the woods with a child-like wonder that couldn’t be stymied until he saw everything nature had to offer. He would not be denied, and his parents knew it. They never tried to stop him, though they did worry. They would stand anxiously in the frame of the back door, watching their son pretend he was a bird for the umpteenth time, leaping from a tree branch, flapping his arms wildly to a tempo all their own.

Hunting was a big pastime where Liam lived. Everyone had tried it at one time or another, or so Liam was told. He knew that was a lie, as he had never intended to himself. His father had tried time and again to get Liam to give it a shot, with promises of adventure and new sights and smells. He even took Liam to the shooting range every day for a month to show him just how cool it could be. “You could be like a Stormtrooper,” he would say, holding up the hunting rifle.

“The Rebel Alliance never employed any animals,” Liam replied matter-of-factly.

“What about all those aliens?”

“They just look like animals; they don’t count.”

Elizabeth’s tail wagged whenever she would talk of her sculptures. She would talk of them endlessly, her bright blue eyes shining at the thought of just one more statue she could create. When they were walking about, she would stop to scoop some leaves off the ground. “This’ll be perfect,” she would say to herself quietly, tucking them away in her back pocket, which rested just to the right of the hole she had made to accommodate her furry appendage. By the end of the day, it would be bulging with new materials. Sometimes, Elizabeth would teasingly tell him to stop staring, not that he ever was; he wondered if she asked if she queried to encourage him, but Liam knew this was a dangerous line of thinking. But he considered it nonetheless.

He couldn’t help himself; something about her made him so content to simply be beside her. One afternoon, he had tried to come up with all the reasons, writing himself a list; he realized after a while he would never finish if he kept writing, so he went to go see Elizabeth instead.

She was working in her private gallery again. Liam never understood her work ethics or methods, if he was honest with himself. But that didn’t really matter; some things can simply be, no comprehension required. Elizabeth would often start by simply leaping into the leaves with voraciousness, like she was trying to catch a mouse hidden beneath the surface. His favorite part was when she would leap back out, trying to surprise him if he happened to be visiting. It was like his personal wildfire, so full of heart and excitement, so happy to be alive for what little time it was allotted, a fiery dance that Liam wanted so badly to learn. He promised himself he would figure out how to do it someday.

Often after this, she would hug Liam tightly, as if afraid he would run off. Liam wouldn’t have even if he had wanted to. They would stand there for minutes on end, simply holding one another in the shimmering sunlight, sighing contentedly for the fact that they had one another.

It was on an occasion like this that Liam swore he heard his father’s old rifle going off in the distance. It was an unmistakable noise, the unsettling crash breaking through the silence, sending a metallic shiver crawling up his spine. Shifting his weight, he threw himself and Elizabeth below the shimmering surface, where they could be alone. They waited silently, listening to the slow steps that crunched through the leaves, an unmistakable violence to each movement, as if even his boots were looking for blood.

Liam’s panicked eyes stared at Elizabeth as he tried to calm himself. He still hadn’t let go of her.

That’s when he wondered what would happen if they were found, Elizabeth would stand very still, very quiet, as she does when she’s scared or ashamed. Her tail would droop ever so slightly, just enough for it to be noticeable.

Just enough for the hunter to get a good look.

Liam leapt from his hiding place, pulling his sword from his sheath, slashing wildly in front of him. Fear fueled his footsteps as he charged forward. They say that bravery cannot exist without the presence of fear. But this was not bravery.

The hunter fell in a pool of his own blood, toppling over on top of one of Elizabeth’s sculptures. He looked like any other man, foolish and full of unwarranted self-confidence; in a way, his identity died with him. Even in death, he seemed sure he would catch his prize if he looked hard enough when riding down the River Styx. Liam raised the sword to cut the expression from his face.

Only Elizabeth’s squeal stopped him. Her face had grown whiter than snow, as if she was the one who had been killed. Liam was barely able to catch her as she fell, her body cold and quiet, shivering with the world’s weight on her shoulders, something she had no business carrying on her own. He carried her all the way back to her cave, leaving her to sleep as he stood at the entrance. He liked to imagine himself as a stoic samurai standing guard, but he didn’t delude himself enough to believe it. And, honestly, he cared little for such foolish fantasies. What mattered, though, was that he never wanted to see Elizabeth look at him like that again, never wanted to feel the shame of knowing that he had been the one to bring about such a pain in her heart.

And, in that moment, Liam threw himself onto his sword.

It wasn’t the first time.

The following morning, Liam showed Elizabeth his home, if one could call it that. It was a large, plain box that sat in the middle of a clearing. There was nothing overly special about it, nothing peculiar beyond its existence. Elizabeth was hardly paying attention to that, though; she was a bit distracted by the sword handle that was sticking out of Liam’s sternum.

She had tried tearing it from his body when she discovered him passed out at her cave entrance when she awoke, despite his calm reassurances that there was nothing to be done. Once they got stuck, he explained, you just had to wait for them to dissipate naturally; there was a reason Matthius refused to lend him any more of his equipment. Liam explained that he would eventually wake up and find a pile of dust and debris settled in the center of his bedspread, having gradually accumulated overnight, peppering his clothes with the fine material. Those sheets usually found themselves in the trash soon after, as it was such a chore to try and clean them. Recently though, he found himself trying to stay thrifty, setting aside some linens for such occasions. He even had a wardrobe of tees with holes cut into them to accommodate the unseemly protrusion.

Walking through his front door, Liam settled himself soundly on his bed, lying sideways so he wouldn’t poke anymore holes in his walls. They tended to stand out on the stark white walls, with a thin line of plaster coating the gray and tan furniture. He already felt himself dozing off, his eyes sliding shut like wide drawers, closing with a firm click.

When he awoke, two years had passed.

It took Liam a while to discover this, as the day seemed like any other. In fact, it looked as if the world hadn’t changed at all, as if it didn’t even miss him throughout his hibernation. The only real clue was the thick, gray gunk covering himself and everything in his home; Liam suspected that it was the sword debris left to mold and fester and feast on a lack of concern. Not that it was really noticeable; had it not be for the unbearably pungent smell, he probably wouldn’t have done anything about it.

It was only when Liam meandered his way over to Elizabeth’s cave that he came to the conclusion that he had slept much longer than expected. It wasn’t that there was much of a metamorphosis within the place itself; in fact, it seemed as if Elizabeth had stopped building her sculptures altogether, with no new additions, only the originals left to rot and broil in the sun, a browning mess of sopping wet earth and insects scuttling about, gorging themselves on the sticky sludge.

Rather, it was the simple absence of Elizabeth.

With her, the colorful patterns and energy and life faded to a bland palette of degrading grays, grimy greens, and an unsettling white seen to fester and puss away at the edges of the environment. Even her scent, the unmistakable fragrance of fresh fur and innocence, was missing, as if misplaced in nature’s rush to take its own course.

Liam’s mind ran almost as fast as his legs would let him as he charged through the trees and brush, his fear fueling the mad dash. Surely there were more hunters, he thought. They must have come for her, looking for their friend and finding a defenseless rarity, a bright commodity to revitalize the stagnant city.

He swore to himself he would never go back to that wretched hive of foolhardy insolence and unnecessary hatred, that he would hide for as long as he could from the emptiness that was doled out day after day without so much as a thought. But this wasn’t about him anymore.

He didn’t get very far, though, as he felt his legs crumple, an intense pain coursing through his body. He tried to get up, but his right leg wouldn’t move, weighed down beneath the leaves by an unseen entity. Pushing aside the upper layer, Liam found not a bear trap latched to his heel, as expected, but discarded fangs hinged around his flesh, the teeth digging ruthlessly into him.

Limping, Liam barely reached Matthius’ home by nightfall. It resided just on the border of city, often seen as the silent peacekeeper between the two provinces. Liam rapped on the door heavily, his body pressed up against the wall of the house to hold himself up. His rubbed his back against the bumpy, wooden texture, feeling as old, dead skin fell away from his back, making room for the scab to reform.

            It was only when Matthius opened the door when Liam realized something was wrong. Matthius had always been an odd sort, yes, but he was never seen as cracked per say. Eccentric, yes, but not without sensibility. His eyes, in that moment, told another story; as if they had been struck by lightning, the blue of his pupils cracked and hissed with a ferocity that plotted and schemed. Liam felt as if he too had suddenly been struck, jumping back a little at the shocking sight.

            Maps, charts, and other such schematics lined his walls, pinned to anything and everything, even the floors. You could hardly take a stride without stepping into another place altogether, covered in curious markings that connoted hundreds of tracks and paths that seemed to have random beginnings and no ends.

            “What… what is all of this?” Liam sputtered.

            The only response he got was the scraping of stone on metal as Matthius sharpened one of his many swords.

            It was only later that Liam noticed the fox-like visage of the symbols that coated the maps in red.

Matthius was a gracious host in the sense that he never bothered to kick Liam out, nor say anything about his presence whatsoever. So Liam remained, lying on the cold hard floor as his foot slowly healed itself, scabbing over much like his chest, giving him the feeling of club foot.

            Over time, Matthius began to tell him of the mission that had driven him to such madness. “It started out with rabbits, man. Like, they’re so damn cute and shit, but I just… I dunno, I wanted to actually do something with all this,” he said, gesturing to the various weapons that sat about his abode, “rather than leaving them to rust. I mean, why the hell have ‘em unless you’re gonna use ‘em?

            “Soon, I started hunting deer. Once I got to bears, though, it wasn’t nearly as fun. But then I saw her. A predator of both man and beast.” He looked at Liam with an expression of pure giddiness and intensity. “How could I resist?”

            Liam tried to show him the destruction Matthius was causing, but that always somehow led them to talk of his father, a topic not to be broached in his presence. “That fuck left me alone in this goddamned cabin years ago to fend for myself. I was alone at the edge of civilization man. How could I be like him if I have no one to leave behind here?”

            “What about me?” Liam asked plaintively.

            “You can leave whenever you want, Liam. I don’t need anyone, especially not some flake who disappears on me after four fuckin’ years only to show up when you’re on your last leg, literally.”

            But Liam didn’t leave, and Matthius would come and go as he pleased. But he’d always return before dark with a nice shank of meat for each of them. He’d go as far as to cook Liam’s for him; Matthius’ was always consumed raw. The blood that ran down his face reminded Liam of a twisted river, running off into his brown beard, a plant in need of watering. He never shaved, nor washed his beard; he considered it good luck, and he wasn’t about to tamper with that.

            Liam found himself on the cusp of recovery the day that Elizabeth walked through the door, a sword in hand, presumably of Matthius’ make. Matthius, who had been muttering to himself as he went over his various maps once more, looked up, unsure of what exactly he was seeing, as if coming face to face with his ultimate prize didn’t seem real anymore.

That’s when his head came clean off in a spurt of crimson and a slice silver. There were no screams, not a moment to contemplate or consider; the deed was done, and that was that.

            Matthius’ head rolled over to Liam’s wounded foot. His eyes appeared to be looking up at him questioningly, as if he could process what the head no longer could. The body shuddered a little, the arms and legs jerking a bit as the nerve endings came alive one last time, before it fell in a heap, a pile of bones and filth and regret.

            Only the silence seemed to make an effort to keep its cool, thinking to itself as it always seemed to, the curious watcher never surprised by always intrigued.

            Shaking from the effort, Liam rose to his feet. He wasn’t sure what to feel or think or say, so he just stood, his eyes asking openly for some sort of answer from the stranger that stared him down.

            Elizabeth had grown since they had last met. Her height now held an authority, and her demeanor was that of royalty, the grace she strode with now translating to something much less innocent. The shine of her hair had dulled to something of a golden brown; while still beautiful, it was so in a more controlled manner. And the fire in her eyes had grown more tempered, hammered on a harsh anvil until becoming contained to two steely ingots.

            Liam had remained the same as ever.

            He was about to speak when he felt cold metal touch his bare neck, the sharpness drawing some blood. “How are you here?” she snarled through bared teeth.

            “I… walked,” Liam said.

            “I cared and coddled and babied you for two years while you slept in that godforsaken box of yours. I waited day after day for you to wake, for you to open your eyes. And yet you left me alone in that fucking cage you made for yourself. I was chained to you, a prisoner without a warden. You left me to rot and fester in your own misgivings. So how is it that the moment I gave up, when I finally left you for dead, you just… wake up?”

            Liam didn’t have an answer; he knew he didn’t. So, instead of trying to provide some half-assed excuse, he remained silent. They stared at one another for a while, the tension becoming a noose, tightening around Liam’s neck. Finally, Elizabeth turned, saying, “I waited for you long enough; I’m not going to stand here and wait anymore.” Before leaving, she ran him through with the sword she held.

Liam wandered the woods out of sheer uncertainty of what the hell he was even supposed to do. He figured he might as well keep moving though; there was nothing behind him worth salvaging. And he knew that if he stopped for a moment, time might try to pass him by again. He was sure that’s what had happened; it certainly wasn’t the sword that had put him to sleep. Unless… had it been his penance, reparations for murdering the hunter? Or had he simply pretended to be asleep for the last two years, too afraid to face a world of shame and doubt?

            Some questions don’t have answers; Liam recognized this and kept walking.

            He continued blindly trudging along for a month, his foot growing weaker every day, undoing what little healing had occurred. Then, he collapsed, wheezing, tired, alone. He cried for a long time, longer than Liam wanted to admit to himself. And, as the tears poured onto his chest, his scab began to soften, fading away until it was barely there anymore. But still, the sword remained stagnant, unmoving.

            When all the tears had dried and Liam could bear to sit no longer, he moved to rise, but found his foot once again in a state of disrepair. Looking about for something to prop himself up with, he felt the once icy metal shift ever so slightly. After a moment, Liam was able to wrench it from himself, pushing it into the ground so that he might rise. Stumbling, but moving all the same, Liam began to walk. He wasn’t sure where; he couldn’t say he cared anymore.

            He wondered if he would ever see Elizabeth again. He knew it was a silly thought, but he 
didn’t admit that to himself; everyone had to have dreams,

How I'm Feeling Right Now

Short Story Gone Wrong

Most of this evening, I've been trying to drum out some kind of beginning for a short story that's due next week. In the end, two attempts came out of it. And before you ask, yes, these are fictional accounts.
This first one isn't much, but I felt it was worth mentioning:

Groggily, I roll out of bed until I tumble onto the floor, tangled in an elaborate noose composed of my own appendages. Part of me knows this is my little, drowsy way of forcing myself awake; the other part doesn’t give a shit.

                Pushing myself up off the somewhat grimy carpet, I scramble around for my phone in hopes of discovering what ungodly hour it is. I’m surprised my phone even made it back here in one piece; sure, I never lost it, but I sure as hell considered breaking it in half on several occasions. Not that it would have been a big deal anyways; I’ve been needing an upgrade for a few years now.

                See, my mother refuses to buy into the whole smart phone craze. Sees it as a waste of money, or so she says. I just think she doesn’t know how to use them and doesn’t want to admit it. I’ve caught her glancing over how-to’s online about that sort of thing, puzzling over the interworking’s of Microsoft Word. How she even got online at all is telling of just how far along she’s come. But whenever I bring it up, it always comes down to me having to pay for my own 3G, and on a college kid’s budget, that’s just not going to happen.

The second one is a bit lengthier:

College is the best place to fuck someone over.

                Everyone’s so damn fragile, little china dolls with all their dreams and hopes and morals and ideas lined up at the compound. Those wide blue eyes almost seem to widen in the brief moments before they’re crushed, when they realize just how unprepared their little sidewinder suburbs have made them.

                I’ve been traipsing through life for a while now without too many cares or worries. All I look for these days is a good drink, a good fucking, and some misery to share with the world. And I have plenty of the last one, enough to share with the whole goddamned class.

                My closest friends are the folks who I’ve screwed the worst; funny how that works, really. Sometimes I just wait off in some distant corner of the universe, wondering whether or not anyone will ever find me, or even bother looking for me. But they always come running; they always know where I am, like I give off some unique scent of woe and depravity, as if my pain leaves markings in the sand to trudge after out of desperation and uncertainty of what else to do.

                I see Brian as my greatest achievement in life. He was a pretty cool kid once, a down to Earth sorta guy who went through life loving everyone and everything. He hadn’t a care in the world and wanted for nothing. It was only when I pumped his girl fullah drugs and she went and died on him that he began to lose focus, began to question why, began to see just how fucked everything really was. It’s funny; I was giving her the pills, but he was the one who was awakened by it all. In a way, I was his Morphius. I tried at calling myself Morphine Morphius for a while after that, but no one really gave a fuck what I was called, as long as I had their stuff. But I kind of enjoy that too in its own sick way, me being a nameless bringer of doom, a wraith that haunts the doors of those who come knocking on mine.

                Brian took it a step further; he lives with me these days. The closest he could get to me without strapping an umbilical cord to my chest like some kind of eerie harness, not that I would mind that much. This life gets kind of lonely sometimes, hence number two on my shit-to-get-done-daily list. I don’t really have a type; I don’t think any guy really does. I mean, a hot chick is hot, no matter what color hair she has or how big her tits are or how wide she can spread her legs. Attractiveness can’t really be categorized or measured, it just is. Kind of like my dick. But you don’t wanna hear about that; even I get tired of hearing about it pretty quickly these days.

                I consider that the price I pay for sticking it in more places than I should. I can’t stop myself; it’s like an addiction all its own, a rush I get from putting myself literally out there for someone else. And, try as I have before, I can’t stop wanting after it, needing it, craving it constantly, an appetite that can never be satisfied.

People say that I’m sick, that I should go see someone. I tell them I do; I see a lot of people every day, and none of them have ever been able to help me. That’s when they usually call me an asshole and walk away. I’d be bothered if I thought they wouldn’t be back.

See, that’s the one good thing about all of this, the twisted life I supposedly live; I may always be alone, but I’m never without company. It’s like misery has its own radio wave that calls out, a wailing beacon that can only be heard by the ears of those nearly deafened by the benign bullshit that fills their unfulfilling lives. We’re constantly meeting under the most obscure and unprecedented circumstances, like we really give a fuck where and how we find each other, just as long as there’s someone else to help carry the burden.

Why do you think Brian’s stuck around as long as he has? I mean, besides the fact that he doesn’t really know my role in the whole his-girlfriend-being-dead thing. Yeah, yeah, so I haven’t told him; call it my sick fascination with life-or-death scenarios, but I almost want him to figure it out sometimes. Almost.

He sure as hell doesn’t stay for the fucking décor, for the shit stains that crawl across the walls, consuming our wallpaper like a hungry caterpillar, growing more pudgy and pungent every day. Not for the beds, the wretched, molding mattresses that haven’t had the ability to support anyone’s back for a few years now. He might stay for the rent; we don’t have any, just about the only good thing about the dilapidated mess. But what he really waits for is an end.

I mean, how can you not after seeing the shit he has? It would have been enough seeing his lover kick the bucket, but his parents, his career, his dignity? Only so much around you can die before you become obsessed with it; just ask Emily Dickinson. That bitch was messed up.

I was an English major once, way back when I thought it majorly mattered, back when I thought I’d actually do something with it. You know, a diploma. That’s when I thought that letters scrawled on a piece of paper meant whether or not I was gonna do well in life, when I figured I’d go work in some swanky-ass company and live in some not-so-swanky place and maybe sleep with some girl I actually loved.

Love. What the hell is that shit anyways? Everyone’s always trying to define it, apply it, study it under some little fucking microscope, waiting for it to squirm or reveal all its secrets. Well, let me rip away that mystery right now; love is a figment of our imaginations. It’s what we think we want for an uncaring, unhelpful, cruel, suicidal, violent, violating world. We want to think it’s not all that, that someone out there really gives a care about someone outside of themselves. Except that at the end of the day we’re all very, very alone. I would know.

People stay with Brian and I for days, weeks, years at a time without so much as a “please” or “thank you.” I hardly notice that they’re even there, because they don’t seem to care that anyone else is here. It’s like we’re all already dead, spiriting through our lives like they were never there to begin with. Everyone’s seen it at some point; I’m just the only one who’s accepted it.

Curious to hear what you guys have to say about either, so feel free to leave a comment or text me and let me know what you think. Any and all feedback is appreciated, even if these are just random ideas and not fully fleshed out yet. Also, I haven't edited any of this yet, so let me know if you notice anything that doesn't make much sense.