Heart's Beats: October 2014

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,

Heart's Beats

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Listen

Monday, October 6, 2014

The Heart That Beats for Many

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Leaves