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.
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
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.
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,
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