Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

On the channel today, we feature a tie for first in last week's challenge, and announce Challenge of the Week CCXXIX, which is linked just below this small paragraph, which will technically consist of four lines, because four lines just adds up on this hot and bright summer Thursday. Hope you sexy-minded beasts are keeping cool.

Number 229: https://theprose.com/challenge/14099

Channel link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6baahLzdXPY

And.

As always.

-Thank you for being here.

The Prose. team

At first there was only sleep. Deep sleep. The deepest of sleeps. His heart rate slowed and slowed until his body, for all intents or purpose, lived no more. He saw the body there on the table. His body. Dead. He was dead. He watched the body as he drifted away, untethered from it. He watched it get smaller, and smaller. He watched it not because he cared what happened to it, but because he did not want to turn. He did not want to know what was behind him, what it was that awaited him next. He did not want to know what the answer was to the only real question.

But then he did turn. Slowly. Something far away called to him and he turned, something from the darkness. Deep inside that darkness was a pinpoint of light. It was unwillingly that he moved toward the pinpoint, but he did not walk, as there were no feet on no ground. There were no arms to swing, there was no voice to sing. There was nothing; a vacuum. He could still be analytical! It was a vacuum! He clung to that, clung desperately because he had thought of it. He had thought it!

“I think, therefore I am.”

Had there been a mouth, it would have smiled. He had remembered his Nietsche. He was still him. He could still remember!

The light was closer, only it was no longer light. It was colors now. Prismatic and bold colors. Rainbow colors wrapping around him, embracing him, touching every part of whatever it was that was him. Warm and wet were the colors, like lotion caressing, squeezing him inside, like vaginal walls pulling. Like wet, warm vaginal walls massaging, and squeezing him inside to a place that he did not even know that he could not have resisted.

Had he a mouth it would have kissed. Had he a dream, the dream would be this.

And then it was done. And then he was there, where the ears are music, and the eyes light. There, where the mind was wonder, and where, with the body gone, nothing else could ever matter.

Dr. Abel Cane had come full circle; born of the Mother, taught to suffer, and returned to the Father.

Natural woodgrain, smoothly shaped into

the form of the thing it will be.

“It’s a good line,” he says of the boat,

running his hand along the raw gunwale before

eyeing it once more from the stern.

The sawdusted floor dwarfs his house, and that’s

room one. He’s reorganizing his tools, and we

walk among their groups to the door and gravel path.

He almost died on his fortieth birthday.

He was not, luckily, in this cabin, where pain would have

rendered the phone bric-a-brac among the books.

His mother had said he needed a doctor, and

his father had helped him off the floor.

“Forty-two is time for a partner,” he says, a

second tumbler of fine scotch in his head.

Another friend has another someone

to meet, he says, strumming a few chords.

But what would he do in Wilmington, he laughs.

He has an open-air bath tub, a reloading table,

a coop with three chickens, DVDs from the library,

a whiteboard wall with three dozen recommendations

of books and poets and conversations and films.

Tomorrow someone will pay him a few grand for

new molding, and three more word-of-mouth jobs await.

For now, he sleeps in his loft next to books from seminary,

dreaming perhaps of a boat that will wend toward

in-season geese, maybe soon.

I tried something new this past Friday [in December 2020]. I dedicated a day off work to writing. To my relief, I did so successfully.

Examining my paystub recently, I observed an unintentional accumulation of personal days, as it turns out that I hadn’t taken one in three years. The times being what they are, a day off seemed in order, so when my lessons could aligned so classes could reasonably run without me and my principal indicated the substitute situation was manageable, I put in for my day. I’ve been making an effort to take my writing seriously, and this day constituted something of a test.

Dedicating a calendar block to writing had never worked for me. I’ve often felt at my most creative when there’s some menial task to which I should attend: dishwashing, cleaning, grading papers… My spirit chafes at the work and flies away from it toward creativity. But when I have declared that the writing is the work, my perverse little spirit has flown from it, too.

I think my difficulty has had something to do with the nature of literature. Writing, I think, requires an extraordinary degree of self-presence. Our lyric poems, our vignettes, and our characters all feed on little pieces of us and our impressions; they can feed on nothing else. If I feel divorced from my own being and experience, if I am blocked from feeling wholly present, then I am blocked from writing creatively.

Zanlexus wrote a piece for this challenge suggesting that writer’s block might be the psychic or emotional equivalent of the injury that prevents a construction worker from building, which led me to follow this thread of writing and the self. The comparison of Zanlexus holds true, I think. I do not lose my skills as a writer when experiencing blockage. I can still crank out a sample analysis of a text for my class or edit a letter for a colleague: what I think of as “yeoman writing,” which I’ve trained for extensively and do not need to draw from my own experiences to do. Creative writing, though, is a different animal. It feeds not only on my technical skills or logical analysis, but on my capability to express to someone else how I think and feel, with the center squarely on the “I.”

When I understand writing creativity as an output of the core, internal self, it does make sense for it to come more easily when I should be doing something else. The tension between what I must do and what I want to do fuels my imaginative fancy. Stuck in a cage of sorts, I dream about life beyond the bars. This drifting from task is my self trying to exert its authority. There is, obviously, a limitation to the utility of external demands: if there’s not only a cage but an electrified one, or if the walls are closing in, anxiety can overwhelm any sense of creativity. Awful and draining experiences have inspired many a work of literature, but I think for the most part Wordsworth pegged it in his intro to Lyrical Ballads: “All good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion, recollected in tranquility.” I write not when I feel the powerful emotions, but once they’ve become part of me and my life experiences, when I can recollect them and access them.

That introspection is necessary to writing creatively, if the work is to resonate emotionally, and introspection tends to result from stimuli more than appointment. One does not frequently say, “At 3:00 PM on Wednesday, I will reflect on my life and my psycho-emotional state.” And down-time often passes in a series of actions intended to bring relaxation through distraction; someone exhausted and looking to forget about life for a while will probably not do much soul-searching. Introspection might happen in response to someone’s questions, though, or in response to a place or a song or a poem.

I nearly let my day of writing slip away on Friday. I was tired. I had devoted a lot of energy to teaching and parenting and household chores, and with those demands temporarily at bay, I automatically leaned toward pleasant distractions to “unwind.” I had been awake at 6:30 (though I caught another nap), and by 10:30, I had still written nothing.

So I pulled up recent Prose posts. Reading the writing of others is the surest way for me to feel inspired. Experiencing the creations of others, also striving to self-express, fills me with the desire to offer my own efforts to the world. On this particular morning, I read pieces by deathbyaudio, KMCassidy, and paintingskies, but if you’re reading this post, then chances are at some point I’ve turned to your work, too. I value this community, and I want to remain connected to it. I’ve promised myself to post something at least once per week, even if other projects consume most of my time, and to continue actively reading. Prose can keep me going.

I also found the right music. Music equals mindset, and the right song at the right time can unlock a profusion of feeling. I needed Patty Smith’s Horses on Friday (particularly “Gloria”), and later a Brahms symphony. Other frequent writing music includes Lana del Rey, Beethoven’s symphonies, Arcade Fire’s Neon Bible, and Wilco’s Being There (playing presently). Nearly everything I write has a soundtrack, and once I find what it is, I get the mood I need for the mode I need.

At some point you’ve felt “on” if you’re a writer; otherwise, you probably wouldn’t want to write. There’s a direct conduit from the mind through the fingers onto the page. There’s a flow. Creativity has many times been likened to a well or a spring, but that seems inaccurate to me because the water, the self, isn’t just sitting there to be drawn up and used. Maple syrup is a more apt metaphor. There’s sap flowing inside the wood. It must be tapped, drawn, and boiled, and if you harvest fifty gallons of rawness, you can finish with one gallon of sweet, finished syrup. You live a lot, and you lock it away, and if you can get at enough of it and distill it enough, you can yield something beautiful.

Whether syrup or water, it’s no accident that our metaphors for literary inspiration are liquid. Solids cause blocks. It’s the flow we seek.

Insisting on the perfection of that flow held me back for a long time. A piece felt so good to write, but the morning light revealed all the flaws and doubts. Without realizing it, I was subscribing to that water model, as though I needed only to pour and realize perfection. But writing needs to be worked at, and I let myself do it, now. I have an outline of my novel: I know where the characters are going and what moments carry them there. A chapter represents my effort to fill in the humanity of it all, making the journey authentic and felt, but on a first try, I will get it wrong. I have learned not to stop when I doubt that it holds together because I know, with certainty, that it doesn’t. It will not read with smoothness, clarity and verisimilitude until I return a day or a week later and fix it. I am following the advice I have given high school students for years: get something down and then revise, because revision is easier and blank pages are terrifying. I am trusting my ability to find the missing pieces. Each chapter and each draft is a problem to be solved.

Having a skilled and trusted editor doesn’t hurt, either.

I should say, clearly, that I’ve never actually finished a novel, and that I abandoned my only prior attempt after thirteen chapters when I concluded it was bad. (Trust me, it was… though I did later post a rejiggered chapter to Prose under the title “Mass.”) EDIT: I finished! I’m proud; it’s not published; I’m at work on the next. But I’m trying, and I’m confident this time. I wrote about 1300 unpolished words that Friday. I was curious, so I looked it up, and Stephen King goes for 2,000 a day, so in that sense I fell short. But Hemingway and Graham Green only tried for 500 words a day. That didn’t seem so bad, and I’ve read more of their stuff than King’s, anyway.

All told, my experiment was a success: I did write. I got 1300 words, and I finished the last 400 of the chapter the next day, and I’m working on the editing. It would have been easier on my day off to lull myself into relaxation with something readily on demand, like John Mulaney on Netflix, or a half hour of beating on cartoon characters in Super Smash Bros. Ultimate. But I passed my test. I applied what I had learned about my process and inspiration and I wrote, and it was better than relaxing. I felt rejuvenated. I was myself, intensely.

When I was a kid I was afraid of Johnny Cash. His music hit like a storm, so that the mere mention of his name was enough to conjure up black clouds and whirling winds in my childish mind. I didn’t know him, had never even met him, but when a girl in my class said she was related to him it was enough to send chills down my back. Country music was what my family tuned-in to in those days, and Johnny Cash was country music (all others, to include the hillbillies before and after, being mere imposters). Such was the living legend of “The Man in Black” down where I am from.

It wasn’t the prison associations he fostered that frightened me, nor his priestly black, frock coats, nor his towering physical presence, nor even the deep bass of his voice, although any of those things could be scary enough in their own rights to a seven year old. It was his aura that unnerved me. It was the reverent way that people I knew and respected spoke about him, as though Johnny Cash was the Resurrection itself, or worse, that he might have actually sprung from that other place that we were not allowed to talk about. Johnny Cash seemed larger than life back in the early 1970’s, and capable of any and everything. For instance, my Memaw would say with certainty to everyone gathered around her television set that Johnny Cash was the very devil himself come up from Memphis, and this as she sang and clapped along to he and Mother Maybelle picking out the Wildwood Flower. How is a child to process such oxymoroneous (I just invented that word) behavior?

Later, when I was in my thirties, my wife and I moved to Hendersonville, Tn., where Johnny and June had a house on the lake. I saw them while shopping at the local Lowe’s one day, she carrying a list as she scurried up and down the aisles, he struggling to keep up on the little electric handicapped cart, his bowed head humble and gray. Any unresolved fear I harbored was lifted at the sight of it, he being so obviously near his end, and yet I felt that same shiver I’d felt when my little classmate, Angie Cash, had told us all so long ago that she was somehow his kin. I never would have believed that day in Lowe’s that Johnny could somehow survive June, and looking back on it I wish he hadn’t. Her death left him even more broken than the turncoat, ”keep up with the times” country music industry had.

Johnny is gone now, and it is still debatable which direction he traveled from Tennessee, north or south, but he left behind a discography of greatness to remember him by; a plethora of songs to remind us in their simplicity and lyric, from rockabilly to gospel, that our time here on Earth is short, just as his was, and that there is something worth considering after… maybe even something to fear.

Just how high is that water, Momma?

“He was such a quiet man…”

I grimace and try to hide my face behind the mirror hanging down from the roof of my car, Sure he was. But a little too quiet, don’t you think?

I hear hushed voices flooding the neighborhood as I swing my right hand behind the car seat and grip it so hard that my knuckles turn white.

“He always seemed so kind as well.”

“I know, right! He always offered to make us coffee and tea.”

I scoff at the foolishness of my absurdly ignorant neighbors as I crane back my neck to get a better view of my car’s rear window, but the death grip of my left hand on the wheel makes it hard for me to turn into the uphill driveway of my humble abode.

Everything about his home just seemed so perfect. Every single bush lining the path leading to his door was neatly trimmed to the leaf, and there wasn’t a single bump on the concrete of his driveway, but I could see through the facade. I live close enough to see it all through the small window beaming at me from his base of operations.

I knew there was something wrong with him from the moment I caught him pouring that pearly white substance into a bone-dry bowl before shaking in some golden rings. Whatever he was trying to do, it must’ve turned out to be disgusting, because I saw him dig a little grave for it in his backyard that very afternoon.

Everybody called me an anxious man, but I knew something was wrong, I knew from the very start.

When I finally get out of my car, I try to close my door as quietly as possible but of course my efforts bear rotten fruit. I sigh at the rubber flesh of my car door peeking out from behind the crack. My heart pounds as I aggressively yank it back open and slam it as hard as I can. I immediately crouch down behind the car, and I wait for the burning sensation in my face to subside.

Now that I think about it, that man drinks some sort of pearly white substance every morning… I saw some resting at the bottom of his cup while he poured in this clear, brown substance that came from what looked like boiling water soaked in the ashes of dead cigarettes. About a week ago, he was sharing some with a nice young man in a dark leather jacket, jet-black pants, and some shiny black shoes. Those two were happily chatting away with a noticeably large briefcase resting under the glass table. The juvenile disappeared at one point in time, but I must’ve stopped paying attention by then, because I had better things to do.

Oh, and there was that one time he poured it in before adding some steaming hot water soaked in some sort of weed. I hadn’t thought that I would ever see him tap dance on his table the way he did.

I try to take a little peek from behind my car, but my eyes are blinded by the sunlight reflecting off of several chunks of shiny stone wrapped around each of his wrinkly fingers.

I slump to the ground with my back pressing against the hot metal of my car, and I sigh with relief as I listen to the soft, soothing clink of his metal chains.

This criminal of a man, who pours in milk before his cereal, coffee, and tea, deserves to be condemned for life.

Wal-Mart – 4:47 p.m.

By the time it was aired that it was safe to enter Wal-Mart, you would have never known by how full the parking lot had become, that only a few hours ago, an explosive device had been inside the store.

Jennifer Ralston had taped footage that would be edited for airtime with reactions from the store manager, a few employees, and customers.

Once she had compiled everything along with earlier conversations with Baker, Page, and members of the Bom Squad; and after her news segment would be over, she would be on her way to St. Croix for two weeks of a well-deserved vacation.

Baker=Manning Home

111 Homestead Way – 6:26 p.m.

“You know what, Ed? After these last few weeks, I’m already ready for another vacation, even if it’s just for a few days away.”

“If you want, we could cross state lines this weekend, find a sleazy adult motel someplace and call ourselves the Smith’s.”

“I heard that,” yelled Stevie from the kitchen.

Ed shrugged his shoulders loosely and smiled.

“It's a nice thought if not a lewd thought, Ed, but I'll have to take a rain check on that at least until we can catch the person behind all these riddles.”

“Any clues any idea who it might be at this point?”

“Not a one. We keep hoping the person might slip up somehow, but we can't get any prints off the notes not even a partial. The only thing we do know is that the cut-out letters and words are coming from a magazine and newspaper and that's all we have.”

“If we could keep a lookout all night every night for a week to see who leaves the riddles either taped to the front door or left at the front desk when no one is around, then I could say, case closed. But Satchell said with all the OT paid out as it is; and come the MDA drive, the best we can hope for is one of our guys patrolling the area and possibly spot the person leaving the notes. It's that, or I sit there every night waiting and I can't do that function properly with my responsibilities.”

I bet it’s someone you know mom. You too, Ed.”

What do you say that, Bub?”

“Just a guess, but I've read a lot of books that people like this are secretly waiting to be caught so they leave messages with those they care about.”

“Are you saying this person is a cop” asked Ed.

“No, but hey, they might be. Maybe a retired cop, who knows. \Might be another kid that's frustrated and angry with how he's being treated. There might be a mad bomber holed up in a motel somewhere.”

“Well, we can check all the motels between here and Stanhouse and see who has been staying there any length of time. I do know I certainly don't need another kid blowing himself to pieces either.”

“Just saying, is all, mom. But I want to change the subject for a minute. Ellie's birthday. This is what I bought her yesterday.”

“These are beautiful Stevie. She'll love them.”

Baker turned and smiled at Ed, holding up one of the gifts.

“Wonder what they would say at the Twenty-Second if I walked in on Monday with this on.”

Ed looked at Stevie.

“See there, that was a fine example of a woman throwing out a blatant hint of: where is mine honey.”

The Weekend In Montie

It seemed Wal-Mart flourished more than normal. The free publicity from the bomb scare made its impact. It would prove to be the best-selling weekend in over nine years.

At jazz club, Johnny “Scales” Hightower was playing the piano, Curtis Ray on bass fiddle, and Evan Niles on rhythm guitar, all playing soft progressive Blues.

At a table nearby in the middle of the room, JW and Patrick having finished lunch, and we're mulling over the tragic end of both Michael and Cliff.

“In the beginning it seemed that Michael and I had a connection based on our upbringing on how we both fought and clawed our way to where we are now, but it seemed right after he saw you and Cliff together, he became tense, to the point of irritated. It became worse when he thought I was paying more attention to you than I was him. Michael wouldn't let it go.”

“How utterly sad, yet how similar it was between Cliff and me. He would get all prissy even if I looked at another man. And I guess it was Michael that convinced Cliff I was seeing you. Cliff told me what Michael said to him: stay away from my man basically. Cliff went on a serious rant, and I couldn't sit by and let him go on and on, so I told him it was better we stopped seeing each other before we made a real commitment and have things get out of hand later in a relationship.

“And after all that, that brings you and I, us—here, and you are right; the music is excellent.”

“I can't truthfully say it will be an item Patrick, but I see a lot of wonderful things about you, and I would like to explore. I can sense and can often see a gentle sight to you, one with warmth and compassion, and God knows in my line of work I need that when I come home at night.”

“There is a lot I sense about you as well, James. I know you prefer J.W., but I also like the sound of your name, too.”

J.W. shook his head slightly, a small smile curving and said, “It's been a long time since another man's said my name the way you just did.”

Patrick placed his right hand over J.W.'s left.

“We can explore, James. We can take a small step forward and see where the next one will take us.”

“You know Patrick I'm still not convinced this is the thing I want to do but I'm not convinced that it isn't either. So, where do we take that first small step?”

“I think we just have.”

Across town, the steaks and chicken, hot dogs and burgers filled the air with that come hither aroma, as over one hundred people were lounging about the backyard or sitting on the patio deck as Stevie was playing chef.

Barry and Jolene Whitmore, we're talking with Baker and end discussing politics, general affairs, and of course their daughter's 17th birthday.

Stevie looked at his watch. He yelled out, “Mom!”

Baker looked over, saw him nod his head. She excused herself as she went to the garage and wheeled out a cart holding a five-layer chocolate and white cake decorated in buttery pink and blue frosting. Just before she reached the backyard, she lit all the candles.

Ellie was standing next to Stevie along with a few of their friends when it happened.

The Happy Birthday song started with one voice but ended with a hundred out of tune voices.

Ellie’s face was beet red because of the size of the cake, but she made her wish then blew out all the candles.

“Alright everyone,” Stevie spoke up. “Step right up grab what you want, there's enough here for everyone. After we eat, our birthday girl will cut us all a small slice of cake, then we get to watch her open her presents.”

An hour went by where you could hear people laugh at a few of the joke gifts Ellie received but there would be some “aahs, wow’s, oooh’s” at other gifts and of them all, it was the diamond pendant necklace and matching earrings that had Ellie crying.

“Ellie,” said Stevie, “they say diamonds are forever that's how long I want us to be together.” That was when he handed her a ring.

At County Memorial, Jonathan was slowly regaining his strength faster than even the doctors anticipated but not to the point he was ready to go back to work, but he would be ready to go home by the end of next week if his progress were to continue as it had been. Diane told him home would be at her house. He didn't argue.

Throughout the day, a lot of talk was still about Walmart and the deaths of Michael and Cliff. Someone started a rumor that Michael was being extorted. Someone else said it was a drug deal, and who better to sell drugs than the ADA himself.

Rumors came and went. Another rumor surfaced that they were probably gay people as one pool shooter said at Benny's Pub, “Probably queer for each other’s gear. You know how those gay people are. I can't stand to be around 'em”

By Monday, no one would remember a single rumor said.

But before the weekend was ended there was one person who was determined to end a tragedy that began so many years ago.

Just two more riddles and it would be over.

It was the trial of the millennium: the People of Deer Creek vs Eriabas Jennison. After the defense rested, the jury retired to consider the verdict. That was over 30 years ago and, as far as anyone knew, they were still there. No hung jury. No mistrial. Not even an inability to agree on a verdict--just the inability to do it in a reasonable amount of time.

Jennison's attorneys, the law firm of Goatsky and Lambsky, were not very good at trying defense cases, but they were considered geniuses at picking juries. They leaned heavily on the unemployable who had everything to gain in making $50/day-- indefinitely.

The latest Journal of The Professional Lawyer magazine reported that there were over 120 trials still in deliberation under the Goatsky and Lambsky representation--hundreds of jurors in endless deliberation.

It was easy work. In air-conditioning. Breakfasts lunches, and even hot suppers whenever recesses came later in the day. They were sequestered at the layers' insistence at the local 4- or 5-star hotel in town. With room service and bar fridges. They were always going to crime scenes in fancy air-conditioned motor coaches.

No one quite knows how they pulled it off, but there were even some jurors sitting in on more than one trial deliberation session at a time, which qualified them for time-and-a-half overtime. Goatsky & Lambsky--G&L--often went on month-long vacations when their juries began to deliberate. Goatsky had even taken a cruise around the world at one point; Lambsky had undergone chemo and radiation for cancer during that time, too. Still, the jury remained "out."

In the case of Eriabus Jennison, he had been indicted on conspiracy charges, which is the way prosecutors can catch people when they don't really have any actual evidence. In Jennison's case, he was accused of conspiring to be a Public Enemy.

That's it.

Not even Eriabus knew what he had--or had not--done. Sure, everyone knew he had hired all those mimes in town, but they weren't talking. Not under oath, anyway. And, yes, Eriabus had violated several sodomy laws in the privacy of his own home, but he was alone, thus creating the need to charge him with "Conspiracy between him and unnamed others," which is a real thing.

He had even been blamed for the serial murders of those at the hands of someone he was in a previous life. The defense had claimed he had paid back his debt to society, having been on death row several times in previous lives, sat in that chair or gotten that injection or taken the bullets of the firing squad--you name it, he'd suffered it. He had paid.

"In full!" Goatsky had bellowed and been fined $150 for contempt of court.

For his part, Eriabus just sat at the defense team table and glared at the jury members. There was something threatening about it. When they had risen and retreated to the deliberations room, they were all double-jointed with their tails between their legs.

Eriabus spoke for the last time. "Take yer time, fellas," he said, directed at these miserable losers.

Now it's been three decades, and all of the jurors are multimillionaires due to jury pay accruing, being set aside, and placed in interest-bearing accounts. One juror had even completed online night school to become an HVAC tradesman but had never been hired as such.

This is why all of the networks had swarmed to the courthouse when it was announced, incredulously, what had never been expected: "The jury has reached a verdict."

It didn't go Eriabus' way.

Lambsky had arranged his release on his own recognizance and spoke with him on the way out of the court building, now under renovation for the third time since the trial had begun. Goatsky had been dead over eight years by this time.

"What now," Eriabus asked.

"Well, Eriabus," Lambsky said with his Southern charm. "Lemme ask you something, if I could."

"Sure."

"How old are you?"

"Oh, I'm up there. Not the spry guy indicted thirty years ago."

"Yea," Lambsky agreed. "Last century, I believe."

"Hell, it was last Millennium."

"Yea, you're right, you're right."

"Anyway, I'm 76. And why is that important?"

"Well, the judge agreed to let you stay out while this thing is under appeal."

"That's great," Eriagus said with a laugh and a sputter and a hack or two.

"Yea, those take a long time to even work their way through the system. None of this speedy-trial bullshit anymore."

Eriaubus hugged Lambsky. Then he pulled away from him. "Those jurors..."

"Yes?"

"Am I responsible for their unemployment?"

"Unemployment?! Dang, Eriabus. We're talking pension for them. Me too."

"Hey, did you know, I saw these really beautiful things outside the wall!"

"Quit making up stories, everyone knows that there's nothing outside the wall!"

Hearing this, tears welled up in the little girl's eyes.

"Agh! Fine, I'll listen to what you have to say!"

The girl's face lit up immediately as she excitedly invited the boy to sit next to her.

She told her story with great excitement in her voice, and tried her best to describe what she saw by drawing them in the air with her fingers.

The boy listened to all of it patiently, and could not help but smile at the sight of his younger sister being so energetic.

A long time ago, humans were blessed with something that was known as plants.

Trees, grass, bushes, there was a lot of variety of the things that were called plants.

Humans took nature for granted.

Pavements and concrete took over grasslands,

Trees were chopped down and turned into houses and tables and other stuff,

No one knows what happened to bushes.

Some believed that bushes caught on fire and took many other plants with it.

Yet there was one plant that humans seemed to have cherished from back then for random reasons.

Flowers.

It was believed that flowers had different shapes and sizes, came in different colours and they even have different reproductive systems.

Years and years of research, but no one could ever figure out what flowers looked like.

The elders who lived in the era of plants have all come up with different sketches.

If anything, there was only one common description of a 'flower'...

"...they were so pretty and they made me feel so calm, I'm happy! Were you listening to me?"

His head was completely empty. Yet if he was honest, perhaps that smile would fade and never return. He would kill to prevent that.

"I... was just thinking... they might be flowers."

Even though the boy was a well acknowledged genius, he was also 10 years old. He may have written lengthy thesis and reports, but they were all based off truths and possibilities. He has never made baseless claims on the potential condition of earth out of thin air. This was his first time putting on airs like those arrogant professors. The thought of it made him feel sick.

"Flo...wers...?"

He had always hated those arrogant professors but now he felt like he could relate to them. His sister's innocence was portrayed though her eyes and her swinging her feet that couldn't reach the floor even if she was on her tippy-toes.

If it wasn't the curiosity and excitement on the face of people that made those professors come up with such baseless claims on earth's recovery, then they were scum of the scum.

"I'm not exactly sure what they were like since I wasn't born yet, but, I was told they had these things called petals and pollen, and stuff like that. No two adults have managed to give me a same answer, so it's probably just something that was really weird."

"...If you don't get it...then there's no way I can get it too..."

The silence between the two made the whole situation awkward, as no one could muster the courage to say anything else.

"Your lunch break is almost over, right? Then I better get going!"

"Wait!"

He took a deep breath and thought of his words carefully this time, recalling how he vowed to be nothing like those arrogant professors.

"I'll try my best to figure out this 'flower' thing, so..."

"...I just need to wait and see, right? If it's you, then I'm willing to wait."

A few years later, some explorers found 'flowers' outside the wall.

This discovery shocked everyone, and for once it wasn't a lie.

The 'flowers' were carefully brought to the research lab to do genetic tests and maybe even clone them and plant them in suitable climates.

I made a request to obtain one of these 'flowers' for my own research and got approved. My research was simple. I just wanted to confirm what exactly is a flower and how they even managed to survive in the first place.

"This flower looks nothing like all the sketches I've seen..."

Even though this was to be expected since these flowers appeared and survived on their own up until now so far, I can't accept it...

"While I hoped it was evolutionary, this is definitely some new breed... Maybe it's like a cross-breed? But it would be cool if it was a new species..."

On the other hand, my senior in the study of plants, who is also my professor is not bothered by the potential amount of work it would lead to if it was truly a new breed. She truly is a carefree woman.

"Regardless of what it is, it's a pretty flower that would make any woman smile!"

"...they were so pretty and they made me feel so calm, I'm happy! Were you listening to me?"

"Was she talking about...?"

"Hey look! Are those... leaves?"

Trying to get a closer look, my professor casually pushed me aside.

"Why do these flowers have leaves if they're going to be so much smaller than the petals ? I thought leaves produced their own food through photosynthesis which involves the sun?"

"Stop looking at the organism as separate beings and start looking at them as one being. You always get so caught up on minor details that we lose hours of precious time that could be spent to do something else!"

"Hmm... What was that saying again? Can't see a forest for all it's trees or something like that? Ah, I got sidetracked again! I'm sorry so stop glaring at me... or are those dark circles under your eyes from lack of sleep?..."

Leaves... I know I just said what I said, but professor has a point.

These flowers somehow survived or managed to live in such a horrible environment, what exactly could it be that allowed them to survive in such an inefficient form?

...My head is spinning... but the same goes for the earth right?

The earth... orbits around... the sun... after all...

"What...happened...?"

My last memory was smelling a strange smell and falling unconscious. Yet the sudden deterioration of my health was the least of my problems as the lab was currently in a mess and no one was around.

Based on how dim the lights are currently, the backup powers supply is currently being used. Was the lab attacked? A rebellion? I have to be careful...

While I was lost in my thoughts, something tugged on the end of my lab coat.

"Aaaa..."

"Shhh...Don't shout. But still I didn't expect you to be shocked. Yet again, of course you'd be shocked, you're only 13 this year... was it......"

"What happened to your legs? They're... We need to get to a medic!"

My heart wouldn't stop beating, it was getting hard to breathe. What do I do?

"It's okay."

Despite having almost no energy to support herself, the professor hugged me tightly. Hearing her heartbeat helped me calm down a little.

"Whatever happens from this point, promise me you'll make it out of here alive."

"But what's..."

"Don't trust anyone. Understood?"

Before I could even say yes or no, the professor's grip on me loosened. Even her heartbeat, that was always like a carefree melody, stopped.

I've been running and running.

Given the fact that I've been here for six years, I should've been able to perfectly memorize the entire layout of the research center, yet all the exits I've approached have all been sealed off by heavy objects or non-existent paths.

I need to get out of here.

As I was running down an empty hallway, a figure stood in my path.

Is this a terrorist attack? Why of all places you'd choose a research lab that's barely getting by? Anyway, I have to...

"Help me...I'm... scared..."

That voice,... It's... my sister?

She ran towards me and clinged onto me.

She really is my sister.

"What in the world are you doing here?!! Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

"I'm fine. I was hiding. I came here because I heard you collapsed, but then, all this stuff started happening and I..."

"Don't worry. I'll get us out of here. Come on."

We held hands as we explored the area to find ways out of here.

"So what I saw was just all these really colourful things that were kinda stuck on the ground and stuff, the air there was just cooler somehow and... "

I turned to look at my brother, who had a distant look in his eyes.

I wonder what's on his mind this time ?

Event though my brother and I were related by blood, we had almost nothing in common. A few years ago, my brother passed the test the researchers from beyond the wall would always force us to take in exchange for neccessities.

"What are you doing? Let him go!"

"This woman is crazy! "

Even though I was really young, I could remember all of it.

I remember those people immediately snatching my brother from my mother's hands, and how my mother who couldn't even stand fought against those people to get him back. My brother was crying and hitting the man, begging him to let him go.

"GET OFF ME!"

One man had finally had enough. With all his energy, he kicked my mother as hard as she could. She hit her head against the wooden wall of our house and fell silent.

I wanted to scream, but the angry man lunged at me quickly and covered my mouth with his hands. I could see the other men carrying my brother who had lost consciousness, out of the house.

As I was crying, he whispered into my ears,

"Not a word about this, and everything will be okay."

I nodded my head. The man let me go and left the place.

In this world where almost nothing was left, humans only had so little to live on.

The air out here is so thin, breathing hurts so much to the point where death was better.

The men did what they could to save humanity.

My mother simply fought for what she thought was the humane thing to do.

And all I did was watch, because I'm just an idiot.

Time really flies when you have fun.

I've only been talking with my brother for 15 minutes but I have to leave. The professor sacrificed her lunch break just to warn me about the guards patrolling the inner and outer areas of the wall today so I better run while it's still early !

"I'll try my best to figure out this 'flower' thing, so..."

"...I just need to wait and see, right? If it's you, then I'm willing to wait."

I'm okay with waiting. Waiting is one of the only things I'm good at after all. My brother is talented and smart so I'm sure I won't even need to wait long !

I was in a relaxing dream.

In my dream I found that place again, where there were those colourful things that made me happy. The air there made breathing more enjoyable than how it usually is. Even though my brother wasn't there, I got to talk about all sort of things and they kept me company too. Maybe that's why I'm so happy !

Sadly, dreams end whether you like it or not.

I woke up in our old wooden house.

"Mama, Good Morning !"

There was no reply. Perhaps Mama is still asleep!

I need to find food...... Maybe if I'm lucky enough today I can find enough for Mama to make some meat again. It's such a shame that the last time we had meat, brother already left home...

"You need to come quick!"

Just as I was about to leave home, the professor appeared.

"Your brother collapsed all of a sudden! I'm not sure what happened but I've already called a medic to check on him, I'll sneak you in when the time comes but for now just..."

" He'll be fine. He's my precious brother. I wouldn't hurt him."

"But you... All of you... why... did you have to...Hurt us SO MUCH?!! It was you wasn't it ? YOU were the one to tell them about the flowers ! You promised to help us but now you're the one hurting us ! And I believed you, like an idiot!!"

The research lab took all of them. Every single one of those flowers. They took away the one thing that kept us alive. They expect us to live with the oxygen that they "mass produce" and leak to the outside of the wall while they live inside with all the equipment because resources are limited and they need the equipment to mass produce oxygen to save the world. IT'S ALL LIES!!

"Hey, did you know, I saw these really beautiful things outside the wall!"

"Quit making up stories, everyone knows that there's nothing outside the wall!"

It was true after all.

There was nothing beautiful outside the wall, for there was nothing at all.

If wind was still a thing, those houses would've been blown away.

If god was still a thing, those people could still pray for a better day.

It all began when the condition of the earth took a great fall,

That's when humans got scared and built a great wall.

To survive they needed the wise and fools were chased away,

They had nowhere else to go, outside the walls was where they had to stay.

One night someone passed the test, with results that exceeded the rest.

Two sides fought for the child, doing what they thought was the best.

One side won, and one side was dead.

Threatened and scared, she nodded her head.

It was a secret promise, a part of the plan.

A pretty flower lent her a hand.

"I'll do your bidding, if you protect my land."

A contract was made, a price was paid.

His fever reduced and clarity returned to his head.

The people helped just like his sister said.

This was the untold story of the flowers' guardian before she was consumed by rage, hurt by deceitful lies and dancing on a stage of pain. Yet as an audience all we can do is turn the page, and bear witness to her decisions that determine the end of this story.

Although it didn't show in his voice, I could tell.

He was scared.

He was scared of the destruction I brought about to the place he called home for two years. Yet he was putting on a brave front for me, trying to convince me everything was fine.

My brother was smart and kind.

Even though I was an idiot, he would try to explain things to me.

One day, he went really very far away from home and brought back something for me.

"Look! Look! I got this for you!"

"What is this?"

"It's a flower! The nice voices said that I could take one to show you as long as I returned it tomorrow!"

"...Can I keep it?"

I was making a pouty face as I held onto the flower. I didn't want to let go of my brother's first present to me. I wanted to hold onto it forever as a memory that my brother was once really happy when he gave me that flower.

"......Sure!"

My brother hesitated for a while before he agreed. When he agreed, I smiled too. That day was not only the happiest day of my brother's life but also the happiest day of my life.

That moment never lasted forever.

The next day, my brother had a really high fever.

On that very same day, the examiners were supposed to come and give us the exam.

It was my brother's only chance to leave this place and live somewhere better, and yet...

"He broke the promise, it's only natural that he pay the price."

"Promise? Who are you? What are you talking about?"

"So the flower is with you..."

Could it be...

"It's a flower! The nice voices said that I could take one to show you as long as I returned it tomorrow!"

It's... the voices?

"No! No! It's my fault! I was the one..."

"The flower was a part of me. The planet was a part of me. He is only experiencing a small fraction of what I have. Should one be curious, one may inherit my knowledge and my experiences, but let it be known that not all fruit the tree bears is sweet."

"You're saying that you can help, right? I'll do anything! So please...help..."

The voice disappeared completely after that.

A warm feeling filled the room.

"You'll be fine. They'll definitely help you."

I gently touched my brother's scalding hot forehead.

At that moment, I was finally helpful to my family.

Now I finally understand everything.

"I will always love you. No matter what I become, that's a promise."

With the wisdom granted from the voices of the world, I gained the ability to figure out the many solutions to our problems.

With the experience presented to me from the flower in my possession, I've witnessed how humans brought about their own downfall.

"All the times I've tried, suffered, and forgiven humanity, all of it was wasted !!

I was supposed to be everything to them, yet I was never enough, I was always in the way !! Why ? Why ? How much of me is relevant in this world ? If I wasn't needed, then why was I born ? It hurts ! IT HURTS ! If I wasn't going to be loved, then why should I show mercy to anyone in this world ?"

I fought with the voices fought in my head. At that moment, time had stopped for both of us. The world was just a simple place where we fought for reason in an unreasonable world. Our experiences mingled and our emotions combined, we were slowly becoming one. If I don't stand my ground in this battle, I will no longer be myself.

The ground was endless. My brother once promised that someday, he would find somewhere beautiful for us to live the rest of our lives together.

Yet that day wasn't now. Mama was still with us. She chose to stick with us even when it looked like it would be a lot easier if she was on her own. She gave away parts of herself, telling us stories of the blue skies she once lived under, hoping we'd see it one day too. She changed completely ever since. Now, even smiling wasn't something she was strong enough to do.

What she lost was love. Without the ability to love, she became a different person. She couldn't smile. She couldn't tell those stories I enjoyed hearing. My brother didn't talk to her much after that. He wanted to spend every minute away from her. Yet my brother was kind. He knew that he couldn't leave her alone. He knew that I still wanted to be with her. He couldn't take that away from me.

Memories of my past replayed in my head. Just as the voices were fighting with their reason, I was fighting with mine. Our memories collided with each other, sometimes intersecting. As I combined my memories with the wisdom granted to me, the vast ground that I believed I had slowly became smaller and smaller. The ground I am standing on now felt like a cold thin layer of ice. My reason became silent.

"In the end, I really am just an idiot. ......Goodbye, I'll really miss you."

Minutes turned to hours and hours turned into more hours. Even though every exit he found so far was blocked, that didn't stop him from moving forward. Every step of the way, he held my hand gently and walked at a pace I could keep up in.

Even though he grew more and more agitated for every failed attempt to leave, he would always reassure me with a calm voice and a gentle smile on his face.

I couldn't understand.

The world is heading towards destruction.

Destroying what was left of me was the final straw.

This area that he has been trying so hard to escape is the only place with life, the place for only both of us. It was the place where both of us would live the rest of our lives.

Did he forget the promise he once made ?

"I'm tired."

The words came out rougher than what I had been rehearsing in my head. He turned to me, teary eyed, slightly tightening the grip on my hand.

"I can't...do this any more."

Sweeping away the sand on the ground with his foot, he sat down and cried. In the 3 years I've spent watching him from a distance, this was the first time I've seen him bawling his eyes out. I stood there, frozen.

"It's all my fault. Even though I abandoned both of you, I couldn't even help make things better. I tried and tried, but in the end this was how it all ended up."

I was supposed to be a powerful god.

Born with wisdom, I was supposed to be able to be able to help humans fulfill their wishes.

Yet I failed as human's wishes were far too much for me to handle, to the point where it broke me beyond repair.

I thought that I could fulfill the girl's wishes by taking her place and using my powers to grant all her wishes.

Yet again as this boy weeps before me, I find myself completely powerless once again.

This time, it wasn't me who was being ripped to shreds.

It was...

"Sorry. You were scared weren't you? But it's all going to be okay. At least we're here together now, right?"

He pulled me into a warm embrace. His hands were quivering as he held me close to his chest, where I could hear his heartbeat becoming slower and slower.

At this point I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth that I wasn't the sister who he loved dearly, but instead the god that has failed him and everyone in this world.

Could I even consider myself a god, if I had never once succeeded in granting a single human's wishes ?

The world I had been entrusted to had been brought to ruin, and this boy blamed himself for it. Even I couldn't do that.

At this moment, I was powerless.

I could not give back what I had took, and I couldn't restore what had been destroyed.

Yet even the most powerless god, could still do something in a world's final moments.

I created.

A bed of flowers formed beneath us, slowly freshening the thin air around us and bringing colour to the grim surroundings. The boy looked at fascinated at this sudden change of his surroundings, and finally smiled with sincerity for the first time in a long while.

"That's right... I wanted to show you this... Look, it's so pretty, right? I can't believe I forgot how much you loved that flower I gave you... "

The boy looked at his sister who was now sleeping in his arms.

His sister was nothing but a simple idiot who wanted nothing more than her brother's happiness so that he wouldn't lose the love he had for her just like how he lost the love he had for his mother.

His sister knew she was an idiot because she tends to forget many things. This time, she forgot she needed to open her eyes to see the scenery around her. She forgot to hold her brother's hand to keep her brother company.

Yet her brother was kind.

He was always patient whenever she forgot.

He would sometimes pretend to not know certain things so that she wouldn't feel too bad about it. In simple terms, sometimes he let her have her ways.

"I guess you're tired out after all that walking. Well I guess I'm kinda tired too..."

The siblings fell asleep together one last time in a place that they once dreamed of finding after a long fun adventure.

The flowers that were around them had lost their leaves. To be exact, these flowers never had them in the first place. While these flowers were very colourful and pretty, plucking one off the ground would bring forth a warm, gentle breeze that could put anyone to an eternal rest.

What could have been on the mind of god as he created these flowers that seemingly serve no purpose whatsoever? No one would ever know. No one else was left to ask the questions and find the answers, and not even god himself remained. Perhaps this was the best for the flowers, the sole thing left to thrive on this abandoned planet, in remembrance of the story this world had to tell.

All somehow got in the groove by now. Well, yes, half a year in this here blockade, and you from day to day wait for the pending ethnic cleansing, humanitarian catastrophe, another dirty war or special operation they keep threatening you with but still...

And before they there (who? where?) are reaching out for the Button, barking their orders down the chain of command, manning the installations, zeroing in on... and so on and forth, you have to find something to fill up the eternity forked out to you, right? Haven’t you?

So meanwhile, to ward off my premature demise from ennui I keep it up, my addiction, yeah, keep writing little by little. Moreover, that I’m a small man on campus and all those ends of the world proliferate like mating rabbits (for the optimism’s sake I won’t call the roll even though I could and who feels like being interested in the matter fire off your Google or something and enjoy your consternation), so let them themselves sort it out who’s after who in their queue of ends.

And the hardest task, when you’re a writer, is to find a plot. That is the thing of the first and foremost importance, the plot is, so that you could see what you are about at all and what comes after what in your scribble while its absence spells disastrous chaos possibly even a primordial one which metaphysical shit you’d better give a wide berth. Don’t ever venture into that jungle, they are too few and far apart who managed to come back, almost zero, statistically speaking. Take my word. And even those who pop up back, by pure chance, are eyed suspiciously: wow, man! is that you? but why I don’t remember? your name, again?

In short, chaos will take you to the cleaners. Follow me? Be smart, and find yourself a plot, and avoid unnecessary risks both for you and the unaware public. Hence, by the by, emerges a below-the-belt question: where to get it? That effing plot?

Here is my friendly and open answer: I have no idea! Although in the same breath, parallelly, I do know about existence of the prodigies grunting from under the heaps, and hills, and Cheops’ pyramids of plots they have. Looks like an unscrupulous archaeologist has leaked the King Solomon Plot Mines’ GPS numbers to them. Yep. So it looks to my naked eye. And that’s where they now extract their plots, on the sly.

Wanna proves? Quite an appreciable attitude, yours. Now, not too long ago and rather inadvertently I rammed into it myself and got dismayed in earnest. I wish I had never discovered the fact. Which is a too belated wish at present. No way to ditch the knowledge (screw Google!) that there is a certain authoress of more than four hundred printed plots! And from behind she hears the wheeze of another (also female) racer turning out her 387th book! How do you like it? The shrews, even if taken apart, belted Steven King, and Alexander Dumas, and Alexander Dumas Jr., taken collectively. Of course, I felt dismayed and sorry for the guys because of pure-hearted primeval cavemen solidarity.

However, my concern is the trade of writing and not flimflam for housewives and other society strata of those of not fully developed psyche. As of yet, if ever.

The problem touched here (as lightly as it is humanly possible,not to distract you for long) is not anything new. On the contrary! Back in 19th century did irk it Pushkin, the great swarthy Pushkin who gave birth to the Russian poetry per se. It was his habit, when too sore by the problem, to ask his serf nurse:

‘Whither to sail?’

That was his way of begging from Arina Rodionovna a plot, subtly and metaphorically...

And all of a sudden, no nurse applied, I had a lucky strike! There happened not bad a plot, faith! Certain drawbacks present though—it was in English—but then who’s ideal, eh? And again, there’s a silver lining to it– the Russian reader was not bored unbearably by the stuff. Besides, no difficulties with those aggression quenching sanctions, you know, the plot sits on this, Russian, side of the communicational hedge at the litres.com – lucky me!

‘Now, boy, to the mill!’, said I to myself, and dug, and delved into translating in an elated mood. But then the insider whistle-blower (I don’t know if you have this built-in bitch which is beyond the point anyway) blew it, that above-mentioned whistle. Like, there cropped deviations from the original text and the original author might feel hurt, a sort of. Well, yes, I saw there was a thing or two for a deeper contemplation, after the whistling, so I scratched where anyone would when they have an itching sensation and, gradually, draw I the final conclusion:

‘Fuck you! You don’t like it? Then go and sue me! Sue me or draw it if you be a man! Ungrateful jerk! I’ve let you into my personal space, allowed you to publish your hooey from my personal litres.com account, and now what?’

So, while the bugger gathers back his shooed off thoughts, I go on translating it into Russian for my compatriots… No blood ties involved though, for my compatriots by this here planet.

2023-05-05