Dionysus motions to his server to get me a drink. Although I can already foresee a catastrophe, I shake my head timidly.

“No need for that,” I say quietly, “I do not drink.”

“At all?” asks Dionysus perplexed.

“Alcoholic beverages,” I clarify.

“Not even wine?” Dionysus asks, before taking a swig from his goblet. A drop of the golden liquid dibbles down his chin. Dionysus really is a slob, potentially an alcoholic, and definitely too frat-boyish, but I try to keep my disgust indiscernible.

“Your questions flatter me,” I reply, bowing my head slightly, “But I am here to entertain you.”

Dionysus perks up at this, a twinkle is his eyes, “You are a strange fellow,” he says, raising his goblet, “A toast to you.” I pretend to hold my own wine-filled goblet and Dionysus cracks a smile.

“You hold your goblet how do you would hold a staff?” Dionysus asks, motioning to my hand.

“No your highness, I hold my staff how I would hold a goblet,” I reply, “Because the staff and the goblet are not all dissimilar. May I demonstrate?” I do not wait for a response, I grab the nearest goblet, from right under an unsuspecting guest. I pretend to fight an invisible opponent, the goblet serving as my weapon.

“Die you fiend,” I yell out, swinging the goblet, excess wine falling onto the floor. I am not a funny man but dramatic I am and I know that the Greek gods and goddess are prone to their own dramatics. The room that was at one point humming, grows exponentially silent.

Dionysus rises from his chair, nostrils flaring, “You dare waste my wine,” he yells, becoming more and more agitated.

“Waste, who said anything about wasting,” I reply trying to defuse the situation. I drop to my knees and lap at the wine on the ground, feeling utterly humiliated. I do not look up until I hear thundering laughter. I sit back on my heels and let out a sigh of relief at the sight of Dionysus and his guests laughing, even if it is at the expense of my pride.

“Come in again next week,” Dionysus says, a temporary farewell.

It was their responsibility to collect memories, a punishment for their own indiscretions. The cruelty being that they had no memories of her own, unable even to remember what they were being punished for. It was a Sisyphean task of Herculean proportions, with only the far-off promise of one day possibly regaining their own memories, driving them forward. It was a way to live vicariously nonetheless, even if only through second-hand memories. These memories that were now thoroughly weathered and spent, more likely than not no longer useful to the original memory-holder. Even so, the bits and pieces they collected were priceless to them, becoming a type of currency, and a source of entertainment. And they were somewhat content with this existence, that is until their youngest member came upon a memory that she was a part of, and their whole world came tumbling down.

My magic sputters, although I feel it on my fingertips. I try again, but it does not travel beyond, instead pressing against my skin making me itchy and ticklish all-at-once. Peeved I try once more, trying to materialize a flicker with no luck. I drop my hand by my side, curling it up into a fist and digging my nails into my palm. The half-moons of discolored indented flesh a painful reminder of my failure.

“Any luck,” the trainer asks, my eyes are drawn to her asymmetrical high ponytail and it takes me a beat too long to respond.

“Nope,” I reply, “But I can try again.” I lift my arm again, slightly bent at the elbow and concentrate.

Lu shakes her head, “That’s not necessary. The others are struggling as well. You all need to rest.” Her eyes soften, and she reaches for my still outstretched hand. She halts suddenly, her eyes falling upon the marks on my palm, the half moons now faded.

“Did you do that?” she asks concerned. She holds my hand palm side up and rubs her thumb gingerly across my hand.

“It’s nothing,” I reply, tempted to pull my hand away, “It wasn’t intentional.” The marks will disappear soon, but Lu pours over my hand as if I were badly hurt. They are losing their strange purplish hue reverting back to my skin tone, the half moons barely visible.

“Okay,” she replies with a sigh of relief, but she continues to caress my hand. Sometimes I forget that Lu is not much older than me, that she’s my friend first and foremost. Maybe even more than that. When she’s in trainer mode she seems to be a wholly different person, so distant. I search the training facilities for any prying eyes, but thankfully find none. The others have no idea about Lu and I. I’m not sure if I want them to know about us, I’m not sure if there is even an us.

“Let’s go on a walk outside,” she says, intertwining her fingers in my own.

We walk hand-in-hand, until I grow self-conscious and loosen my grip. She lets go in that moment and comes to a standstill. I have no idea why we have stopped and I turn towards her, questioning why our walk has been cut short. Her eyes stare back at me, immense sadness consuming them. Self-consciously I stare away, pretending to be captivated by the trees, embarrassed to have seen her so vulnerable.

Lu lets out a sigh. When I glance back at her, her eyes are more guarded.

“We’re all hurting right now,” Lu says, “I’ve been a mess the last few weeks. Ever since we lost Sandra, my world has imploded.”

I fidget, wanting to keep walking but Lu remains rooted staring up at the sky. I did not know Sandra, not like the others. But unlike me, Lu and Sandra were practically sisters. I barely knew her and yet I feel a lump in my throat at the mere mention of her name.

“I think magic responds to our emotions, our mental health,” Lu continues, matter-of-factly, “And so it’s natural that we struggle to access our magic after losing someone that meant the world to us.”

“Your magic is gone as well?” I ask surprised, never expecting to see Lu struggle with her magic. She is the most powerful enchantress I have ever met

“It’s not gone,” she replies, “The magic will always be there. Nothing ever just disappears, just as no one ever just disappears... I still feel like a part of her is with us.”

I want to argue with her, we’ve lost so many of our own, we’ve lost so much. Isn’t that what it meant to disappear? Do we not disappear in the crevices of the silence, as our voices continue to be ignored. Instead I hold my tongue. This is neither the time or the place.

“I was thinking we should have some kind of ceremony,” Lu says, her voice raw, “I know that there was already a memorial--” She sputters out, unable to finish what she wanted to say. In that moment, I put my arm around her and draw her into a hug. She cries into my shoulder, and I hold her as tight as I can.

“I’m here for you, Lu. And you know the others are as well, right? I know you think that because you’re in charge you have to be strong all the time, but there’s no need for that.”

“You know I love you, right?” Lu replies pulling away from our hug and instead placing her arms on my shoulders, her voice so small for a second I think I misheard her.

“I love you too, Lu,” I reply, almost too scared to stare in her eyes.

“Don’t tell the others you saw me cry, but you can tell about this” she adds with a wry smile, hesitating before kissing me. She stops midway and I cover the rest of the distance, meeting her in the middle. For our first kiss, it feels strangely familiar. And yet it feels wholly new as well.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” Lu says, “And I’m done waiting to kiss you.”

“Can I kiss you again?” she asks, sounding suddenly timid. I nod.

Upon the shores of Laken, Augustine stood. He leaned upon the rock face catching his breath, his body not nearly as nimble as it once was. Age had made him brittle. And yet, within these waters he hoped to find the answers to his prayers. He was not the first nor would he be the last, to come to Laken’s shores, it was rumoured to be the final resting place of what had once been the fountain of youth.

With certain foreboding, Augustine dipped his right foot in the water followed closely by the other. The water was surprisingly lukewarm, lapping against his ankles. Augustine delved deeper, the water now reaching up to his thighs. With one final look at the shore, he submerged himself fully. He forced himself to remain under water for as long as he could, only reemerging when it was absolutely necessary, desperately gasping for air. He opened his eyes slowly, frightened of what he would see. Augustine raised his hands, surprised to see that his palms remained spotted and as wrinkled as ever. He turned his hands around, searching for rejuvenated skin. His eyes traveled up his arms, down his legs, all his limbs seemingly unchanged. And yet he felt different, he felt lighter somehow. Although stuck in the same aging body, he felt reborn.

I am spiteful, petty even. I am more unforgiving than forgiving. But I rarely ever act on my prickly emotions. They protrude from my chest, never entirely hidden but still very much submerged. I have always been deemed nice. But just because I do not utter poisoned words or deliver the poison myself, does not mean I am good. If only the knew.

At the end of the week they probe, searching for the sins and wrongdoings inscribed in my memories. They scrape the recesses of my mind, but they search in vain for I have mastered the art of being good.

_____________________________________________________________________

The girl seems young, sixteen at most but even that seems like a stretch. She’s an Inmemoria, although if I saw her in the street I would never guess. It’s when you look at her coal-black eyes, bottomless and clouded, that you realize she is different. She places her frigid fingers on my forehead, gingerly applying pressure. Generally consent must be granted before the Inmemoria have access to memories but the rules are inconsequential if one has a criminal record. The Inmemoria monitoring me have free rein when it comes to my memories. As far as the authorities are concerned, my memories are now public domain.

“Have you been behaving, Miss Gallegos?” she asks, my name sounding like bitter honey coming from her lips. This is the most dehumanizing part of the whole ordeal, the Inmemoria asking me this question as she rummages through my memories.

“Oh yes, I deserve a gold star.”

The Inmemoria is not amused. I see no telltale signs of a smile, instead her face scrunches up as if she has gotten a whiff of a foul smell.

“Would you like to share what happened Friday evening, right before dinner?” she asks. Although her facial expression has returned to its former blank state, I sense that she has seen the memory I so desperately tried to hide.

I try to keep a neutral expression, “Don’t recall.”

“Miss Gallegos, I need your cooperation. If you fail to cooperate this infraction will be raised to a level three.”

I pull away from her hands, moving back on the examination table.

“I can’t think properly when you have your hands on me,” I reply as justification, only later realizing what that might sound like.

I clear my throat. “Violence exerted in self-defense is only a level one infraction,” I say, quoting the manual.

The Inmemoria shakes her head, “What I saw was not self-defense. Miss Gallegos, you were the initiator of violence.”

I groan out loud. I want to ask why she bothers asking then, but keep my mouth shut. If the infraction is moved up to a level three, I can forget about ever leaving this rehabilitation program. Even a level two, does not help my case much. How does one lie when it is one’s own mind that betrays them?

They come to me at night,

Appearing in the moonlight,

The characters of novels past,

Tethered to me,

For it is because of me

that they came to be,

And it is I they haunt,

And it is I they taunt,

For it is I who took their lives.

I apologize to thee,

And I promise to set you free.

Prose Original: https://theprose.com/post/353335/a-writer-s-ghosts

My sweet inner child,

I love you and will take care of you by being kinder to myself. I will refrain from making negative comments about my appearance or my intellectual capacity.

Keep writing, little girl. Just write and write and write. One day you will return to what you wrote, you might cringe at the grammatical mistakes that mar the page and the characters that all seem to resemble one another. However, when you become a published author you’ll return to those wrinkled pages and realize that past you set the foundation for the future. (I said when you become a published author, not if).

I know you thirst for representation in literature, for stories and voices that resemble your own. I have a few recommendations for you: Sandra Cisneros, Cherríe Moraga, Norma Alarcón, Isabel Allende, and Ana Castillo. All of them are Latinx authors, many of them Chicanas like you. I know you feel alone, a loneliness that seems all-encompassing. At the moment, you believe that you must fill this loneliness like a cavity by finding ‘the one.’ One day you will become disillusioned with the idea of soulmates and true love, but your platonic relationships will sustain you. Never underestimate the importance of platonic relationships.

I care about you,

Your Future Self

What if I wrote a story based on a prompt, based on prompt, based on another prompt? And if that prompt builds on a prompt, builds on another prompt, will my writing be thrice as good? With a killer first line (thank you first line generator!) and a space princess, how can I fail?

_____________________________________________________________________

“Do you find me inconspicuous yet?” she asks, lounging in black trousers and a baggy offset white shirt, her dark ringlets cut short.

“You still look like a princess,” I reply jokingly.

“Really?” Aida asks, her smile collapsing. I feel guilty seeing the way my comment smothers her happiness, I quickly backtrack.

“I was just kidding,” I say, “You look like a fashionable space traveler.” Seeing her smile reappear, I feel the the corners of my own lips tug up.

“Well this fashionable space traveler is going to the ends of the universe,” she says, placing her hands on her hips with a look of fierce determination .

I bite my tongue, not wanting to ruin the moment. Aida is tenacious but even she’s no match for space. We have no resources, we are both wanted fugitives, to boot we have no spaceship. We cannot rely on the kindness of strangers as we have relied on the kindness of Hilda, who has helped disguise Aida and has housed us for the last three days. The princess needs to be careful who she reveals her identity to and I cannot outrun the Truscanish army forever. The odds are against us but I cannot bear to see her sad again.

“And I will follow you to the ends of the universe.”

“So it seems like you’ve made up your mind that I’m going to die at this point, but since you’re a historian, can you at least make my death really cool?”

“I’m a writer, not a historian,” I interject, my fingers posed on the keyboard, “As for your death, it’s nothing personal. What would you like your last words to be?”

Cruz does not respond immediately and I image him in the same position as Auguste Rodin’s thinker statue, hunched over, with one arm resting, fully-extended on his knee, the other balanced precariously on his thigh with his chin atop of it. It does not seem like a comfortable position to be in and Cruz’s wiry body does not have the same visual effect as that of the statue.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’m on a tight schedule here. You know I need to get the draft to my agent by Saturday. Have you come up with anything?”

“Well sorry for taking some time to contemplate my imminent death. Don’t want to let that get in the way of your deadline, do we?”

As much as I love Cruz, he can be difficult at times. But maybe he has a point, maybe I am being selfish. Death, even for a fictional character, is a serious matter. I need to be more considerate.

“Cruz, this won’t be goodbye, you will always be here,” I say, with a hand planted over my heart.

“How sentimental,” he replies scornfully, “But out in the world, I’ll be dead.” I want to reply with my own sarcastic zinger, but decide to humor Cruz. At the very least because I need his cooperation.

“You only die at the end, you are reborn every time a new reader immerses themselves in your world. It is a temporary death.”

“Only to die all over again, like a cursed phoenix.”

“Cruz, you are a genius,” I say, typing furiously on the keyboard. It’s merely a sentence but I keep editing, changing a single word only to revert it back to its original phrasing, only to change it once more. Cruz is blessingly quiet during this time, although visibly sullen.

“Okay Cruz, I need your opinion. So just before you die you tell Anita, ‘Await for me, my fair Juliet, for I will return to you postmortem like a phoenix rising from its ashes.’ How does that sound?” I, myself, am enamoured with that line but I need a second opinion and, in the grand scheme of things, Cruz is the most qualified to speak.

“You really think I would say that? You really think I would use the word postmortem unironically? Are you even sure it means what you think it means?”

My own smugness, flounders like a deflating balloon.

“Who is Juliet?” he adds, and my own breath hitches.

“You’ve never heard of Romeo and Juliet? You’ve never heard of William Shakespeare?”

“There is none of that in my world,” he replies, shrugging.

“But the reader will most likely know what I’m referring to,” I retort, feeling defensive of my words.

“If you can live with yourself given the inaccuracy of your ending, then go for it.”

I image myself booting the laptop across the room, Cruz flying along with it. The mental image is so ridiculous that I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Cruz asks, crossing his arms. And yet,he joins in a few seconds later, his own laughter more dignified than my honking. And for a moment, the briefest of moments, there is a period of uncomplicated peace between author and character.