The Third Year (Update)

      Tonight marks the third year that this blog has been running. It was three years ago that I posted "Justice", and it is strange to think so much time has passed. Last year, I spoke of the characters that dominated the year. I suppose the same is true of this year, such as with the button-nosed stranger and the daughter of Athena, but it is less so the focus now than then. Recently my poetry has become rather nostalgic, reminiscent of times past. But before I discuss the year, I will first make an announcement that perhaps I should have made sooner.

      The other night I received an email from the editor-in-chief of Stache Magazine, which is what they have come to calling a 'blogazine'. It is entirely online, and for the December-January edition, the theme is nostalgia. That being said, the email was informing me that a poem of mine will be included in the upcoming edition. The poem is titled "The Window Illusion", and you will not find it among my posts here. However, once the magazine is published, I will post a link to it along with another poem on here. Because it is an online magazine, it should be easily accessible for everyone, and it is also free, so there is little reason why it should be a problem. But I have gone on long enough about this. This is about the year, not the past few weeks.

     The year began with a hypothesis. I was experimenting with myself, to find an answer for myself. It was inspired by the novel "Atonement" by Ian McEwan. You see, I was in an exam for one of my English courses when I read an essay question on the novel. The professor was asking for us to show how Briony (the narrator and a character within the story) fictionalizes the world around her. It was at that moment that I nearly screamed eureka. It was simple, but solid. This was the instant that I came to realize the way in which I fictionalized the world around myself, especially women. Then the experiment began. I wished to see the level at which I can fictionalize a woman, and the effects that it has on me. It is both with excitement and painful horror that I report that my experiment was a success. I found that I was capable of convincing myself emotionally, while knowing it was all a lie, that I was truly taken by the button-nosed stranger. It was similar to the obsessions reported in the past, although I was fully aware that it was completely fictional. Then came Frankenstein, which provided me with a way to view what I had done, resulting in "Who is the True Monster?"

     From there, I can only claim that the year went in one thematic direction. It moved to the departure, the inevitable goodbye that was to result from my leaving for university. My time in Aylmer felt incomplete, as if there was a world of work to do. I attempted to calm those passions with Camp NaNoWriMo, and music pertaining to goodbyes, such as Eppic's "Consider This Goodbye" and Zach Sobiech's "Clouds". But none of the restlessness went away until it was about time to leave. It was then that I finished the first draft of "The Beginning of The End". I was stunned, having felt as if the novel could have gone on forever. But with its completion came the readiness to leave the place I had called home for so long.

     University was not about wanting to go home. I rarely missed home, although it was often on my mind. One does not live somewhere for all one's life and simply forget it in two months. Rather, my mind found a completely different environment in a different part of the province. My writing habits transformed. My room had morphed into a place which I did not wish to remain in. The isolation of my old home had been lost to the open nature of my new one. Instead of writing late at night alone in my bedroom, I wrote during the day, or at least, prior to eleven thirty at night, in a public space where many people I knew came and went as they pleased. There were more distractions there, but sometimes I would simply forget that the world existed. I would become so engulfed by the story that I would not notice anything outside of it. But I have gone on long enough. The night grows tired, as I do. Now I wonder what may come out of the year to come. Until next time,

-Zero

Wanderer's Journal #29

       I had to prepare immediately. And yet, I slowed my movements by engulfing myself in a liquid called doubt. Like water, it was everywhere, and lay hidden in everything. The mirror extended its arms into my poisoned belongings, utterly convincing me that I should not go. Interjecting, as always, my mind reminds me of my quest and of the occasion. The wanderer's wife was going to be another's.

       I wanted to go and protest with all my might. I wanted, with the desperation of hopeless love, to kiss Marie-Lynn once more. It was childish, but passionate nonetheless. All of the passion, however, was being met with equal strength by my reason, which had developed and matured in the time away from my parent's shelter, as well as away from my lost but beautiful world. I wanted to return, but I could not, for it would risk my losing Marie-Lynn forever. But I was happy for her. I viewed myself as a monster, a being of fiction, and so it would have been unfair to subject her to the fabricated. The man, I imagined, was real, with his eyes on the ground and head not far higher than his shoulders. Then came the wondering. Was he as afraid of reality as I was? Did he have a world of his own? Did he fear to lose her? Did he love her as much as I did? No answers would ever be mine.

       I called my former residence. My mother answered, and once I explained the situation, she informed me that they had been invited as well. She suggested that I go with them, that I allow my family to help me prepare for the meeting. I could not decline. The situation was far from my realm of expertise; it was real. I returned in almost no time at all. My old bedroom had been mostly emptied, except for the writings that showed promise. It was relieving, as if the room had been built anew, with the memories of nights spent sleepless painted over and forgotten. But the prospects of my temporary home were made insignificant as my mother taught me how to tie a neck-tie, and as my father instructed me on the way in which I should stand at the wedding. A haircut came soon after, as well as a shaving of my facial hair, for in my wandering I let it all grow. All of the grooming left me nearly unrecognizable. My parents, the creators of the look, were likewise shocked at the massive difference.

       During the process, though, my parents said some strange things. “We'll make her notice you.” “She'll be forced to reconsider when you walk in.” “This should help you get the girl.” It was as if the whole process was to silence the vows and stop the ceremony. I thought it was no different than the lies parents tell children in order to avoid the harsh truth of reality. Had I become but a child once more? Was all the grooming simply the creation of a facade of adulthood? Nevertheless, I was going to the wedding. I told myself that it was for Marie-Lynn, but I knew it was selfish. I needed to know that she had moved on, and only in the act of disregarding me would I be assured of this. It was one of my secret wishes. It was the one I feared to see.

       The day finally came. My anxiety made me face to the extent that I decided on walking. I had enough time to reach the cathedral without being late. In fact, much to everyone's surprise, I was quite early. I did not wait to take a seat on the side Marie-Lynn would be facing. The closer I could get to her, the better. There was murmuring for a bit, but then those setting up came to terms with my early arrival. Marie-Lynn was unaware, and so, I was anonymous. Light flooded into the cathedral through the stained glass windows. The stories they told became radiant, illuminating the entire temple. All of it, from the expertly carved wooded pews to the great stone arches far above, glowed with what would have been called grace. It overwhelmed me, for not sky ever seemed as high as that ceiling, and no day as bright as that moment. I understood why Marie-Lynn wanted to be married there. It was utterly unreal. But I was not asleep.

       More people began to arrive. Many of which paid very little attention to me. I looked as if I belonged. Despite this, I was a guest, and soon it would be time for me to leave, following Marie-Lynn back into reality. But she had yet to arrive, and so all my fellow guests were like trees, immovable and no louder than a rustle. I felt alone, but safe, as if I was in the sanctuary of my own mind. My parents found me as I sat in wonder. It was their job to remind me that I could not control the world as easy as my own. None of my dreaming would change the situation.

       It was a long wait. The minister stood alone at the altar for some time. The groom's best men grew impatient with worry as they glanced at their watches. The murmuring evolved to loud whispers of infidelity and echoes of promise. And then, like a great paintbrush, the organ painted the room in its own color, silencing all who dared paint portraits of dishonesty. Everyone's attention was drawn to the back of the room. A veiled white woman, Marie-Lynn, I assumed, walked alongside her father, as per tradition. Her dress radiated with the light of the cathedral, its elegant white design forming bright silhouettes on the walls. It seemed the people around me were in awe of her appearance. Strangely enough, I was not. Her flames were being concealed, and so I was disinterested. The whole act of marriage appeared to me as a facade, as if the promises made were fake and the people dolls.

       Marie-Lynn reached the altar to wait alone with everyone else in the grand hall of the divine. It seemed as if the cathedral itself was uneasy. There was no disguising the confusion and sorrow in the expressions of those around me. Marie-Lynn removed her veil, and let her flames run wild. Our eyes met, and then there were tears. I rushed to her side faster than her father could. I reassured her that he would come, that the traffic slowed him down. I gave her hope, but I could not grant her certainty. I felt her father's eyes on me, and everyone else's as well. Few knew me, so few knew our story. But I wanted him to come, like that cliche knight in shining armor, because I could not stand to think that anyone would not love the flame-haired woman. My heart pounded me in rage, but then the answer came.

       The grand doors of the cathedral opened with slow hesitation. Four police officers slipped in and removed their hats. Their heads dropped to the face the floor, and so they began their hike down the aisle. He was supposed to be there, and they knew it. Their faces were twisted with pain, tied in with the unwillingness to do one's duty. The loving father of Marie-Lynn intercepted them, and took the news as a whisper. I heard him thank them, and so they eagerly left. He came towards us in silence.

       “Marie-Lynn,” he spoke with the softness only parents could possess, “your fiance's car was struck by an on-coming truck after it stalled on the highway. They pronounced him dead twenty minutes ago.”

-Zero

  

The Neighbour's A Stranger (Poem)

“Hey,

Who's the cutie?”

“I don't know.

She lives across from me.”

-----

It's that familiar face

Of a stranger,

Each sight,

Every silent meeting at the bus stop,

Inspires a yearning,

To close the distance between neighbours.

How could someone across the street

Feel worlds away?

Might as well be space-bound,

Or move countries away.

Then, maybe,

All of this might make sense.

-----

“You should talk to her.

It's clear you want to.”

“Maybe next time.

I see her often enough.”

“Don't wait too long,

you might miss your chance.”

-----

It's that quiet goodbye,

Moving day,

Parting ways with the familiar stranger,

Spent too much time waiting.

The last sight,

the last silence,

The heart-wrenching self-hate,

The love at last sight.

-Zero

A Change of Color (Poem)

What if snow was

Black?

Instead of little white

Specks,

Falling from clouds of

Gray,

They would be dark

Matter,

No longer symbolic of the

Pure.

There would be no white-

Out,

In the grasps of father

Winter.

Instead it would be light and

Dark,

The struggle of life and

Death.

When snow was

White,

The ground glowed in the

Night.

When snow is

Black,

Night's wand is waved, ground

Gone.

The arctic hare turns to

Black,

And polar bears mistaken for black

Bears.

And those that glow, the white,

Die.

The sparkling swirls envelop all in

Darkness.

And the wind-swept snakes painted

Black.

The season itself would change in

Mood.

Already a dreary time turned

Darker.

If snow was

Black,

So much would

Change.

-Zero

Wanderer's Journal #28

       In my departure, I became indisputably tied to the search for Marie-Lynn. In her, I thought I could find an answer to a question not voiced. However, as I entered the city, Marie-Lynn seemed to be a distant dream. So much was new to me, and it appeared impossible that anything known to me could be present there. I fled immediately to a promised place of safety, but it too was new to me. In no longer than a day I was defeated by my fear of unknown cities. It had been childish folly to think that I would have been able to overcome the sheer size of the new place, yet alone its massive population. It was chaos, and I was alone in it.

       Two days passed before I allowed myself to sleep. The view from my window told me nothing of the burning woman. All the hopes I possessed beforehand had been crushed, leaving only ruin behind. I blamed myself, as I believed that I might have found Marie-Lynn if I had not waited for so long. Whether or not that belief was true, I cannot say, but the feelings that resulted were very real. The temptation to return to my dream-world grew everyday. I knew it was an escape, but not a solution. I could have back at any night. It was hard to resist, but it was Marie-Lynn who had convinced me to remain in reality. She was absent, and I understood why. I could not go back to the way things had been, for the power of the real was far stronger than the unreal.

       I began to wander again. Each day was spent alone, combing the crowds in search of fire. One object kept me company, and I often abused it in my frustration. It was “The Wanderer's Wife”, my novel, but Marie-Lynn's copy. She had left it with me like a written threat, one that I dared not read. I worried that I would fall back into my fictions, so the physical thing became a companion as well as a reminder. But, regardless of all my efforts, Marie-Lynn did not appear in the city.

       Two months of that dreaded wandering passed before anything changed. I was tired of searching for her, but I wanted to feel her presence again. I opened the book, my horrible novel, and began to read. I stagnated as I was lost to my own creation. I stopped wandering; I stayed alone in my apartment. The reading was slow initially, but it grew faster with each instance. When I completed it, I wanted more. The fictions could never again satisfy my wish to experience Marie-Lynn. It appeared that I had to continue my wandering, but I could stay no longer. I fled my folly, and returned to the place where I had last seen the flame-haired woman. However, the known and the familiar did not feel welcoming. The cluttered room that I had left behind no longer appeared to be mine. None had stirred it, but I had been stirred by the departure. After a few days, I could not remain, for my home was elsewhere.

       The once alien city welcomed me back, and I gained the absence of the wish to leave, even with the idea that Marie-Lynn may not have been in that city either. As for my belongings left behind, I told my parents to do with it as they pleased, including publication and destruction. I could not bear to possess the proof of my mental wandering. I admit it now long after the fact. I instructed those who remained to inform those who came to see me of my location. Marie-Lynn was on my mind as I spoke those words, but I dared not be specific. I had severe doubts as to whether or not she would visit in search of me, but I left behind a letter to her regardless. It was the unsent letter with no address, but a person addressed to. With a divided heart of fear and excitement, I thought about the envelope I handed to my parents. I resumed my wandering.

       It was strange to have gotten used to both her absence, as well as my dream-world. There was nothing present, and this was new to me. It was the lack of eventfulness and stress. Even my wandering lost its urgency, its aim. It no longer mattered to me what I would discover, although Marie-Lynn never left my mind. To forget her would have been to return to my fictional world, and lose the purpose of the departure. But, once again, she could have been real or otherwise. It was impossible to tell. I contemplated on this in some spare time while I walked. It was undecided, although one day I received something that tipped the scale.

       I felt it before I read it. Then I took a cold shower, which was followed by several cups of coffee. There could be no doubt in my mind that I was in reality, but all I tried did nothing but assure me that I was fully awake in whichever world I was in. The envelope had arrived like any bill would, with careless haste, and yet, it was as if lightning had struck my mailbox. Her name was on it, along with an address. I id not find her. She found me, for I was lost in distance. I was careful in how I opened the envelope, as if the expression of the excitement within would destroy it. The paper inside was soft like her words had been long ago. It took me thirty minutes to decide to read the letter. I worried about what it might say, whether it would be written in anger or not. I feared that I had stirred the flames in such a way that they would destroy me with little restraint. The papers were dangerous because I placed so much worth in them. Perhaps I feared a bland response more than a fiery one. It was always more terrifying to see fire tamed than to see it free.

       When I let my eyes read what had been scrawled by Marie-Lynn's own hand, I found formalities, and gentle friendly words. But, above all else, it was an invitation.

-Zero

The Dark Corner (NaNoWriMo Update + Poem)

     As of the 29th of November, I completed the 50,000 word requirement for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) with my new novel "The Daughter of Athena." The novel is not yet completed, and I find it ironic to say that I had just reached the exciting parts of the story. Perhaps it would be better to say that I discovered the story. Regardless, after about a month of writing, I have reached my goal, and now look to continue editing "Love: A Chaotic Insanity" and "The Beginning of the End." I have another entry of "The Wanderer's Journal" put away, ready to post, along with some poems I will most likely come to post. I am afraid that I have little else to say, and so, you will find a poem of mine below. Enjoy!

---------------------------------------------------

The Dark Corner

In a dark corner,

Laughing.

You and me

Against the world,

That wants to devour us,

Let's fight back.

Sometimes things are most clear,

When we can't see at all.

Your touch is beyond

Your appearance.

It's all an illusion anyways,

We don't need to see,

The lies made visual,

The lies made real.

Quiet exchanges,

As if words could reveal us to light,

The great tyrant,

The great magician.

Life's a joke,

And only in the darkness,

Can we laugh at it,

No one sees us anyways.

So here we are,

In a dark corner,

Laughing.

-Zero

Fictional Intrusion (Poem)

You are the catalyst,

The start of an uncontrollable reaction:

The Beginning and The End

Of my wandering.

I kept journals,

Recording our story,

With an inevitable end,

That of Death's forceful hand.

When we met,

I arrived at a sacred grove,

A place of belonging,

A place of life and death.

When I lost you to the grey,

I wandered through the fog,

You were a nightmare and a dream,

The mythical flame-haired woman.

Through the absence of sense,

I felt the fires,

But I grew to fear and doubt them,

And so I avoided you.

Can't you see

How our tale is theirs?

I wrote it before,

And we embodied it.

Now it is hard to say

Whether I am him,

Whether you are her,

And whether this is true.

-Zero

Wanderer's Journal #27

       This narrative tires me. The end is clear and in sight, and I hope my own death is on the horizon that I walk towards with sore feet and weak legs. Marie-Lynn refuses to leave my mind; she haunts me for what I have done to her. Her echoed and ghostly voice pleads for me to continue telling our story, but I feel as if little will change if I decide to heed to her wishes. The tale of two doomed lovers has been told before, and we did not learn before our time had passed. Nonetheless, the need to express my folly draws me as a wandering pen, recording not what is, but rather what has been. In the flames of ruin I throw my hands, hoping to feel again the warmth of Marie-Lynn, to feel her essence, only to become burnt and suffer while I scribble these endless words. Too often do I feel as if they will outrun me, outlast me, and outcast me. The memory of Marie-Lynn has become more powerful than my own existence. And here I go once more, into the annals of time to bring her to life.

       As I had written last time, I did not contain in my heart the courage to speak to the flame-haired girl, who, in the passing of time, had become a young woman. I suppose I, too, had become a young adult, although it was much less apparent in my behaviour. Sure, I was a published author, but I was a child in reality, with a great deal of what I had learned being lost. Even my familiarity with sunlight had to be relearned, and this process of becoming part of the waking-world again was one that very few people dared to get involved in. I understand why. I was strangely childish in my social interactions even though my physical appearance was one of gradual experience. It took some time, but I made process that felt dreadfully slow. All the while, I was without my dream-world, as well as Marie-Lynn.

       One day I grew passionately hateful of my own cowardice, but I was unsure as to how to go about getting in contact with Marie-Lynn. I was still a social baby after all, and I was without a caretaker in that regard. The day I speak of now marked my first experience being a wanderer in the real, waking, world. The city that had once been my home was forced back into that position as I wandered each and every street. I knew that I wanted to find her, the flame-haired woman, but I had no idea where to look. The city was vast, and held more secrets than I could ever hope to discover. However, amongst all that it held, I only wanted to find one piece of information, where I could meet Marie-Lynn again. It seemed like a pointless struggle against something that was beyond me. Whether or not I would find flames amongst the tamed cement jungle became a question that overshadowed my efforts. It tempted me to resign to passivity, but there was nothing else for me to occupy myself with. It was my only action, and so I became a true wanderer, one who experiences thirst, hunger, and exhaustion. Yet despite the endless slew of days spent searching, I found nothing. It was as if she had never existed. It seemed that the city, as an entity, could essentially paint over one's footprint with the cement of anonymity.

       Finally, after what felt like a decade of wandering the streets, both empty and not, I came across a very distinct idea. This idea threatened to call me a fool, as it dared to suggest that I had wandered with absolutely no chance of finding Marie-Lynn. It claimed that she had left the city prior to my search. I feared the idea's validity, for I sensed that perhaps it was an ultimate truth. I was unsure as to whether or not I should have continued. Through all of my searching, Marie-Lynn only seemed to be further and further away. And for all that I knew, she could have lived next door without my noticing. Her presence could not be felt in the physical world, but it was all too real in my mind. She was unshakable, although not quite as much as she is now. I wanted to return to my fiction, for it was safe to pursue imaginary figures in it. With ease she could have been a drop leaked from my imagination into reality. Contrary to that, though, was her incredible dominance of the physical realm when she was near. And so, I was left to wonder, and to debate with myself, whether the search for the flame-haired woman was worth the effort I had put into it, or whether it was not.

       By the time I had decided on relinquishing my wandering in hopes of finding Marie-Lynn, I had developed a strong bond to the act of wandering. I had become a wanderer in essence, but I still wished to find her. So I considered her many speeches about the world, about the places she would like to go. Cities in Western Europe were the most commonly mentioned, although she always complained about not having the means to make such a strip. However, there were cities much closer that she spoke about going to, usually in order to visit family. This provided her with a place to stay and a community to begin in.

       I discussed my choice to move to my family, who were rightly shocked. Money was no issue for me, due to my incredible luck to have been born to a wealthy family. Everything was arranged rather quickly, which I was grateful for. Many of my papers were left behind as remnants of an ancient era. I was to travel by train due to my own personal preference. As I boarded the train, I hoped that I was leaving to the correct location.

       After all, I was in search of Marie-Lynn, as well as myself.

-Zero

Wanderer's Journal #26

       The concept of returning haunts me like an old friend. It always whispers into my ears the ideals that I once held, the ones that seemed possible once upon a time. But to my story I will return, as it is all I can return to.

       The woman who stood before me struck me as unfamiliar, but she bore the characteristics that I often attributed to Marie-Lynn. I was nearly fooled by the lookalike, or so I thought. I found myself pondering how much time had actually passed as I worked on my world, thinking of her. Silence stole my breath away, letting nothing stand between us. Striking auburn hair burned down from her head. It parted slightly to the left of the middle. Mature looking bangs hung over her eyes, a style I had never seen Marie-Lynn possess. But her hazel eyes were illuminated by familiarity and warmth.

       “Marie-Lynn? Is that you?” My drowsiness warped reality. The waking-world was abnormally clear, and yet harder to understand. Upon her face I could see the freckles that slowly disappeared as we grew older, banished for their childish look.

       “You can't recognize me after all this time? I'm surprised. I figured you had pictures of me all over your walls.” Marie-Lynn revealed herself to my tired and confused mind. Her tone was striking and convicting. I disregarded it with an exhausted shrug.

       “How have you been? We've been apart for so long...” I was quiet and spoke with a slow drawl, waiting for the excitement to spur forth a well of energy. Time had been a small factor in my life. I simply lived as I needed to. Sleep overcame me whenever it needed to. Hunger and thirst drove me to seek sustenance, but it seemed that time had faded into nothingness. No passing was experienced. It was always the same. But time caught up to me through her. It wrapped itself around us and bound us to the mortal realm, sealing me to my demise.

       “Dissatisfied mostly. Life feels short now. It scares me. But I didn't come here to talk about that, Mr. Wanderer.” The book passed by my face as if it was in a rush to return to me. I took it as unhappiness with the content. The message was delivered to an discontented receiver. “I was surprised to find your name stapled onto the spine of a book, yet alone the cover. It intrigued me, so I bought it and read it. But I found that you had simply added a little bit to our story. You gave us a happy ending.”

       “If you're unhappy with it, I can change it. I can make it end with nothing but an overwhelming loneliness that will drive the wanderer to the point of extinction, but my people may not enjoy it.” She had been absent for so long that she was unaware of the beings that I had created in my haste to conceal my absolute loneliness and wish to bring her back into my life. This much was apparent by the confusion that came across her face as I spoke about my people, but I did not bother to explain myself before being asked to.

       “Your people? What has happened to you, Jesse? You have always been strange, but this is beyond anything before.” Marie-Lynn's eyes peered past me, into the cluttered mess that had become my life. She observed and judged my state of being, and soon she came to face the dreadful truth. I saw it in her eyes, but she refused to be the first to say it.

       “You've been gone for so long. My world was crumbling. The place that had once been my island had been opened up to human contact. You did not begin that, but you were the best of it. After you left, I didn't know what to do. No amount of trees, critters, music, or anything, could erase the emptiness that you had left behind. All the destruction that you had done could not be repaired by a simple thought of change. I was bound to it, lost to it, and so I created people of my own to try and replace you. Now that you stand before me, I realize just how much I failed.” Most of what I had wished to say had been said, the words coming out like molten rock from a volcanic eruption, save for their tenderness. I do not know what occurred in her mind at that very moment, whether she had thought it sweet, or otherwise. There was no embrace between us, but there was something.

       “Why didn't you try contacting me? Surely with all your free time, you could have gotten a hold of me.” It was at that moment that I began to wonder what she had been doing during those countless days that we had not spoken. Her words suggested that she had forgotten my naivety of the ways of the waking-world. I rejected it with my whole being, and so I became ignorant of an escape of my suffering.

       “But I did, and it worked, although I had not written it to talk to you. I've missed you so desperately, and I don't believe you've felt the same way. Every night when I close my eyes, I find myself waiting years for you to return to me. Why did you keep your distance? Why did you vanish as you did?” My words ignited a passionate response in Marie-Lynn, so much so that it appeared as if her hair quite literally was engulfed in flames.

       “Oh how I hoped you would ask me that. Jesse, you are so lost in your world, your fictional world, that you forgot reality. Neither of us can remain in the deception of our minds forever, and when I awoke that morning, I felt the difference. I had been sucked into the dream-state, just as you have been, but I chose to fight it, in fear of losing myself in the lies that I would create myself. You don't even know who I am! You've lost me in your own imagination!” Marie-Lynn tossed my novel, the story about she and I, across the room. It appeared unharmed, but the message was like a rushing river that I had accidentally fallen into. It carried me away, cutting me on its rocks, the hidden blades beneath the surface, and kept me from the safety of shore. I lost myself among the waters that seemed to lead nowhere.

       I did not return to my dream-world after that heart-wrenching event. I had purposely exiled myself into reality, a place where my wandering might have found me some actual remedies to my suffering. Only, I could not summon the courage to talk to Marie-Lynn afterwards.

-Zero

The Snow-Melting Passion (Poem)

Remember those days

When passion melted the snow?

When fires burned in our hearts,

Both of love and hate.

Dark nights on snow hills,

Watching an ex-lover leave.

Far from home,

A cold walk to follow.

It did not feel fair,

As if she stole my joy.

I thought “Death before Dishonor”,

So why was I not dead?

I wished to burn her remains;

I thought she had fallen.

My body burned with tears,

As the world grew cold.

The snow-melting passion

Did me more harm than good.

It taught me violent hate,

And I forgot selfless love.

-Zero

His Dark Shape (poem)

A flick of a tail,

Beckoning me to follow,

This dark ancient shape,

Down a path ablaze.

His eyes,

Blaring with the godly flames;

His fur,

Stained by serious sin.

Perhaps once he glowed,

And wandered through the rays,

Like an angel,

Bearing great innocence.

His past,

Known by none but he;

His future,

Known to all through reason.

Perhaps he is demon,

Stalking the innocent in darkness,

Like a dagger,

Dripping with child's blood.

His legs,

Are four, the mighty;

His ears,

Coned and pointed.

This is he,

My great guide,

The free black cat,

A master of flames.

He steps lightly,

With god-given grace,

And I follow,

As clumsy apprentice.

Know him now,

By his short fur;

Introduce yourself,

Address him as lion.

I am drawn away now,

By my old friend and master,

To the fate decreed for me:

A fire burning in darkness.

-Zero

Musée Des Beaux-Arts (Poem)

I came here...

To find you...

The art is forgotten,

As if worthless,

But I remember this place;

I remember you.

You, of fair skin,

Ocean eyes,

Golden, but sometimes disguised, hair;

You, of my heart.

It was a fool's errand

To ever look for you here.

I knew you were gone,

After all, it's been so long.

Art surrounded us,

But we found refuge,

In an illuminated hallway,

The passage from one to another.

It was our sanctuary

From the burden of culture.

There we spoke,

About what, I hardly care.

This was our nature:

Amongst the arts,

We found each other;

In them, we were bound.

All too much,

But not enough.

Could I paint your features

And see your heart?

Old friend,

And even older love,

Could we meet again,

Lost amongst the arts?

-Zero

Unexpected Return without Request (Poem)

Fleeting memories

In whispering aromas -

The past

Forcibly contained in the present.

One step,

Two thousand eight -

the colorless world,

The biting cold.

Another step,

Undetermined -

The warmth of his home,

The weekly church visits.

Third step,

Thrown into childhood -

The magical world,

The vivid experiences.

Fourth step,

And here I am again -

In the present,

But with the eyes of a child.

-Zero

Athena's Daughter (poem)

Gray eyes,

Athena's fated daughter,

Bearing eyes of glass,

And an appropriate name.

Hair that falls down

In locks of blond

And brown,

Curling in soft bounces.

Athena's daughter

Has her wisdom,

As well as

Her myriad disguises.

The fated woman

Knows well deceit,

But all in good fun,

No suitors slaughtered.

The goddess of fiction,

Perhaps she may be called.

She is my muse,

And touches my heart.

She instructs me to write,

To create a worship,

To her,

My dear inspiration.

And so,

I obey

Those powerful eyes of gray.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I penned this particular poem some time ago, just before I decided on what my NaNoWriMo novel would be this November. As a form of announcement, I decided on posting it. The novel will bear a similar name ("The Daughter of Athena") and will be a sort of modern day ancient Greek myth, if you will allow me to call it as such. The worship of the ancient Greek pantheon of gods has long been forsaken; however, it seems that they are still very well known. This novel will focus on the daughter of Athena described in this poem, with the narrator of the poem being either a son of Aphrodite, or simply just a loved person of Aphrodite. I could say more, but it would be more efficient to post a link to my NaNoWriMo profile, where I have it written. Until next time,

-Zero

Link: http://nanowrimo.org/participants/kunazero

The Crows and The Creator

       The crows beckoned me from the back of my mind. I knew they wanted to be given life, but that was my choice and not theirs. Unlike them, I was busy taking care of other matters. Besides that there were preparations that needed to be undertaken prior to their existence in the living world. But their cawing and pecking was relentless, and it was not long before I succumbed to their wishes. Somehow I, the creator, became subject to the wants of my creations, even before I had created them.

       Without reluctance I promised them being. That did not quiet them down. Rather just the opposite occurred. The crows, naturally engulfed in darkness, began to radiate energy in the form of light. Sometimes creations of mine become as such, but there are some that embrace the sheer darkness of their being. Sometimes they become uncontrollable monsters, nightmares that haunt my rest. In the depths of the night, these dreadful creatures drip blood on my hands from a dagger that they forced me to create. Her blood reminds me of the rushing waters that she was thrown into, not by my hand but by one of the true monsters. With this in mind, I hesitated to keep my promise. But the radiant light from the crows gave me hope. I decided to hold true to my word.

       I began my preparations. They would need feathers, and blood. They would need color, or the lack of. They would need, without their knowing, a final fate to adhere to. I barely knew what fate I would choose for them, but as I created the murder, it all came to me.

       A white background would be their first home so that they know of the light required for their viewing. As time went on, I determined that their sanctuary would be seized from them and they would be thrust into darkness. From there only their own light would make them viewable, but then many more will view them, although there will be no promise of appreciation or positive judgement. There they would remain, until time itself wipes them from existence.

       The process of creation was simple. Two or three materials were all I required. The beckoning of the crows grew more and more faint as the paper was filled with their feathers. Their being is now before your eyes.

-Zero

Autumn of The Raven

       Autumn is a time of tumbling, whether it be from the arms of a tree or into the on-coming winter. It is a time for farewell, whether it be to the leafy green forests or to the child being sent off to school. It is a time for rest, whether it be for a short while or forever.

       Death pushes the incapable south with a breeze from his wing. The few that remain prepare for the inevitable struggle. The black birds of his image will prey on those who have fallen, but for now they replace the leaves on the branches with their big black bodies. They paint the sky black and fill the void with their cries to the spirits. Death holds the souls in his talons, but occasionally allows one to go free when the crows and ravens beg him to do so.

       It is a time of decay. Pumpkins are grown to their personal peak, flourishing in the ecstasy of nourishment, only to be torn away from their roots, their home, to be slaughtered for amusement. These pumpkins become shells of their former selves, with their horror sketched, carved, onto their bodies. Their innards are prepared, like some ancient funeral rite, into a treat for their captors, their killers, to eat. Then they, the devoured and mutilated, are thrown away, left to the elements to that decay's invisible hammer may slowly finish the pumpkins off. Then they, like the leaves, will disappear forever, taking their eternal rest.

       Pine needles fall to the ground like kindling for the autumn burning. As the season progresses, they join the leaves in hordes to set the forest floor on fire. The crackling and rustling of the widespread influence reminds the inhabitants to find food, digging through the ashes for the phoenix egg to keep them warm through the winter. Their stomachs will get full, their stashes filled, or else they will fill another's. All the while, the carvers of the pumpkins prepare for the spirits with a festival of the dead. Masks are put on, and treats are giving out. While the world solemnly prepares for the frozen embrace of Death's wing, the carvers celebrate the misfortune of others, angering the dead, and binding them to the tradition. Then, once the children have had too much, the carvers prepare for a feast, another celebration. Then a turkey is slaughtered for every house, an example of the ease that the carvers live in. Then they feast on the remains like jackals of the barren desert. When satisfaction has filled their fat bellies, they rest with little thought to the suffering of those in the wild, where a heating fire is Death's beak, pecking at the homes of the forest. The ceiling collapses on their heads and then they suffocate, becoming the dust in their lungs.

       Death perches on the sky-bound moon and observes how his influence has shaped the forest of his white sister. The haunting light sparingly reveals the desolate land, where bare arms shiver with fear and cold as they reach for the salvation of the warm sun. Death's children, those of the black flight, restrain these outstretched branches with their piercing talons and overwhelming numbers. They are the masters of late autumn, the symbols and messengers of their great father. His mighty cold comes over the land, chilling the bones of the dead. Days shorten as it all falls into his domain, and then the ice is sent from the gray sky. The silent winter arrives, bearing the misleading snow of his sister's color. The sparkling beauty tempts the foolish to bound into Death's cold domain.

       Still, the sons of Death paint the sky black. Their cries echo through the dark abyss of being.

-Zero

The Prophetic Doubt (poem)

“The prophesy

Knows your path.

To her

You will go,

But with a heart

Burdened by the past.”

So the prophet spoke,

Inciting the great spirits.

But belief

Was not my quality.

“Your pen is fine,

And your ink thick,

Upon my mind:

It stains my very thoughts.

But I, the spectator,

Will not give you parchment.

End this fiction here,

Your poorly developed plot.”

“You think I,

A medium of spirits,

Would dare

Create anything?

I am no artist,

Free to do

As I wish.

No, I am servant.

Their words

Know more than us.

Doubt them,

And know nothing.”

“Give me a moment,

To read this paper,

Like I would my own,

But give it belief.

It is a strange request,

To ask me to believe fiction,

Another man's words,

Over the fiction of my own.

My ink is red,

And marks the page brightly,

While yours is black,

Whispering the lies of fiction.

Why not read both,

And take both as true?”

“Child, I warn you,

You are blind

Like Agamemnon,

The once great victor.

Take a bath,

After treading like gods,

And stain the waters,

With your crimson ink.

Am I Trojan,

A priestess of Apollo,

Taken prisoner,

By those with no belief?”

“I am a man

Of twists and turns.

It is not hubris,

That leads me to doubt.

Against each other,

Men are pitted.

The gods toss us

Into the traps of mortals.

I doubt your words,

But cannot fight fate.

I do not believe,

But do yearn for her.

Prophet,

Take care,

I know not

What the future holds.”

“Simple death

Awaits us all.”

-Zero

An Editor

       She sits on the balcony looking over the one way street. Her dress is tight and more suggestive than not. It is a static grey sleeveless piece, designed to keep the wearer cool while also keeping them attractive. She is out having tea, a ritual of hers when she has work to do. Her shoulders are sharp, much like her mind. She does not look the part, but she plays it well.

       Her mind is focused on nothing less than the summer itself. Her pen doubles as a highlighter, useful for marking significant passages through her editing. The two notebooks in front of her carry different handwriting. The smaller floral patterned notebook belongs to her client, while the larger plain dark blue notebook belongs to her. It contains the edited passages of each poem that she had corrected. It is rare that an actual poet comes to her for help. They are generally unwilling to accept an editor's suggestions.

       She lets her hair down. The humidity makes her long brown hair become more wave-like at the ends. While various locks get in the way as she edits, she prefers to keep it down in public. She knows that her position is central to the cafe, and so eyes are most likely on her. She is well aware of her beauty, and she always makes use of it.

       Her name is well known, although her face is not. That is the nature of her work. People can talk, but they can't show. Artists love her. Visual artists have offered to paint her portrait, but she always blushes and refuses.

       It is odd that she has never seen a part of herself in any work of art. She is completely separate from the works which are subject to her critical eye. This separation has made her one of the best in her field.

       The poet that had hired her intended for her to see the vast amount of dedication to expressing her being. But all attempts are poorly composed, and far from the goal. Her highlighting is rare as she dissects the poems with vicious diligence. To her, he sounds like a lovestruck fool looking to impress a woman who has no interest. She's seen plenty of work like this before, and often found that the poet's devotion is to the woman not the art. Normally this results in a few decent lines, as usually they do not write poetry.

       Poetry has always been a love of hers. Of course, poorly written poetry makes her sick, as she sees it as a waste of incredible potential. She has seen many so-called poets be nothing but slaves to cliche and emptiness. The lines she reads now are no different. They forsake and and all originality to express nothing but an over-worked ideal of beauty. They are possessive and contradictory. One lie praises her as a queen, while another reduces her to a simple object.

       The editor takes a quick sip of tea before she gives up on her task. The poems that she was hired to correct do not even belong to the so-called poet. They belong to Petrarch, as degrading as they are. She stands up and immediately heads into the cafe. The woman working is very familiar with the editor's methods of refusal.

       “Another love-struck fool?” The woman asks as the static grey dress comes into her sight, concealing the true nature of the editor from those who may be watching. The so-called poet's notebook is slammed on the counter.

       “I need to be more selective with poets.” The editor sighs as she looks at the dreadful collection of what someone thought was actual poetry. 

       “One pot, or two?”

       “Two.”

       “That bad, huh? Okay.” The woman behind the counter places the notebook in a nearby sink, and then goes into the cafe's kitchen. She grabs two regular sized teapots, one black and one white, and then places them by the kettle. She returns to the counter, where the editor is no longer standing. The editor had wandered off to the wall of tea in order to select what form of tea might be appropriate. She moves quickly, unwilling to waste more time on the bad poet, and hands the large jar to the server, who immediately reads it. “Blue Lady today? Your poet is going to love flavored black tea after this.”

       One teaspoon of the dried tea leaves is placed into one pot and then the other. The hot water is added and a timer is set for five minutes. The server brings the teapots by the sink, setting them down on a nearby counter.

       “Does her know you do this?” She asks the editor, who answers with a shrug.

       “It was in the contract that he signed, but he did not seem to be the type of person who reads important contracts. He will likely throw a fit when he finds out. Perhaps that may inspire some half-decent art.” The laugh that follows her little speech is both hopeful and disappointed. She has not gotten a decent editing job in a month, as her usual clients are suffering from incredible writer's block. Everything they put down on paper is no better than the lovestruck fool's poems. They know better than to ask for her help.

       “Should I start recommending you to writing clients of my own? Some of them write with a consistent passion, unlike your more recent clients.” She offers like she had some time ago. The editor considers it. The cafe is how she met some of her best clients, although she fears that she had already gotten all of the good ones.

       “I suppose so, but do not introduce me to any today. I need to head home and read some Keats before I lose all hope in today's poetry.” The editor replies in a tired tone. Her work is difficult in the way in which it challenges her view of modern art. But she is no fool. Bad art is universal, but so is good art. They require each other, a ying-yang of art.

       The timer goes off, signalling that the tea is now strongly steeped. The woman behinds the counter motions to the opening that allows her to enter and leave the employee area as she wishes. “Want to do one too?”

       The editor grins. “I would love to.” She joins her friend behind the counter. Each one of them grabs a teapot before moving to the sink. Their eyes meet, and then they begin to pour the steaming hot tea onto the notebook. A quick hand opens it so that the tea may wash away the poorly constructed poems, to destroy them for all time. Once the cleansing ritual is complete, the two women leave the notebook there to dry. One goes back to work, and the editor goes to finish her own pot of tea. All in a day's work.

-Zero