Somewhere along the line the forest had become a physical manifestation of our friendship. The love that we held for one another.
Of course at the time it was just our forest.
I remember it having distinct areas, like neighbourhoods or city blocks. We created a map once, thick card, burnt edges, like pirates parading as colonists. And as such we each had our own kingdom to rule and call our own.
The old pine plantation was where we had pinecone fights, and made needle angels. I loved it so much I called it my kingdom. Leah had the songbird kingdom, filled with hollow oaks and bright music.
We called Chris’s kingdom the ruin. Long abandoned cars and remnants of a factory mill impregnated the Earth with rusted iron, making it the perfect place for ghost stories or hide and seek.
Marie chose the rolling hills as her kingdom. She lived for gymnastics. The soft grass cushioned her fall, and made for excellent tumbling practice.
Charlotte made her kingdom in the wetlands and swamp, which quickly became our convene point. In the summers we would have mud fights and swim through boggy river. While during colder months we set up traps for the yabbies to cook and eat by our fire.
Now I am old by my eleven year old standards and I’ve come to visit my backwater town. It’s so quiet I almost miss the sight of our forest. Or lack there of.
Now that remains is only black, burnt and brandished.
A morbid fascination with autumn of death’s season; rotting leaves, hearts broken. With her, with lovers I came here seldom a place of Anubis. screamed bad omen. Bodies, bodies, atop one another Dancing red embers, once evergreen green fall. Aided by death’s wind, greed. Shake, shudder. Through barren branches… the apple of Eve Gorging itself on decomposing life Giving way to life, not death, temptation, Love. Passionate spark. Someone to call wife My all, sacred temple. Soul salvation. Within this culmination; death’s domain, Life’s living. It is here we shall remain.
** sadly not a Shakespearean sonnet. I got lost somewhere along the iambic pentameter. **
My default is perfect That is not to say I always achieve In fact often times it is quite murky; meek
A certain freedom then In deliberately striving for flat When routinely it is nothing like… a comrade.
being biggest, best Is quite the series of rigged, competitive jests It assumes there are those below And in the subsequent array of buffoons Pitted against people like pieces in chess
There are no comrades in chess
Winners and losers, yep
I guessed, if power plays and parading prancing arrays
Is your kind of day
Hurray?
No one is bothered to tell you however That no matter how hard you try there will always be another; gooder Better, Perfecter, completing the trifecta
Like spritz of vibrant perfume, In dull empty room An itch that cannot be satiated Or fully scratched How bloody annoying is that?
My first coherent thought is that I don’t know where I am. My eyes are sludgy and slow to open, but I don’t need my vision to know I’m surrounded by darkness. I feel it like an intrinsic part of my personality, or vital organ.
Suddenly a weight sits upon my chest, a heavy pressure that makes breathing difficult. I can’t tell if it’s the physical weight, or panic that bubbles inside of me, but my heart rate increases and my hands get sweaty. The feeling is anxiety, something is wrong.
I finally pry my eyes open, free of the gunk that slowly collects in the corners. Only to come face to face with a pair of slitted eyes. I don’t even know how I can see them, black is pitch around me.
What’s weirder though is the sense of familiarity I feel staring into the eyes. Like I know them, like they know me back.
The eyes move closer to my face and a leathery rope brushes my face. Moves.
I go into shock as I realise what is about to happen, the gift I am to be given. I move to swat the eyes and leathery rope away, when something is dropped on my chest. Moves.
I scream and jump out of bed, in a feat of aerobatics somehow landing on my desk and flicking the light on as I flew.
From my vantage point on the desk, I see a furry body and long tail scurry off my bed, not even being paid any attention by my smug cat.
Merry Christmas Lisa.
Some of us left toys there, on our stacked cots, for the next kids. Part of me wishes Ebony is played with and cared for by another. A bigger part of me hopes there are no more kids to come through, that no one has to cradle Ebony in place of their friends, their family.
Not like I have.
Not as some of the kids were taken in the middle of the night. Not as I waited for them to come back. They never did. And neither did my parents.
Someone told me they lived about now, in the clouds, that they would look down upon me and smile. I told them mamma hated heights and papa would drive for days if it meant she didn’t have to board a plane. I told them they wouldn’t be smiling at me now.
But they’re the only thing I can smile about anymore. I used to think because mamma hated heights I did too. But right now I wish for nothing more than to be a bird. To fly out of the barred windows and take everyone with me, Ebony too. Because I would make sure no one would ever need her again.
And then when I was finished and the screams that haunt my nightmares could finally wisp away on the wind I would fly up and up.
I would see my parents in the clouds again.
And maybe I would see Sophie And Emily And Jake And Molly And Chase And Rosie And Charlie And Patrick And all the other missing kids who I didn’t know the names of
Maybe I would find them in the clouds and set them free.
I always thought art was… abstract. But this is pushing it, even as someone who works with previous mentioned, very abstract art all day. Which is a long blown out way of saying I worked at an art gallery. And sometimes my job required me to make up meaningful descriptions for random-ass artwork.
Who knew my master in art history would become a masters in bullshitting.
The artwork I had not only looked like a child drew it, but they actually did. My boss came in with his son, only for the boy to throw a tantrum demanding his art be featured.
What was handed to me was a variation on what I assume we all drew as children, a family portrait. The kid didn’t even have the decency to give them proper bodies, no semicircles with long stick legs.
I was starting to get worried. I thought the kid would do some crayon colours and it would be the mental cloud of a nation or something. But the one by two meter canvas is just filled with semicircle figures, all surrounding the massive little red headed boy who created the piece.
No I could do this. The massive boy in the middle became purposeful. A representation of a child surrounded in his world, at the centre of it. The egocentrism and narcissistic bliss of childhood that so many adults fail to recreate within their own lives.
This is what that piece stood for. The very adult artist’s very intentional back to his roots artwork. All in the pursual of the narcissistic bliss, freedom and respite of childhood.
Our love eternal For I would take no other. You; the gale on which, Lifted my wings heavenwards. Not enough. Metal beast. Splat.
Red, not pink but red On you, on the black graveyard On many, fallen, friends. I cannot survive this. everything… splat. My own… splat.
** I was struggling with the prompt so I wrote it about Galahs, which are a bird that mates for life. The get so attached to their partner sometimes when they pass, it drives them to purposefully stand out in the middle of the road to die as well. **
‘Where the hell did you find this?!’ ‘Where else?’ The figure dripped in disbelief, stunned out of speech. ‘Why so shocked Julliard if you sent me to retrieve the pomegranate in the first place?’ ‘Styx. You crossed Styx.’ I shrug to complete the show, and Julliard breaks out into hysterics. ‘You must be obtuse if you think I would believe that you stole this from hades himself!’
Her hood has slipped and her expression is smug, proud of catching me out in my lie. ‘I really did, and unless you can prove otherwise, I’ll be leaving with the rest of the payment.’ ‘Ha! And how am I supposed to prove that!’ ‘Maybe you should have thought of that too, being your job and all, you seem awfully unprepared.’ ‘You critic MY performance at my job? You can’t even do yours.’
Her composure is slipping, emotions only rising with the atmosphere of the tavern. I tut while I slowly shake my head sore to side, recalling memorises of patronising teachers. They didn’t believe me either. ‘Again as i have established you need to prove my item false, using a method you should have come up with.’ But I drawl, ‘if you were so confident in the falsehood of the fruit, you could taste it yourself.’ My tone comes out exactly how I wish it to. Wholly convinced that she will not eat the pomegranate.
She studies me, and I can tell the thrill of eating my ware is appealing to her. A story she can tell at parties to impress her boring white collar friends. The perfect risk for someone like Julliard. Not an actual one, just the illusion that gets the adrenaline flowing and the blood pumping and the heart racing.
She takes a juicy bite and moans at the taste. Heavenly, or quite the opposite I suppose.
I confirmed one untruthful thing with Julliard. I never stole from Hades. He was more than happy to see Julliard in the underworld.
All throughout the country citizens look towards the darkening sky and mourn the loss of another day. The hopes, dreams and achievements of a nation sinking and disappearing along with the loss of the sun.
Parents tuck their children into bed with stories of foul creatures that lurk under their bed during the night, waiting for them to leave the relative safety of bed. As the children grow the boys stop hearing such stories. It is different for the girls, while they learn there are no monsters, they are still afraid.
Every night tucked into bed the nation waits with baited breath. Hoping that in the morn the sun will rise.
I’ve never believed in coincidences, until I found myself with the middle of the biggest that my life would ever know. It started two weeks ago, when I believed I had superpowers.
Not weird or inane ones either, I could spend extra time finishing exams so I could surprise the roommate I complained I was gonna fail to. However she flipped the tables when she showed me a 97 she got on her musical arts quiz after drinking all night with me and some other girlfriends.
The superpowers really did help a girl procrastinate. And earned me the reputation of crazy talented, crazy parting first year. Probably the reason I was invited here in the first place, or maybe I wasn’t, tonight was a blur. Until it wasn’t.
Until everyone and thing froze and I was staring into the eyes of my roommate.
