Prologue
The following excerpt is from "The Djeirh War" in A Glimpse of Byrian History, recorded in 1957 P.D by the royal scribe of King Lucien Crauft of Naru, first of his name. For authenticity, the tome was originally notarized, attested, certified, and acknowledged by His Majesty Sorden Crauft III of Galdur, Ruler of the Minded, and Great Descendent of the Savior of the Burned. The text has since been translated and redacted for simplicity and accuracy, as well as updated on the current events of the century regarding the well-being of Byria. These documents shall never leave the premises of the Narun royal library, secured and safely stored against weathering, separate from the common literature.
It was King Lucien Crauft of Naru in 1897 B.D who declared civil war on the Djeirh people both in retaliation and with the objective of purging dark magic from Byria. Most scholars and citizens alike believed this act was most likely spurred by the death of the king's late son, who had met his untimely death defending a small training outpost in the eastern wilds of the kingdom. It was reported the night before the declaration that a bloodweaver had seized the heir's body before taking his life.
This was the first time a Djeirh had been known to have killed a royal. His Highness, Vernon Crauft, had bore the magic of a mindweaver, the rarest of all natural-born abilities, but he had not yet grown into mastery at the time of his murder. King Crauft was considered fast-paced by the masses, who were known at the time to adore the Djeirh and their dedication to being the greatest healers and soldiers in history. Indeed, the bloodweavers' contributions to the health and safety of Byria were notable. Many thought King Crauft's decision to wage war to be rash, driven by grief.
It wasn't until 1903 B.D, six years into the Djeirh War, that the majority of fae, humans, and other races across Byria began to passionately side with the crown. During this period, there were many massacres of men, women, and children throughout each kingdom, many of whom were not involved in militant responsibilities or battle. While the Djeirh were not a densely populated people due to their well-known infertility, they remained numbered enough to take control of the war for the first 30 years. In fact, it was not until The Great Seven, the final 7 years of the effort, that the tide turned in favor of Byria.
Drumal was the innovative answer that the continent had been searching for. There had been rumors of a crowned ruler that the Djeirh had been following for the better part of the last three decades, which naturally concerned the seven kings of Byria. It was King Lucien Crauft who'd tasked himself and a large team of scholars and soldiers to discover a weakness in the bloodweavers. A captured enemy was extracted of critical information that ultimately led to the destruction of the Djeirh armies and bloodline; this information was the leveling concoction, drumal, that is extremely well-known today as one of--if not the most--rare intoxicant in alchemic history. While no one outside of a few royal select know how to create the oral mixture thanks to its devastating biological effects in the war, its impact in the success of victory is renowned across Byria.
With whatever temporary, makeshift royalty the Djeirh had followed into battle eradicated, the organization of their armies quickly fell, and it took less than a third of the time to take down bloodweaver forces than it took for them to start the bloodshed. By 1934 B.D, the war was over, and left behind were the captured Djeirh--along with millions of Byrian soldiers and citizens dead and a broken foundation to rebuild off of. The death of the land's mothers, fathers, and children could not be remedied, but there were solutions crafted after much discussion between kings to decide what to do about the multitude of other problems left in the fighting's wake.
Dozens of large labor bases were erected in every territory in order to supply the kingdoms with renewed wealth and peace. All Djeirh were sent to these communities (following incapacitation with drumal) to both keep them separate from the vulnerable people of Byria and ensure the regrowth of the economy.
End of original excerpt
As of 3768 P.D, there are 207 labor bases used as criminalized punishment for high-profile deviants causing disruption within the borders. The original 38 still stand today, representing their success and strength in the uplift of Byria. Among the most efficient and reputable are Mindur, Dreknal, Wirnalor, and Stronec, each producing the most vital number of stock and trade supply for the kingdoms.
The public has since forgotten about the fabled Djeirh War and its people, a minimized event in comparison to other wars and conflicts over land and power since the tragedy occurred. Bloodweavers now extinct, it is far simpler for the history to appear as a legend in a storybook for mothers to read to their children before bed. This natural progression of memory fade is crucial to maintaining amity within the continent and the operations of the labor bases, and thus prompts diligent protection of the information.
With the current, minor struggles between the north and south, driven by Zephyrian motives to expand faithful devotion to the gods and pushback--particularly from Naru and Eldoria--due to its potential implications on sovereignty, the exposure of Djeirh history is of no concern. However, these texts should remain in safekeeping for the reference and continued inheritance of future monarchs. There are no Djeirh left with bloodweaving abilities to disrupt this fragile intelligence, but the hearts of the scorned may be unpredictable if they discover their ancestry. People, especially humans, tend to be far too emotional when presented with reality; securing the details of the war is always necessary.
Long live the Pure.
Heart, the Peasant
There's this taste you get
On the back of your tongue,
After you've ran too many miles,
And your legs are numb,
And your mouth is blood and pain and metal.
Something about pressure in the lungs,
Or irritation in your throat.
But really,
It's just a warning
To stop.
More like a blaring alarm,
Red and flashing and bright,
Screaming and crying
For you to slow.
Breathe--
Please, please, please.
But there is the mind,
House of Logic and Survival,
King of Sight and Knowing;
And there is the heart,
With no name or title,
Willful yet shattered,
Bleeding without cease,
Simply because he has nothing to lose,
And everything to gain.
If he leaves his wound open,
A gaping maw of agony and rage,
Maybe another set of hands,
Warm and uncalloused,
Will offer a white cloth of surrender
To stanch the hemorrhage.
So the heart demands the legs
To lift their leaden weight,
And orders the shoes,
Now red
And worn with tears in the rubber,
To march.
The thing about the heart:
He does not know
If he is an organ
Or a muscle,
And so it often depends on the brain
For guidance.
But he also has no ears,
And should he lose enough blood,
He will find that he has no way
To listen.
So,
Through fields,
Through puddles,
Through neighborhood streets,
And downtown city roads
That smell faintly of abandon
And freedom,
You run.
The heart cries out
At every unfamiliar face
You pass,
A trail of blood following.
He assumes
Empathy is something
We all must have.
But people see the red
In your wake
And do not blink.
The King of Sight and Knowing
Breaks through the walls of obsidian
The heart had constructed,
For just a moment;
The heart tells the legs to stop,
And you trip
From exhaustion,
Collapsing into the grit
Of a dark alley.
The heart weeps red
As he pauses
To heed.
"They do not know you,
And they will not care,
When they see your river
Stained red with despair.
Find a needle,
Find some thread,
Breathe slow while you sew
Lest you find ourselves dead."
A childish omen,
The heart nearly roars,
Its tattered flesh
And ribbons of tissue
Flailing in denial.
But he sees you there,
Nose buried in the grit,
Knees split and burning,
Nails cracked
From pulling yourself forward;
The tears,
Long since dried,
Not enough moisture left
To grieve properly.
And worst of all,
He sees the shoes of a hundred others,
Not red
Or worn with tears in the rubber,
Shuffling past,
Their owners silent
And unfaltering
In their gait.
The heart slows in defeat,
Lying close to you within your chest.
He finds a needle,
Finds some thread,
Breathes slow while he sews,
To prevent your death.
If not the heart,
Who would it be?
You deserve to live,
To rest when your tongue
Tastes of blood and pain and metal.
And maybe,
One day,
If you walk slow enough,
You'll catch sight
Of someone worth the same.
random inspiration
Below is just a paragraph. Just an excerpt of something unknown inspired by my hometown in western Colorado. I don’t know why, but it feels intimate to me, so I thought I’d put it out there. Maybe it’ll end up in one of my novels one day. Hope anyone reading had a beautiful Christmas.
——
“The fields were dry here, the harvest well passed as the air grew sharper. It was that time of year where the skin webbed between your finger and thumb turned chapped and white with a lack of moisture. A painful, rationing season. But there, off in the distance, there were what seemed like thousands of little blackbirds landing in the chopped wheat. If I stared long enough, they looked like poppyseeds atop a cornbread muffin, just like the ones my mother used to bake.
Even though my stomach was pained with hunger, my heart hummed with the happy delusion that she was still here on the wooden steps behind me, braiding my hair.”
drown.
I sometimes remember how I once was the loudest person in the room. But thinking of what went wrong for me after your death feels wrong.
Linked through blood and bonded through time, the loss of you is a rock sinking through my stomach. But it never stops. There is no bottom, just as there is no reprieve from the wreckage gouging ravines into my foundation, leaving only splinters behind. You, the roots and anchors of my soul, are now nothing but a possibility in another world. What a gutting waste of who you were supposed to be.
You were better in every way, even though we looked the same. You were the deserving one. It should have been me.
And now I have to remember you for longer than I knew you.
Square One
He’d waved awkwardly, peach skin a messy blur just beyond my face as he looked at each of my eyes for any sign that I was listening. I blinked and smiled with a weightless laugh, which satisfied him, but without weight a laugh doesn’t have value, does it?
No, I wasn’t truly there at all.
I didn’t want to be rude. Honestly, I looked forward to the next male connection. But I couldn’t get over it: his question, “What’s your favorite color?”
It wasn’t a bad question. Many married men do not even have an answer prepared for those words. But suddenly I wasn’t there, and I was here. With you.
“The countertops? Will they be white marble or cherry wood?”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter, so long as I can cook our two girls breakfast while you hold my waist behind me. So long as you keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
You grinned knowingly, though. You knew how your eyes heated and glowed. How you smiled so soft and precious. How you made my heart skip and shudder at the pace of your laughter.
What is my favorite color?
It used to be green, deeper than a sea of grasses in spring. Than basil or pine. Those glowing green eyes.
But it hurts to think of green anymore.
“I wish it was winter,” I blurted.
He had been talking. Had been in the middle of the word job or food. It was natural that he was confused.
I continued, “I like to see the world reset. In the winter, I mean. When everything dies, and you know it’s only a matter of time before it all grows back again.”
He nodded slowly, and I felt my cheeks warm as I grabbed my coffee and pretended to sip at it.
Painful. It was painful to seem like I'd been listening to him for the last fourteen minutes and forty-three seconds when I couldn't even recall his name. I wanted to feel what I once felt for you; I couldn't wait to feel as if I belonged in another's embrace again. But I didn't want to wait. I didn't want to start over.
I didn't want to learn his name or talk about favorite colors or unravel years of carefully and particularly spooling myself into you. To go back to knowing a stranger--not a man--was the most wretched and horrible thing I could think of.
He'd been talking again, this time about the weather in hopes of relating to my randomly voiced opinion about the most freezing, painful time of year. But I stood. The chair screeched in surprise at the audacity of my interruption, and a few heads turned.
As I walked out, the only thing making my stomach dip was the guilt of being such a selfish lover.
Salve
In the center of some abandoned midwestern town stood a water tower, tall and unyielding to nature's lashing winds and thunderous storms. On the outside, its white paint was chipped, revealing steel aged with rust. And within, its surface was covered in layers of vulgar art and scribbled messages. The walls couldn't read, but they knew that the writing likely wasn't marked out of their appreciation.
The tower yearned. For what, it didn't know. It wasn't meant to be a sentient thing--even though it had become so--instead planted to serve a small, once-thriving people. But they grew old--aged, as it had--and they were not made of the sort of metal and concrete that could withstand the brutality of the world. So, the tower watched them wither away, until no people were left in the lovely little homes and swishing grasses, the only evidence of their existence being the four-legged structure looming overhead.
At one point, the town's name was written there, but the tower could no longer remember what it said, the letters ripped away by the harsh breath of a restless sky and scraping hail. Lately, it noticed, that sky seemed more devastated; it raged and sobbed and battered--sometimes day and night. The loss of its admirers brought forth the absence of those red and orange hues the tower often loved to watch fade into darkness. But the tower had no voice, and it could not tell the sky that it was not alone.
So, the tower, dried and empty and voiceless, could only endure the tantrums from above. And it waited for whoever came, hoping for another kind and wrinkled face to gaze upon. But in recent years, the only eyes it saw were full of youth and mischief and rebellion, peering into its empty chest and climbing within. And the hands along with them pelted the tower with stones. The laughter that echoed sounded as if it knew it shouldn't be there, but decided to be anyway.
The tower hated those young eyes, aggressive hands, and taunting laughter. Hated that it could do nothing as they came and went. So, when a girl crawled into the empty cavity where water and joy once swirled together, it wanted nothing more than to finally crash and crumble, finished with the anger and despair.
But she appeared with a tool made of wood and strings. The tower hesitated, waiting for whatever infliction the girl would begin. But she simply sat, and the tower peered closer into eyes that were young...old. Young, and old. As if she were one of the tower's beloved, wrinkly faces despite her unblemished cheeks and full lips. And she seemed to take the tower in, swallowing every detail and imperfection with those new yet mature eyes. What had she seen to have such experience in those rings of green and blue?
The tower soon discovered that the girl was a weaver. Not one of fabric, but of the songbird Mrs. Finley so frequently spoke of to her farmer husband. The songbird of a tropical world in a place called Africa. She did not look like any bird the tower had seen, but it had never known a place called Africa, either. It must have been her, the songbird. The weaver.
There was no other explanation for it as she used her hands to begin crafting such music. Her fingers brushed the strings on that tool, and it did as she commanded, humming and coaxing a melody so rich that the tower felt it through its stairs, its inlet, its drain. When she sang, there were words of solace and redemption. For the forgotten places of her world.
The music flowed through the tower like a gentle breeze, caressing its belabored walls. Each note was a message of hope, compassion, and understanding. Those walls trembled, as if recognizing a long-lost friend.
The paint sprayed onto its surface, which the tower believed to be permanent, slowly melted away, replaced by the delicate, haunting sounds that wove through every crack and crevice. If the tower had skin, the music would have been a thread sewing old, gaping wounds. Its concrete was a desert, absorbing every chord with desperate thirst.
By the time it was over, the girl had dug into a pack and pulled out something soft and warm. Though it could never feel such a thing, the tower knew of exhaustion and sleep. And it recognized it in the girl as she closed her eyes and did not wake until the sun rose once more.
When she finally did, the girl played one more song.
And the tower relished in every second.
It did not have ears, but it was glad that it could listen.
There is Solace
Raindrops clouding the pane,
A beaded curtain,
Glistening and shining,
Twirling down the glass.
Silky shadows mimicking,
The choreography of each sphere,
On the carpet
Which burns like sandpaper
Under her feet.
Until they form a puddle,
In the grime and filth
At the sill.
The bottom of the window,
Which has not been cleaned
Since they moved in.
The window is cold,
Its damp chill soothing
The heat that rises in her chest.
Calming,
As the clouds reach through
And gently brush her hair
Through the pane.
Looking out,
She would not mind the aftermath.
Because the raindrops,
A beaded curtain,
They also run--and spiral down the glass,
To flee from whatever chases them
And join one another in asylum.
Together.
For the raindrops which create a beaded curtain,
Which concealed her truth for years,
Now join one another,
Together.
Together,
In the filth and the grime and the mold.
The rain cannot be isolated,
Each drop's path joined
At the final destination,
Embracing in the mire.
Refugees who have bonded
Under the crashing storm,
Lurking,
Threatening,
Suffocating,
Overhead.
Fair is Fair
I am a healer, sworn guardian of life, bound by oaths that cannot be broken or obscured. I am obligated to sacrifice my hours, my youth, my indecision for others. I am obligated to sacrifice time with my own child to serve another, and another, and another.
There is honor in the words I once promised to believe in and to uphold. Before, I would have breathed in that promise—lived it. I would have died defending it and seeking justice against those who broke it.
Now, as much, I expect my colleagues with any shred of integrity to seek it against myself.
And I do not care.
The man in the chair squirms, rope tied tight enough around his arms that I’m sure several abrasions will be documented during the autopsy. His face is a deep red, the pressure from screaming and sobbing pushing the blood into his skin. But his tears should allow for some relief—or they would, if they were not also hot with fear and rage.
I think of my rounds as a medical student as I weigh the 1911 steadily between my palms. I was nervous then, hands shaking and unsure while I applied blood pressure cuffs and pricked fingers for glucose readings.
The Colt .45 was my grandfather’s before he died of myocardial infarction. Heart attacks and the elderly—a common deadliness, as many know. I was surprised to inherit what little assets he owned. I never knew him.
Neither did June.
The .45 is suited with a pearl grip, white and heavy like marble. So beautifully crafted that my mother's late father hardly ever used it; it simply rested in a glass case in his bedroom that smelled of dust and shaving cream. When I found it there, I never intended to use it. I wanted to sell the thing, being that I never had an interest in guns.
But the stranger before me—he was a stranger to June—is sniveling and whining and pleading. And nothing makes me want to land a round into the eye more.
Did June cry? Did she beg?
Those questions are what steel my spine. Straighten me. Leave me without doubt or hesitation or shaking hands as I raise the weapon and aim it at the brown ring around his pupil. There's even a small smile dancing on my lips, fading in and out while the physician wars against the childless mother within.
"Please," he cries. "I didn't--I never should have done it. I'm sorry. Please!"
I pretend to consider, the only sound being his breath wheezing in and out in anticipation.
I pull down on the hammer, and the breathing comes to an abrupt stop at the sound of a click.
"You can spend eternity worrying about how you'll never have the chance to touch my daughter again."
I am close enough that—with only practicing once—his eye can no longer be identified, replaced with a gaping hole that looks something akin to what I feel. I lower my arm and walk over to his slumped-over body, careful to not step into the growing puddle of red. My white coat brushes my calves when I stop before him, and I blankly press my gloved fingers to the flesh covering the carotid.
There's no pulse.
There's no one to report time of death to, but I had to be certain.
Ad Hoc
Where I'm going, I cannot predict the direction of the wind, and I'm glad for it.
Forgive me if I sound histrionic, but I am headed off to craft a story.
I was five years old the first time I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. And since then, I've had this notion ingrained that I must always have a plan for what I should do next with my life. With no other alternative offered, starting at five years old, I couldn't get enough of shooting up vision boards and snorting lists. What a drug forethought became--something not just useful but now akin to taking a deep enough breath to survive the next second.
The worst part about it was that I hadn't known I had an addiction. It was just life, and everyone else was doing it, so it couldn't be that bad. It took an overdose on twenty-six college applications for reality to hit me; I'd spent months vomiting up what I'd been told to say on essays and shivering through the night after wondering if my GPA would be worthy enough at some ivy league institution.
When I detoxed, I realized just how severely I'd poisoned myself and just how much my dealers had profited from it.
I will be a writer, education and its indomitable debt be damned. And my favorite part about it is that I have no idea how.
I am still in recovery, thinned from improper nourishment. But I've started eating seconds when it comes to a lack of expectations and a surfeit of arbitrary moments.
Now, I will craft a story where the direction of the wind cannot be predicted, where the birds and the wolves follow nothing but a feeling, and where the words I write next are guided by something between peace and spontaneity.
Cheers.
To no plans--and to no foreseeable future.
A Confession
I turn nineteen on the twenty-first of June, and I am scared of death.
Some fear of nothingness afterward. But I am saved, and I know this isn’t what awaits.
Some fear leaving behind their mothers and sisters. But life is short, and I’ll see mine soon.
Myself…I fear its permanence, as I’ve never been exceptional when it comes to commitment.
I still have yet to see which territory will win the war in my head—who will decide my career: House of Medicine, Writers, or one of the lesser lords joining the fight in hopes that one of the others will fall. I still have not married or adopted children. I still do not know if I will find friendship that lasts.
So much to give myself to.
I am so young, but I am so very afraid of death.
I can only hope what it will be like, as hoping for its prevention is futile.
I hope it doesn’t hurt.
I hope I don’t recognize it or realize it’s coming.
I hope that it’s like being carried from the car to your bed when you fall asleep as a child, embracing and gentle. And when you’re under the covers and the light is flicked off, you can still hear everyone’s muffled voices talking and laughing through the wall.
I hope I learn to stop thinking about it; I don’t want to waste every second of my life fearing about how one day, I won’t have one.
Please, Death, put your training to use. I don’t want to see your face. Come quick as wind and silent as snow.
I think I’d like to be smiling when you arrive.