Eyes Up, Guardian

   Sometimes I leave the Tower and go down into the city. It’s not that I don’t appreciate living in my ivory castle, but I have to admit, it’s a little too “clean.” Not enough “normal” people—whatever normal means anymore.
   There’s a bar I like in the southwest corner. Run-down, dusty, but quiet. I keep to myself and don’t pull my Ghost out in public. No one other than the owner and a few regulars know I’m a Guardian. It’s nice. Instead of being praised just for existing, people treat me like an actual human—a person. There are interesting little moments that happen, too. “Human moments,“ my Ghost calls them.
   “What do you think it feels like when a Guardian is resurrected by a Ghost?”
   I heard the voice from the corner at my left. A young engineer was talking to an elderly cargo pilot. I tilted my head slightly towards them; this answer should be good.
   “They say it feels like waking up from the longest nap you’ve ever had,” the old man said.
   He was very, very wrong.

*   *   *

   A muffled sound. Empty black. This is the first thing I remember.

   The sound repeated, clearer this time.
   “Guardian?”
   I slowly forced my eyes open and light filtered in.
   “Eyes up, Guardian!”
   My vision began to clear. I was standing in a huge, wide-open field. The ground beneath my feet was spotted with patches of snow and tufts of yellow grass. Anything further than ten feet away from me was a blur; my eyes were still adjusting. In front of me, floating at eye level, was a small robot. A roughly diamond-shaped jumble of white angles with a tiny blue glowing eye in the center.
   The little robot spoke. “It worked. You're alive! You don't know how long I've been looking for you.”
   As the robot hovered and spoke, the pieces of its white shell shifted slightly and its blue light flashed. It seemed… alive, for something so obviously artificial.
   “I’m a Ghost,” the robot said. “Actually, now I'm your Ghost. And you... well, you've been dead a long time. So you're going to see a lot of things you won't understand.”

   My Ghost has a massive talent for understatement. I’ll never know whether it’s because he has a sense of humor or if he’s legitimately odd, even for a Ghost. At that moment, however, I didn’t much care about the little robot floating in front of me. A moment prior, I hadn’t existed.

   Being resurrected isn’t like waking from sleep. When you sleep, you exist. They say you’re not conscious, but you still think. You still dream. Being dead isn’t describable because to be honest, there’s nothing about it to remember. But I can tell you exactly what being resurrected feels like. It’s like tearing every muscle and breaking every bone at once, but backwards. Transforming from shattered to whole, and only gradually becoming aware that it’s happening somewhere in the middle. Being pulled out of nothing is devastating. It’s a reminder that you are no longer human.

Space

I needed to be given space—that's what I was told.

I wasn't told at the time, of course. It was three years later, after the wonderings-why and the non-existent (but perfectly real) rejection were given their time to set in.

I'd changed back then, I was told. Something about the way I spoke; the way I moved.

No offense was taken. I'd done nothing "wrong," precisely—except feel.

I looked deep inside my heart and found her there. It was then that I made the mistake of not hiding. Of believing—trusting?—that of all people, she would understand.

I wasn't so bold or so blind to think we could be anything more than friends, for the moment at least. 

But I knew how I felt regardless, and I decided it was better to be honest than to pull my heart back under my sleeve. After all, if anyone would be the exception to the rule I'd learned well before, it would be her. I was wrong. Maybe in that way, it's my fault.

But no—that can't be true. She was the exception. She'd said so herself. As I fell down more than once, chasing mirages of love that barely existed, she told me she was different. That if circumstances had allowed, she'd be the one to break the cycle. "I would have danced with you," she said in one way or another, more than once. And it wasn't only words. I recognized that look she gave me—that entranced adoration. Not the thoughtless affection of a grade-school crush, but the eyes that impart You Are Special To Me. I'm not special to her anymore—not in that way, in any case. But she still cares for me, albeit so distantly it's only a foggy echo across the bay.

Sometimes I wish she hated me instead.

"Space." "Distance." Words that imply a gentle way of letting me down easy.

Space. Distance. A gentle, unspoken way of saying "I'd rather not have you in my life."

Over and over I've thought: if only she'd been a shade more cruel, what she did would have been infinitely less cruel.

I didn't break any rules; I didn't overstep my bounds. I didn't do anything other than think she was special. And for that, I was punished with losing my best friend. I wasn't given a chance to defend myself—wasn't even told that I was on trial—and as my sentence, I have to live with the knowledge that the unspoken thoughts of my heart are the reason I lost the person who mattered to me the most.

I am not allowed to feel. I can make every right choice, never utter a word out of turn, but I can't lie well enough to hide how I feel. And for that reason, I'm eternally a criminal.

But what genuinely terrifies me: She knew me better than almost anyone. She told me she was different. She had feelings for me before, even if she won't admit it now. To her, today, I'm a dusty book sitting quietly on a shelf, unread for years. Filled with precious memories of years past, but ultimately useless in the face of newer alternatives. With others before, I felt the pain of rejection and moved on. But if this is how the supposed-exception—my former-closest friend—regards me now, what chance do I have with anyone else? If who I am and how I feel are the reasons I'm alone, how will I ever be anything else?

The immediate answer I find: I have to hide. I have to pretend that nothing and no one matters to me as much as they do. I have to pretend that I'm not a damaged child desperate for someone to claim me as theirs. But I know that I can't hide, and I can't lie. And honestly, I never want to. But that means that I'm at the mercy of others, and I don't feel safe trusting anyone anymore.

Desperate Moonlight

The dark one jumps from the tower window, unwilling prisoner in his iron grasp.
The light one follows.

They land gently on a sharply sloping roof, sliding to a stop. Halting for a moment, the charcoal-armored one looks back at his shining pursuer. Clad in pearl-colored armor, the boy is no older than seventeen. The iron knight smirks. He sees the boy's slippery footing, and knows that he has no real challenge: all a swordsman's skill with a blade will fail if his feet do not support him.

He readies his sword for the inevitable first strike that the boy will make, for that is the boy's nature: he moves swiftly, relying not on the sheer strength that he does not yet possess, but upon his youthful speed.

The young one jumps forward, gaining speed and distance as he falls towards his beloved and her captor. The elder knight raises his sword up to block, but stumbles to his knees. Furiously looking to his side, he sees the girl tugging at his boot: she tripped him. Looking back up at the boy's descending blade, he has mere second-fractions before his life is quenched.

The boy's blade strikes stone. The elder man's head is barely fast enough to move out of the way; his life continues.
Anger fills the black knight's mind. He has been brought to his knees by a mere girl, and nearly slaughtered by a child.
But he still has his strength, something neither of the children possess. Massive sword swung round, the dark one knocks away his challenger's blade and stands upright. If the two children shall cheat the rules of combat, so shall he. Surprised by the dark one's move, the boy is knocked back. With a lion's wrath, the black knight clasps his hand about the girl's throat, tossing her from the rooftop.

The boy jumps after her.


The laws of the world are writ in stone; none may break them but their author.
And so, it seems, the author sees fit to bless these two.

The young knight's white armor glows with angelic light; he flies groundward faster than his princess.
Her white dress, too, begins to glow, slowing her fall as if to gently pass her life into the arms of the selfless knight who chases her even to death's embrace.

They meet in the air, time seeming to crawl.
Holding one other, they land feet-first on the ground with no more sound or feeling than a feather.

They have survived, and the elder knight cannot catch them in time; they will escape the castle and find freedom.
Before they leave, however, the boy stops. He has no more use of his sword; his quest is finished.
As if in a final salute to a lifelong battle completed, he throws his blade into the night, letting it spin skyward.

The black knight stands atop the roof, proud of his clever maneuver. He has lost the princess, but forced the boy to die of his own free will: this is truly a sweet victory.
He takes a moment to rest. Though he does not care to admit it, the castle-spanning chase with the boy has tired him. As if to help him forget that fact and remind himself of his victory, he leans over the roof's edge to see the bodies of his fallen foes.

The boy and girl have fled the castle; they are safe.

Below the roof's edge lies a bloody sword and a severed head.

Vocabulary

Sinking
Drifting
Dead
Floating by
Barely there
Frustrated
Blocked
Kept away
Inadequate
Unable
Apathetic (except for her)

Someone give me something happy to write about?

Here I Wonder

Here I wonder what to think
How to feel
How to breathe.

What to choose
How to walk
How to live.

Here I wonder who she is
and If I have already met her.
Is she as I've always dreamed
or something entirely different?

Is this feeling an omen of joy,
or the failed dream of an empty heart?
Should I trust my gut this time
or do my best to forget her?

In truth, I have no choice.
There is no action I can take.

Patience is my greatest ally
And one that I rely on greatly.

Farewell, Husk

This was an assignment in my Creative Writing class. Basically, it's a letter from my spirit/soul to my body, as I'm leaving it at the moment of death. Yes, it is very weird.

-

Let’s be clear; you are not a person.
You have no soul. You are a simple husk; a vehicle for my spirit. And yet, as a vehicle, you were the best I could have asked for.

Remember that time we kicked a door in? That was fun.
How about the time we walked face-first into that wooden board? Yeah, sorry about that. I appreciate you not getting a concussion, by the way.

I’d always wanted you to be taller, that’s true. But you’re not exactly short, and I’m glad for that. You were a bit susceptible to allergies, but hey, that’s not so bad. You never gave me cramps, and fought off illnesses as if your life depended on it. (sorry; morbid humor)

I didn’t always treat you well, but I suppose could have done worse. Your lungs are free of black, and your brain is still intact. In-betwixt this world and the next, my memories are dim. Did you get better as time went on? I hope so.

Farewell, soulless friend. I hope that what few electrons still fire between your brain cells will think kindly of me.
(By the way, I told them I wanted you cremated. Sorry.)

Blood and the Angel

Two knights battle for the life of a young princess. One shines with angelic light; the other is bathed in blood.
With a word and a strike, the blood-knight vanquishes the angel. Now in his death-throes, Lucifer’s seven horned heads are revealed.
Helmet now removed, the brave red knight cradles his beloved.