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.

I Wander Back

My mind wanders back to her.
When I have allowed this in the past, I have been met with disappointment and inadvertent rejection.
Remembering this, I force myself to forget her mischievous smile and flirtatious manner. After all, what does a wolf have to offer a sparrow?
With a touch of bitterness, I make myself cold to her reminders, forsaking the lines upon which we had spoken.
And yet, at some point, my ignorance fails, and her kindness surprises me. I doubt my earlier judgments, and begin to slip into old habits.
I see her affection for her beloved, however, and remind myself that it makes no difference.

Androgynous Boys are Dangerous

A boy and a girl walk side-by-side. The girl ever-giggling, she knows not the truth that lies within her odd companion.

Seemingly the sweetest of lovers, the two are not in perfect harmony. The boy hides a darkness; an inner secret. He does not portray the masculinity of a normal male his age. He finds comfort in the fanciful and feminine. The girl passes this off as his being "special," and not as any real sign of immasculinity. The boy is lying to her; he does not feel any more attraction to her than he does a slab of marble. In truth, he only stays with the girl in a vain attempt to convince himself that he is not what he knows he is.

One day, the girl walks in on the boy during a private moment. In that single second, she discovers the secret that he has worked so hard to keep from her. Stunned beyond reckoning, she runs as fast as her light feet will take her. The boy is not upset, but determined. He gives chase, moving with great speed.

As the girl reaches her car, she fumbles for her keys. Before she can get inside, the boy is standing beside her. With an iron grip, the boy clamps his hand around the girl's neck. "I can't have you telling people my secret," he states with a steely voice.

As the girl's throat reaches its breaking point, a shot rings out from a nearby car. The scattered lead of a shotgun blast slams into the boy's side, and his grip is released. Before the girl can catch her breath once more, a young man pulls her into the car he exited a moment before. She notices the shotgun at his side, and realizes that he is the one who gunned down her former beloved. She begins to open the car door to leave--for she is not a prisoner--but stops when she sees her boy stand up once more. She had hoped beyond all sense that what she had seen was not the truth, but here it stood before her, a testament to her foolish affections:
Her boyfriend was a robot.


For the further adventures of Shotgun Boy and Oblivious Girl, check out my new blog:
The Science of Fiction

Someone

Someone who's genuine
Someone who's kind
Someone who loves
Someone to show the stars (and who'll accept them)
Someone who'll lean close under my arm as we walk through the cold.

I don't know who you are, but I'm waiting.
Please hurry; don't be shy.

I Know Why I Scream Her Name

All around me is chaos.
I cannot think, see, or breathe.
I run from the thought of her, yet can't rid myself of her memory.
And when I open my mouth, I speak her name.
Why?


For all her flaws, she embodies my every dream.
Her speech, her manner, her mind. All are as I've always desired, yet something is wrong.

I have spent countless hours and days longing for one such as her, yet she has time and again run from me, never knowing my sorrow.
I know that she doesn't see the way I think of her. I know that she will never fully love me, and that we are not meant for one another.
I am not in love with her; in truth, I do not want her.
Yet I still see her in my waking dreams. Why?

I see her out of my own choice. I chose to want a girl such as her, and so I placed her in my dreams. For as long as I hold tight to the siren's scream, I will forever be entranced, never in possession of my own mind.

She is a perfect Princess, but not mine.
I must let go of she who is not my joy.


Now I exist as a blank slate. Without a pursuit to define me, what am I?

A soldier?
A knight?
A boy?

It's not for me to decide.


I await she who is meant for me.
Have I already met her? It's possible.
Do I dare pursue another? Can my heart withstand a rejection? I'm not sure.
Am I being overdramatic? Probably.

A Lonely Walk

The town square is alight with wonder.
Though night has come, the trees sparkle with a magical glow.
Red brick marks the path of sweethearts and friends.
A girl walks slowly through the gentle lights, bundled in a warm jacket.
Dark-haired and sweet as the sunrise, she makes me smile (as she ever does).

She smiles as well, and for a moment I hope.
When she and I come close, she doesn't stop. She walks past, into the embrace of another.

I take a chilled breath, and keep moving. The square at my back, I steel myself against the cold and wonder, "why?"

Lost another one

The story you are about to read is true.
The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

-

First meetings and awkward greetings bring a hopeful question.
Through rekindled knowings and humorous writings, a friendship is formed.
Favorite bands and far-off lands bring smiles to the faces of both.
Plans are made, kind words exchanged; the world goes ever slower.
As conversations deepen, a silence thickens; is something wrong?
Later that day, a message displays:

Lucia went from being "single" to "in a relationship."

Dang it. -_-

She Runs

Gently she moves through the waters and the skies.
Neither in darkness or light, she slides in-between the waves and the winds, basking in the glow of the world ever-separate.
She dreams of other lands and adventures; I dream only of her.
Ever moving, she is an enigma of grace and frailty; of elegance and weakness.

I can't make her happy.

Am I a fool?

My Desire

That which I seek is not to be found, nor entranced, nor taken.
It is beyond my reach; it is my torment and eternal joy.
Though I may lay my life down, it matters not, for no deed of mine can win the unwinnable prize.
And so my dreams run on feet of grace, ever in darkness as to my longing.

Be Careful

The sun shines down upon the City of Tomorrow.
The Guardian stands silently atop his tower, listening for a cause. Alone he stands, for no one can understand his struggle. There is no scream or gunshot he cannot hear; no pain he cannot see. Despite his immense power, he cannot save every life.

Ships lay docked near the running river. A beautiful woman walks toward her end. The truth is her goal, a pen her weapon. Day by day, she risks her life in pursuit of that which eludes the law. Though she should have been dead long ago, she still lives. Her enemies know of her great fortune, and fear her very presence--as if it attracts that which will end their reign.
Determined, The Reporter walks briskly towards her goal.
The ship's captain rudely refuses to allow her on board, standing as a tall obstacle at the bridge of Truth.
Feigning acceptance of his refusal, the Reporter slowly turns away--then twirls about, her left heel impacting the large man's stomach. As he doubles over in pain, she shoves him with all the might she possesses, toppling her obstacle into the waters below.

Now aboard the vessel, the Reporter finds her way to the cargo hold, smiling with awe as she finally uncovers the Truth that she longs for.
She does not see the real truth, however--that her audacious actions have signed her death sentence, and the river will soon be her home.

The ship's captain returns sooner than the Reporter expected. Within minutes, she is found. As the barrel points to her head, she screams her savior's name.
The bullet does not reach its target.


A mile away, the Guardian's eyes open as he hears the one voice he listens for above all others. With unearthly speed, he leaves his globe-topped tower, flying forth to answer his princess's call.


Before the crewmen realize what has transpired, they are in the presence of a Champion. Eyes glowing with red fire, he opens his outstretched hand, dropping the crumpled remains of a bullet.
The crew know their justice is at hand.
They flee.
All but one.

Though the guardian has strength of steel, he is not without weakness. His love for others blinds him to the dangers that would threaten his own life, and while he tends to his Princess, one man readies his weapon.
At the behest of her Guardian, the Reporter flees the vessel. The Champion finally looks up at that which threatens him.

One man sits within the metal frame of another. The man who did not run guides a titanium monstrosity, towering over the Champion.
With a swipe of his massive arm, the Metal Man strikes the Champion, thrusting him through steel walls.

The Guardian is stunned for a moment, thrown through the vessel's side and into the waves of the river.
He recovers quickly, rising from the waters to see his enemy already on the shores of his city. His Princess, ever danger-prone, has found herself yet again in harm's way. Beneath the Metal Man's descending foot, she screams yet again.
The foot does not reach its target.

Like Atlas before him, the Guardian lifts the impossible. Kneeling between the woman and her doom, he holds back the giant. Throwing his opponent backward, he lifts up his Princess, soaring towards their globe-topped tower.


Slowly descending, his brilliant red and blue shining in the setting sun, he lowers his beloved to safety. Though she stands safe atop her tower, the woman is filled with fear as her Guardian turns back to face his enemy yet again.
She fears not for her life, but for his.
When she calls for him to wait, he halts in the sky, turning slowly backward. He floats motionless upon the air, time seeming to stop. All is silent as the wind gently flows through her hair and his cape.
Though he leans back towards his task, he stretches his hand forward to meet hers.
As their fingertips touch, tears come to her eyes.
Gently she whispers, "Be careful."

The Metal and its Master

Wrought of steel and bathed in red, it gleams ever-bright.
Through the cloth and chain it strikes, dealing death to those that would bring it.
Though the darkness awaits at battle's front, the blade moves ever-forward, fearing not the flames of hell.

Not merely a weapon, but a symbol, all its master's will and strength focused into a single edge. Every emotion and thought metal-wrought, the blade strikes at its master's bidding. Those who fear for themselves shall not find not victory. Only at death's red embrace does the world become clear to those that spent their lives in vain pursuits.

Only a selfless heart shall master the blade, for only one without pride may stand without fear.
Standing against the onslaught, the Master fights not out of pride for himself, but passion for others. A wise master knows that the struggle is not glorious, but terrible. The lies of glory are clear, yet he fights on.

Death may come, and the light may fade. The path may end here, in the crimson field. Unspoken truths may silently lie, and those for whom the Master fights may never know his mind. Tragic though it seems, the path has been chosen. The Master's tale may forever lay unspoken, screaming silently.

Death may be yet defeated again, though he must still take others. In the blade's wake, those who fight against the righteous have forfeited their lives. Though the Master strives on, he tires of the battle, quietly waiting for the dawn of hope. The hour may come when the prize is won, and peace of the heart is found. Dim though the light seems, the Master cannot divert. He walks on, weary of body and will, holding on nonetheless. Patient and strong of heart, he must believe that one day his strives will not stay silent, and his seven years of battle will end.