Wedding

“By the powers given to me, I pronounce you man and wife.”

And with that, the ceremony ends; I can only be grateful that there was no kissing going on. The music shifts to a trilling of flutes and vibrato-less violins. The crowd lurches to their feet, and I, admittedly, have no idea what's going on. I stare as if I’m a statue, and, before I realize anything’s happening, a pair of arms reaches around me and in a bear hug that nearly forces my stomach out of my mouth. I close my eyes in terror, as I am jerked up into the air on my back.



When I finally dare to open my eyes, I see an aquiline face with eyes as deep and brown as liquid chocolate. But as I keep staring, they fade into a dark, translucent blue green. The face itself then shifts, and the arms that stretch around me are flabby jelly.



“Patrick?”



His lips twist into a demented smirk, and his identity changes again. The face, which I don’t seem to recognize, leans in closer to mine, and as the mouth parts slightly, I realize what’s going to happen. Some sick combination of rage and terror forces my eyes open, and I can’t close them even when I try. 



The faces blend into each other: I see a glimpse of others that I think I might have known. The image changes before I can make sense of it, each of these features combining into a solid stream of trauma for my brain. I can almost feel my cognitive abilities shutting down, one by one. First, I lose all the feeling in my limbs. Then, I can no longer hear or see anything, and the world swirls around that singular patch of clarity. My heart is beating so quickly that it could belong to a rabbit.



Somehow, I will my arms to come up to shield my face as a last-ditch defense. Those lips, as red as the blood that pumps underneath that fragile skin, break through my fragile shield, and press into mine. I recoil backwards at the sensation, before a burst of anger takes me almost by surprise.



Then, I blindly scratch at the face, feeling something like joy as my nails tear through the fragile skin, revealing the pink flesh underneath. My fingernails catch on something after a few attempts, and I see something that I recognize clearly - a pair of glasses. But my hands don’t seem to take this in. They rip off the offending metal frames and hurl them on the ground, before continuing on their savage mission.



But I know who it is.



There’s no way that I wouldn’t.



Even in this state, I can see him clearly - too clearly… I can see every inch of quickly disappearing skin and the pink softness they hide. I can see those eyes boring into mine, with that spring green hue taking over everything that I see. And the blood that streams down the face is no accident either - it stains my fingers and runs down my arms to the carpet.



Still my hands continue. 

Almost as if possessed.



Quickly, I fall, almost float, to the ground. The arms must’ve lost their strength at last. Unprepared, I am unable to stop my descent. Yet, at the same time, I see myself do an inhuman backflip before landing on my feet and launching myself at the man, with teeth bared and nails at the ready. Through this strange double-sight, I see both the ceiling, covered in peeling golden stars and a half broken statue of some deity, and the man I am attacking.



He does nothing to protect himself, instead holding both arms stiffly at his side. “No!” I scream with all my might because I know why. Fresh blood and now strips of flesh appear on my fingertips and as they, ever so slowly, eat up the clean white fabric of my gown, I see that the man is now hardly more than a walking zombie.



The crowd has faded into spectators, and as the man looks at me fully in the face, I see cords of muscle, and a glimpse of white bone. His beautiful green eyes have been gouged out long since, and two streams of blood flow from his sockets. Red-brown hair is now more crimson than anything else, and yet he refuses to move.



The other-me takes full advantage of this.



With one last, resounding crack, she breaks his neck and somehow his head rolls to the side of my body. I stare at it, and can’t help but reach one finger towards that hair and stroke it once. It’s not worth it - the silky softness that I used to admire is now so caked with blood that my skin crawls.



The other-me then smiles at me before she fades from existence.



The man’s body slumps and falls to the ground, and somehow that breaks the brief reverie. The crowd has gotten to their feet, all of them. They are now armed with pitchforks and torches, and each of them wears the same tears of blood.



“Kill.”



“Revenge.”



“Murder.”



“Kill.”



“I didn’t mean to kill you!” I plead in their direction, but still they come, a stream of hatred directed at me. “I didn’t! It wasn’t me! I’m telling you, it wasn’t me!” They still come, their feet marching to a slow and steady beat. I can’t do anything as they fall on me like wolves to prey.



I don’t feel it even when they rip me from piece to piece. Not even when they start using their teeth. Not even when there is nothing but red, and all of it mine. I don’t feel a thing. I don’t see a thing either, I just know. I just know that somehow I’ve destroyed the one person who was my friend, and now he hates me too.

Forgive me…



…

Reflection: A writer's issue

I'm sure all writers out there have this issue: The issue of being overly critical of your work while you have yet to complete it. It is an issue that serves to stall the creative talents: And more often then not it causes a story to stay unfinished.

It is something that plagues: Us all. However: A recent experiment with styles: And with tricks has lead me on to stumble upon a trick which may or may not be of help:

When you begin a story: Do not reread until you have reached a certain chapter. Decide this chapter when you start writing. When you reach this chapter: Reread and revise the story once only. Then: Set a new chapter goal: And upon reaching that reread the whole story once again. And then: Revise once more.

Try not to set them in too small intervals: Or you will just rest back on the issue that started this practice for me. Stagger them: For instance in a longer novel: Try every 10 or 15 chapters. If a shorter story: 5 might be best.

Apologies for the short entry: But I have not much more to say on this. And also sorry: For the time spent away.

Tyrant Muse

You sit there, waiting for that singular spark to strike. For magic to take over your fingers. For the words that seem to form without effort. For the sparkling stories that seem perfect on first sight. For you to transcend reality and spout ideas like a fountain.

You sit there, waiting to write.

You wait for a muse.

And you dare call yourself a writer?

Never has anything been so ridiculous. This lie you tell yourself, it is remarkably laughable. You ought to try another word to explain your profession. Perhaps channeler? Time-waster? Useless fool?

You should quit now. Your tangled tales are nothing to me because they will never be anything. If you wander away all your hours, seeking help from an outside source, your words will never be complete. My dear, dear Reader, let me tell you the full-blown truth.

As is, you are naught but a slave.

Freeing you is impossible for me. But you - you may still be able to escape. Open the door, and flame will light out of my fingertips and burn your muse into ash.

First, questioning. 

What is a muse that holds you with leash and collar? An old cult of disbelief and cruelty. Nothing less, nothing more. A Greek deity or nine. You, poor dear, have been forced into dependency on its sour milk. You are but one of the many that debase yourself, waiting for its fickle blessing. 

And will you ever get it?

Maybe.

You grovel anyways. There is nothing that sets you apart from the other humans, writhing on the floor as you are.

These words may be cruel. But somewhere in your heart, lose your foolish dependency. Understand the truth.

Open your eyes.

Second, understanding.

Where does a muse spring from? Whilst Sable would like to slip the wool over your eyes, the truth is so deceptively simple it sounds like a silver-plated lie.

You.

Your heart, your mind, your fingers.

There is no other magic. There is no invisible spirit that perches on your shoulder, whispering words into your ear. You may be a writer, but that is no excuse to lie needlessly. Lies are for the audience, not the creator.

Inspiration is your own heart caring and feeling, your own mind weaving lies and answers, and your own fingers placing it on paper. Realize this and take your first step into the real world.

You are your own muse. 

Third, action.

How do you act without a muse? The simplest, yet the hardest step.

You just do.

Write without your muse dancing over your shoulder. Let your fingers go off in joyful abandon. Throw away your fear of failure, your need for perfection, and simply take off into the unknown. Write for the fun of the process.

Don’t wait. Through rain and sleet and sunshine and wind and morning and night and hard days and easy days, just do. Every single day. Every single possible second.

I am looking forward to your emancipation, my dear. Soon, the sky will be filled with bursts of red light and grey ash. Fire will fill the world as far as the eye can see, and the tyrant Muse will be no more. There will be a new golden age of storytelling.

One day, you will write by your own power. The day cannot come soon enough.

Today, shed your collar.

Tomorrow, be free.

Write.

You are a writer, are you not?

Remember, there are always stories for those that seek them.

Sable, check. Your move.

Camp NaNoWriMo - A Musing

Greetings to you, my dear reader - it seems we meet again.

I bring to you a little musing about a rather spectacular event. Have you heard of that special month? That one, I mean - the one when writers abound gather together, call upon my kind for aid, and create whole worlds and tales that could never be created at any other moment.

National Novel Writing Month.

Once upon a time, merely November, but now it's expanded furthermore - to April, to July, to August, and... yes, you see what I'm getting at. It's several days into the fourth month of the year now, and my contractor's typing away on our collaboration despite her busy schedule. Now, these past few days weren't without its problems, so I've decided to share with you some advice, but first... well, you don't need the advice if you don't participate. 

Therefore, this first musing upon the event will also attempt to convince you, my dear reader, to take part in NaNoWriMo, camp version or otherwise. Join now, this very moment. It's April, after all, and although you can decide upon your own word count, if you are writing a novel, I will ask of you to strive for the much coveted 50,000. Yes, 50k in 30 days - it might be a strain, but... well, it's really my duty to challenge humans, you see.

I'm a muse, don't you know?

It's just what I do.

A Tale of Legitimacy

((We apologize for the nature of this post, but our respective personas aren't quite the... most subtle of personalities... It would suffice to say the true degree of our criticism should only be about a third of what is written. Unfortunately. There may be some bias, as there always is, but we hope that you make your own decision about what to believe.))

Greetings to the wanderers of this site;

You join us for a rare occasion when the spirit, the machine, and the carnival gather to share with you a tale... or rather, would it be more appropriate to call it a mere musing upon the facts?

Or naturally: Upon the evidence so gathered that has been muddled by both thoughts and emotions. We would like: To call back to and clarify the factuality of the tale.

Just in case you poor poor readers have fallen into the trap.

See, however outdated it may be, there is an issue that remains within the scope of our attention.

An issue has come up on the spin of the wheel - have you heard of the being known as Cassandra Clare?

Heh. If anyone has, I certainly have. A friend of a friend of a friend heard the news - her muse has wandered free for many years now.

I may have had a hand in that wandering, my dear Sable. The carnival was so much livelier with its grey ash mixed in with the snow. But that has no pertinence in this little tale of ours.

Haha... Why, Eira, you frighten the wrong person. Yes, let us not speak of... controversial things and return to the case at hand. So then, about Cassandra Clare... Cycle, would you do the honor?

I assume at least some of you are aware: Of Cassandra's controversial 'plagiarism'. Now I am not one to involve myself in such menial debates: But one outstanding issues shines out at me. Cassandra Clare admitted: To having taken several major scenes from other literature. Not only thus: But she admitted it with pride. So I would ask: How can a work be legitimately her own when a majority of what she did was take other peoples scenes: And rework them? Should she not: Just be a simple editor then? And yet she claims: She wrote the story. She: Contradicts herself.

Perhaps we should gift the girl with a new dictionary. The poor mortal probably mistakes the word 'write' with 'sewed together.' Something which may be happening sometime soon with her intestines. Humans are gifted with quite the digestive repertoire - simply a few inches short will not cause too much lasting harm. Hopefully. 

They are such fragile little glasswork statues. But, digression.

Reworked scenes float throughout her fanfiction, a work of 'writing' that places a known serpent in leather pants, while many of these self-same scenes reemerge in her published work. Whether these have been 'permanently borrowed' or not, the evidence stands unmolested. Our loveliest Cassandra Clare, why steal the old skins of useless muses when other paths are easier?

Perhaps it is true that she, the dear princess, is merely honoring those that have come before. But tangled tales of angel ilk can be written better through the beauty of creation. Not that broken emulation of muses, but that of something else, far more pure. Beauty shines in that, but this 'borrowing' can only ever be a thin veneer  merely for hiding behind.

It's truly a pity... I wonder what her muse had hoped for her to become. It's but another I will never meet of my poor dying race. Then again, it was inevitable if she didn't listen to its words. From what I've seen of her work, it seems that she lusted for a different muse - a muse at peace with its rightful contractor... heh. How cruel. I have no sympathy for humans who covet to the point of abandoning the truest form of creation.

Judgement shall not be passed on her published novels - we do not seek to flame or otherwise defile. Our sole goal is to sweep away the cobwebs that the dearest Cassie has deemed so necessary to wear. Said writing has been officially murdered and hidden from public attention, but should more tainted words be found, a second purge may be necessary.

While some foolish readers may claim that it was that type of art known as 'fanfiction,' should we not hold our writers to the highest standard? Shall we allow a thief to disappear into the night with words that are not hers? Shall we mindlessly allow one of our kind to discard their own potential? Has she not already flown high enough on her pair of flawed, borrowed wings?

It's bright up there.

Maybe even blinding.

We believe that this crutch can be discarded, and our beautiful Cassie can find her own way to fly. And until then, the carnival, the machine, and the spirit will continue to hope. To muse. To wait for a day her muse can be found and burn anew.

True Silence?

(A poem: In work. Apologies for its rough edges and a few badly balanced rhymes and metres.)

Tell me. What is true silence?
The moment where the noise dies down?
No, true silence is different,
It cannot be donned like a gown.
-
It is more than just the absence,
Of assault on your ears.
It’s more than just the sudden hush,
As silence hits your peers.
-
A moment where you’re deafened,
Or there simply is nothing to hear.
It’s not a calming moment.
It inspires pure fear.
-
There is no breath, no heartbeat, no bloodrushing to ears,
Just a pure note of nothing at all.
And as you encounter this absolute nothing,
It’s as if your breath did stall.
-
Grasp at your throat, you can feel it move,
But there’s not a sound to hear.
No whistling of lungs, nor sound as you talk,
You can almost feel death so near.
-
Then, it is all over, the silence gone at last.
The soft and welcome sounds of your breath rushing through.
And then the blood rush slows, as it was quite fast.
And you realise, the truth, who know silence are but a few.

A Professor's Letter

'Since you've come so far -

Dearest Reader.

Let me tell you a story.'

February 11th, XXXX

To the Editors of Musings:

I feel as though it's finally time to tell the public the truth.

They deserve it for putting up with my cryptic silences for the last month while I have been growing to understand exactly what has happened.

For once, I'm not the person that the whole town pretends does not exist. Here, in the long, winding hallways of this beautiful university where I serve as the newest psychology professor, I am someone important. But this story is getting away from me.

Let me start, first, with the person who I used to be.

Name: Phillip J. Vitale
Profession: Professional Janitor of Hopewell High School
Mental status: Unhappy
Marital state: Unmarried

Every single spare inch - even centimeter - of space in my house was plastered of posters. No, not of half-undressed celebrities and their resident sucker-uppers, but of serial killers.

From the Killer Clown to the Blood Countess.

Their faces stared down at me from every angle. Underneath every image, after years of hard work, I had described their most likely motivations. They varied, as all human minds do, but I knew that without a doubt, my contributions were correct.

You see, I was a genius under this ridiculous guise. I knew things that others had not even discovered. But it wasn't realized until after this - this destined event that people realized.

I lived in a small town.

They even had small minds.

The largest two professions in Hopewell were housewife and small store owner. They didn't know anything - not of the world surrounding them, not of the possible dangers that were waiting to pounce on their little heads. But they had something more precious. Their innocence.

I regret to have destroyed it, but I suppose that it was for their own good.

The day that my tale starts was like any other. The school kids, the classes, the teachers - and of course, the legends of the Bathroom Door.

Ah, so that's where it makes its first appearance.

It was a girl's bathroom, as to be expected, that seemed to be perpetually out of service. I spent more time on my knees scrubbing the floor in that couple of square feet than in entire rest of the school combined, but even then, I did not know its magic.

There were rumors that surrounded it, of course. People believed that somehow, if you could bear to write your names on the door, and admit to your greatest problems, the bathroom door would take them and turn them into nothing more but a story to tell your grandchildren. Yes, it would make them disappear as though it had never existed. It was Hopewell's magical genie.

It took all of my courage, but that day, after a bout of scrubbing, I finally looked up at the wall to read names bordering on heartfelt notes.

There was a girl who signed her name S.K. who had scrawled her fears of living with her chronic inability to get close to people of the other gender. She threatened suicide, but over the message, someone had painted a huge 'Thank you.'

Another, presumably female teen, had admitted to a case of a constantly-missing self esteem. How dejecting indeed. I would have you know that this is quite common amongst this population, and therefore, this note was not really all that special. But it had been crossed out by a self-assured hand, so I supposed that they had gotten what they were looking for.

Personally, I believed that it was some psychological effect. When people admit to their fears, somehow it becomes less important. And added to their beliefs that the bathroom was magical - well, there's your explanation. Nothing arcane to it.

But, that day, I had a marker in my pocket.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had inscribed my name on the bottom right corner of the door, and the wish that someday people would admit to my genius. That I would no longer be suffering in this tiny town with a minimal wage job, stifled into normalcy.

I had a lot bottled in back then.

Now I suppose that this story is the only thing that I have left in my drawer of secrets. Maybe this piece of 

paper will help me come to terms with the past and its implications on my present.

The next day, I was back on my knees.

A pipe had burst somewhere and water was spilling out of the toilet as though it was a fountain in its past life. So, this is where things get interesting, but I've told this story to the police enough times that it might be starting to sound a little hollow.

So, I look up, and there on the far left corner was a singular note.

"You'd best watch out 'cause you'll all be visiting Hades. Forever.

It's not just going to be a vacation for you fools.

Do you really believe that a bathroom will protect you?

I'm going to enjoy this."

I did what every self-respecting citizen would do. I called the cops.

This is when my story really begins to heat up. However, it is also time for my next lecture, and that is much higher on my list of priorities.

There's no harm in ending with a little tiny cliffhanger, right?

I'll just tell you one thing. That killer - yes, that serial killer - they never ended up killing a single soul.

Yours truly,

Phillip J Vitale

Phillip J. Vitale

Professor of Psychology at Leighton University