Ghost Dance

It’s been a while. I’ve endured the chipmunk-esque features that come with removing painful wisdom teeth, the burning fevers and throat accompanied with strep throat, and the bruises and cuts of being a general clutz. And I have never been so determined to get back to work.

This latest piece was based on my love letter “Dearest”, which featured an arsonist lover. And I found myself loving this story as I wrote it; the non-traditional love within is filled with medieval courtship and the complications of wanting another’s love. I also realized that I have a deep fascination with Aboriginal cultures, and I found that I diverted from my planning in order to delve into the traditions, rituals, and life of these peoples. Even the title comes from one of rituals: “Ghost Dance”.

When reading this, please remember that it is fictitious. My inspiration comes from a great many sources, but the story is ultimately untrue. None of this actually happens. Please remember that. It is graphic, and there are some obscene words used: it is deliberate.

As Oscar Wilde would say, “Do not let truth get in the way of a good story.”

“Ghost Dance”.

She was elusive. She was time itself. Weaving in and out of my memories. She was wildfire. She was dusk. She was the incessant burning candle when fear enveloped the mind. She was my dear, sweet Alice. She set me free.

Snow drifted softly, blanketing the city in white. The concrete roads were lined with brown and gray, marking the battle of rubber and ice. People sped through the streets, as work was a necessity, a corporate survival for some. I leaned on the windowsill and placed my hand above the baseboard heater. The feeble emissions of warmth explained the frost-framed windows. A group of construction workers could be seen repairing the road in the distance, their trucks twinkling like Christmas lights. It was going to be a hard winter.

“There are four stages in the journey of the human spirit,” Alice had told me, “birth, life, death, and afterlife.”

“And you prefer to associate yourself with the afterlife?” I had asked.

“Yes.”

“Why am I so different?”

I had asked her this many times. Every conversation became rooted in life and death, and the angst became more prominent.  She never did give me a response.

“There are many things that we do not understand about ourselves. Which is what makes life so interesting. It’s a quest of self-understanding. Our own happiness.”

It was hard to understand Alice most of the time. She was always telling me about a new homeopathic remedy she’d perfected, or trying to don me her chunky bracelets and tie-dyed clothing. She was a modern hippie. I referred to her as that to my other friends.

I had spent my life searching for some meaning ever since she’d told me all of this spiritual nonsense. God was not my higher calling. Something about existence without reason binding me to a belief pushed me away. Maybe I just didn’t get it. But at least I had tried.

It wasn’t religion, careers, or loneliness, but rather, something was missing within me. Alice had stayed through these dramatic episodes, offering guidance when she could. It was more that she was there during the screaming, the crying, and the depression. Maybe she didn’t listen to a word I said, maybe she did. I had unleashed this inferno upon myself.

“Evelyn, can you help us in the kitchen? We’ve got too many mouths to feed, and it’s your turn for mess hall duties.” A tumble of curly red hair and pursed pink lips revealed themselves in the small opening of the door. She tapped her foot in quick successions. “Now?”

“Fine. Just… give me a minute Jenna.”

I pulled on frayed jeans and a long sleeve shirt, and then paused at the mirror hanging on the wall. It was cracked and dirt had burrowed its way into the glue. A pair of faded blue eyes stared back at me.

My shoes squished with each step, leaking water. The smell of mould overwhelmed my senses: winter brought incurable dampness to the old building. A scuttle of legs and small bodies escaped from a hole in the wall, darting down the hallway. And, likely, into the kitchen.

*          *          *

I exhaled deeply, tapping the side of my cigarette methodically. There was something elegant in the light burning object, even if it left an unpleasant stinging upon my fingertips. She was late. Alice was always late.

I extinguished the embers and let a smile cross my lips. She looked like a human tambourine with all of the bangles, clanging against each other. Her pace quickened, and the sleeves of her dress took to the wind, the sequin embroidery flickering.

“I have something to show you!”

“As long as it isn’t food. I lost my appetite this morning.”

Alice scoffed, and the added hurriedly, grabbing my wrist, “Oh, c’mon!”

I laughed, and followed her. There was something infectious about her childlike demeanour, an innocence that I couldn’t place. Her straight black hair danced around her russet face.

Night had fallen. I had lost track of time and direction as Alice led me through the city’s core. My eyes turned to the sky, and I frowned. To have a clear view of the stars without clouds and glaring city lights was rare, and it was only worsened by the city’s bright lights and billboards.

“Alice, where are we going? We’ve been walking for hours?”

She paused in front of a low-rise apartment building and unlocked the door. “Home.” I followed her inside, and then into her unit.

The scent of burning was everywhere. Ashes littered the floor, nubs of charcoal displaced with black smears, and candles. There was a dark streak across one wall: it appeared that something had once caught fire there, and the attempt to douse the blaze had been sporadic and ill-prepared.

“Been busy?”

“Trial and error, mostly. Though, I didn’t count on that,” Alice pointed to the wall.

“Yeah, I don’t think your landlord will like that.”

She shrugged and picked up a lighter, igniting a few candles.

The candles gave the effect of a dim halo. There were many charcoal scrawlings pinned upon the wall, varying from scenery to inscriptions. Her works exceeded the paper and violently progressed onto the walls in a haphazard collage of smear of black.

“Alice, why did you bring me here? You know that Henry wouldn’t like this.”

“Relax. Your boyfriend won’t care that much, will he?”

“Well, you did kiss me last time.”

She shook her head. “Like I said, I wanted to show you something.”

“I’m sorry.”

She handed me a heavy leather book stuffed with a multitude of feathers. She flipped to one marked by a Blue Jay, and pointed.

“We came from the stars. That is why we have such a fascination about space, and the worlds beyond our own. We were all sent here by different suns, and the only way to be reincarnated is to leave the earth the same way.”

I closed the book, and coughed. “You mean by fire?” My voice wavered, and I began fiddling with the cuff of my shirt.

“Well, yes. I’m a born spirit guide: I help people make the leap. In my tribe, it’s how we set tortured souls free.”

Silence rung through the small apartment for several minutes. I placed the book on the floor, and looked away. “Alice. You don’t kill people, do you?”

Her voice was full of happiness and purpose. “No, of course not.”

*          *          *

I didn’t see Alice for a month after that, mostly due to my brother’s constant visits. He had told me that Henry’s family had accepted the marital request, and now plans were well on their way. I was to be wed in autumn of the following year, and my passage into womanhood would be complete. It was what my parents had wanted.

“They would be proud,” my brother had said.

“Of you, maybe. You fulfilled their will.”

“Yes. And, as planned, you are to be wed to Henry.”

“I don’t love him. You know that.”

“I know about Alice,” he added quickly.

“She’s my friend. So?”

He smirked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. His gold wristwatch peaked over the hem of his jeans. “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me this passive-aggressive shit. Say it.”

“I’m a high-standing officer in many Arabic States. My reputation will not be compromised because you’re a faggot.”

I stood there long after he’d left. His words always damaged and destroyed each place it touched, much like a chemical burn. I didn’t remember going to the shelter that day, but Jenna had told me I had a visitor coming in later. I remember lying down on my bed and closing my eyes for a moment.

*          *          *

Orange. Red. Yellow. It was like flickering autumn, except in my bedroom. There was a faint glow from a few lonely candles on the table. Alice’s face hovered above mine.

“You told me that you were dead inside. Trapped by your high-standing brother who is to marry you off to another officer, Henry,” her voice was soft, “do you love him?”

“No. What is all of this, Alice?”

“My dear, sweet Evelyn… why, I’m here to set you free.”

“What do you mean?”

“You want to experience ecstasy and true love. You brought me into your life, and I’ll always remember that. But you have your own path.”

“Alice…” my voice was growing louder. Her brown eyes were large, and her smile was unwavering. But she was methodically searching through her knapsack and gave no response. I tried to sit up, but couldn’t: my wrists had been tied to the bedframe with rope. “What are you doing?”

Embers sparked from her hands, and she began to dance. Her arms reached towards the ceiling, her legs following a series of steps in sequence. My heart was the drum to her ritual, and I could not form words.

A pale white light entered the room, leeching colour from all that it touched. My body was overwhelmed with sheer intensity. The once vibrant, warm feathers and cloth betrayed me. Her face was shadowed, and her eyes occasionally caught the light and burned.

“This will provide answers to the heart filled with pain or loneliness.” She began to distribute pieces of cloth and leaves, outlining my figure. She stroked my face gently when finished.

“What is this? Stop right now Alice. You’re scaring me!”

“It’s a powerful tool to assist the grieving process. I’m going to release your trapped soul back to the heavens. Your body will be a central light.”

“You mean a human torch. Alice, don’t!”

She squeezed my hand, and turned away from my shaking body. “I’m not sorry.”

Her hands struck the flint and steel hard, and a series of sparks flew towards me. The kindling had taken light immediately. “Alice!” Her name escaped my lips for the final time as my body attempted to combat the flames. It was a firestorm, and no one was going to stop it. I continued to shout, to try to draw attention. My skin had begun to melt and deform.

“You made my heart glow like the embers I so often create. You’re the newest star I’ve borne,” she was saying, “I personify hope.”

I slipped from consciousness, and my pulse quickly followed suit. The scent of burning flesh would soon attract attention, if the screams hadn’t already. But Alice wasn’t afraid. She was staring directly at me, here, sitting upon the windowsill. And there was her beautiful smile.

“I’m not sorry for your screams of agony, not for the burns you contracted, nor the ash and dust left behind.” She glanced at the corpse in flames, and then back towards me.

“I love you, Evelyn. Be free.”

Alice blew out the candles and admired the wisps of smoke for a moment. The smile was still there, even as she exited the building, and during the reports of murder that followed. She continued to cry out to the heavens in incomprehensible song, dancing around a torch. A vow her connection to me.

“There’s a place in native culture called the Skyworld. It’s a lot like heaven, but for our souls,” she had told me.

“What are the rituals like?”

“Well, there are a lot of dancers. It kind of sounds like white noise because, unless you speak the language, it doesn’t make sense.”

“White noise isn’t a language, Alice.”

“I don’t know. Anyway, concentration ages the dancers’ faces since the release of a spirit is a ritual not to be tampered with. Everyone is in their animal hides and headdresses. There’s the beating of the drums. It’s beautiful.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

And now, I can see the stars, and feel their warmth. I now know that comets are the release of a new spirit. Her love is unique, extending its reach past the dimensions of time and mortality. But my remains, blackened and smouldering, remind me of the journey of the human spirit.

I was born, experienced life, and then endured a cruel death. Now I will pursue the afterlife. Be reborn again into another person, and go through the cycle again and again.

And each time, my body will be welcomed by the warmth and brilliance of the auroras.

Dearest.

There are so many different aspects of love to explore, especially in the realm of the non-traditional. We can explore taboo love: necrophilia, masochism, sadism, bestiality, etc.

However, these are the most interesting of stories. We can humanize these characters in such a way that we can relate to them: we’re all looking for that transcendent experience. For some, it’s enveloped in love. For me, it’s the act of being immersed in an art form, to the point where nothing else exists.

And so, I wrote a love letter that touches base with the theme of courtly love. I’ve added some taboo aspects, and creepy elements. But really, its all in the presentation.

After all, arsonists can be lovers, too.

Dear Evelyn,

I’m not sorry.

Not for your screaming pains of agony, not for the burns you contracted, nor the creation of dust left upon your bed.

My dear, sweet Evelyn, I set you free. You may think of me as a savage for I was raised by such, crying out to the heavens in incomprehensible song, dancing around a central light, a torch, a vow to our connection with the higher powers of Mother Nature, of God.

In our tribe, it is how we set one free.

We do not bury our dead, as it is your custom; we set them aflame, to shine like brilliant crown jewels of rubies and gold lustre. And thus, we set free your soul. You told me that you were dead inside, serving your brother, the King, unable to speak your mind or do as you pleased. You were to be married off to the Baron, whom you could not learn to love.

Instead, you embraced a knight’s heart, my soul, and you made it glow like the embers that I so often create during the cloak of night. I create stars, my dearest, I personify hope. And while you knew it was sin to engage me in such fantasies, you led me into your chambers and released my flowing blonde hair from its metallic cage.

You did not fear being caught, and neither did I. However, my love for the golden flames can be compared with my desire for you. And I brought my flint and steel, as always.

You wanted to be free, to experience ecstasy.

My dear, I lit you with my love, and released your spirit into the heavens. I made you one with the stars.

And now, my hand weary with the inexperience with a quill, I send you my love, for these pages will burn with the intensity that true lovers know, so that they may find their way to you.

I will sleep well, my dearest, for I know that you will be watching over me forevermore.

Alice.

Dear Notebook.

There are days where we just want to lie in bed and think to ourselves about life, and our standing in it. Happiness, sadness, friendship, loss – all a summation of our thoughts and emotions at that given moment. It’s rather beautiful when one experiences such a moment of concentration, of sheer zen; you often lose track of time.

During one such time, I realized that I had found one of my journals. It’s a tribute to Charlotte Bronte, which is very appropriate since she’s one of my favourite authors. The Bronte sisters are my go-to Gothic/Victorian guides when I want to make a scene truly vivid.

Flipping through my first attempts at songs, poems, and short stories, I realize how much my writing has changed. And it’s fascinating.

So here, I’ll share one of my oldies – a throwback to 2006, if you will. I wasn’t in the best relationship at the time, but most of us have been there, so bear with me. I was young, and stupid. And I find myself so happy and grateful that I did find the strength to move past it all.

Thank you, dear notebook, for reminding me of the trials and tribulations of my childhood and my present life. Without you to hold my secretive memories, I wouldn’t be able to look back and say “I am so proud of you” to myself, and actually mean it. We don’t give ourselves enough credit for our accomplishments. And it’s nice to be reminded of how far we’ve progressed.

So, here it is. An untitled edition. Even my writing has changed since then.

Silence follows rage behind closed doors.

Crimson wars, no comforting words escape into the light.

Acts, estranged, followed by the promise of golden jewels.

Drowning in tears, fears, when you’re near. Survival is no more.

How couldn’t you see what you were doing to me?

So heartless, so cold. You raise your hand,

Screams lost in the land with the promise of forevermore.

I need to be free, it’s time for my story to be told.

In the dead of night, I escape, to embrace warm uncertainty.

Leave my certainties behind, time to unwind.

No more dwelling on used-to-be’s.

Burn every photograph from my past, let the passion be set free.

All the nights of laughter and fights, you planning ahead all the years.

Time passing slow, he would never know, how ignorant I seemed to be.

But then came the pain, it drove me insane, delusions quickly followed suite.

Enduring, disallowing, disassociating myself from the emotions that escape my soul.

But there was something you couldn’t see, you so carelessly

Couldn’t derive my thoughts, my dreams.

It came to be that you regret the neglect, it seems

With flowers could heal my wounded pleas.

This is for the best, so let your mind rest.

Find another person to fill that void. I’m done with the abuse

I’m not to be used, I’ve my own self-betterment quest to complete.

Black Bird

I hope the Christmas holidays are treating you well. For those of you that graduated from the student world long ago, I hope that the spiked holiday eggnog finds its way into work on occasion. It’s always funnier to see someone acting ridiculous at work; it makes for excellent stories.

I’m deciding to post a short story that I completed in October, partially because I prefer drama over straightforward happiness, and partially because I actually love this story. It’s an unusual read, having multiple characters while being written in first person.

I probably just like it because it was the first story I typed up on my IBM Selectric I typewriter. That was probably the best ten dollars I ever spent.

Anyway, enjoy the story and Happy Holidays!

Blackbird

Please note that asterisks indicate a change of character.

            My breath hung in the air, translucent frost glistening by the light of the street. Little crystals of white had begun to fall, drifting like angels’ wings to the Earth below. It was beautiful, and I was thankful for it. I needed something to comfort me during the silent wait, and the long drive home.

Her name had been Anne, and I say ‘had’ because she had a habit of changing it to suit her fancy. She was elusive, defined by only herself. I had no knowledge of her past life, only that she moved frequently, and perhaps that was the reason for her shyness. It must be difficult to keep friends, especially close ones, when one travels so often.

So I had taken it upon myself to care for this girl. She was my sister’s age, with unruly black hair, tangled into itself on most occasions. The girl had a comb but it often sat on her fiberboard dresser, gathering dust.

But she was a good girl,

Loved her dolls, and Jesus –

Quoting Noah’s ark.

She loved drinking,

And taking hits of coke now,

And the red scenes –

Scouring all of New York.

“Almost song-like,” I murmured to myself, humming the catchy tune. It was familiar. It was this nice girl that had me standing in the alley, awaiting her for the routine drive home. I worked late, and she liked the clubs. She was old enough, and it wasn’t any of my business.

The snow drifted more fervently, as if to blind the population of passers-by. I had grown accustomed to the late night screams of New York, and they did not draw my stares any longer. I was desensitized from all of the violence. The news plastered these horrors often, and it felt cliché.

A door swung open, fading into the blackness behind itself. A girl with a red hood came through: Anne. Or was it Allison now? I had difficulty keeping track these days.

“Hey…” I managed. Her body was shaking, probably cold in the short skirt she was wearing. Her gaze was elsewhere, as if reminiscing the adventure just moments ago.

“All set?”

*      *              *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

I caught the look in her eyes – complete and total unawareness. I was a perfect angel to her, another Jesus follower on the righteous path to Heaven. As if. She had no idea what had been going on moments ago, with the haze of drugs leading the party.

Damn the snow, I hate the cold. It was drifting down my collar, melting on my hot flesh. Fabulous.

“Yeah, sure.” My thoughts were elsewhere, but she seemed to know that. She put up with me, and didn’t ask many questions. I leaned against the dirty brick, looking afar. So the hadn’t followed me tonight. A good start.

“Fuck, it’s cold. Can we head out?”

“Sure. I parked just down the street.”

She seemed unsure of herself, and slipped a hand into her coat pocket. Emma didn’t like it to be known that she carried a bible with her, but I had found it while looking through her pockets. A coping mechanism, I suppose. I had my smokes and drugs, and she had God. To each their own.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” My eyes averted to the ground.

“Of course, anything.” She paused in front of the street light, awaiting the crimson red to turn a relaxed green. No cars were around but she stood waiting, patiently. Her blue woolen coat was littered with snowflakes. It looked so warm. I longed for the warmth – for home.

“Are you afraid of people? Their abilities, motives…”

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

“Would you fucking move already? Stupid bitch and her poss-ay…”

“Carl, it’ll be sweeter if you wait.”

“But Allison said that the girl picking her up had the money.”

“Yeah, but Allison also loves lying to all of us. It’s a game for her.”

“I’m sick of waiting!”

“Five minutes, and you’ll get your moment.”

He was brutal, born with bloodlust, Carl. His desire to play often overcame his rationale, his unbiased thinking. Which was the reason I’m here: to keep him in line.

I looked down from our rooftop hide-out at the two women on the sidewalk.

“Hang on, they’re waiting for the street light?”

“Little red, move now. Don’t be a martyr.”

“Jesus freak?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Why the drug business?”

“How should I know?”

Carl climbed down the fire escape ladder. The clangs weren’t exactly subtle as he made the descent. I followed. I had a feeling that Allison was lying, but I didn’t know for certain; she often spent more money than she had. But it’s better to be wrong and have something to show for it, than to be wrong and to let them get away. Being right, well… that didn’t happen much. Not with Carl’s leads.

He was a little ways ahead of me, gun drawn. I drew mine as well, for good measure, as a passer-by crossed the intersection ahead.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

A scream, the excitement of blood. Crimson spurting out, like a cheap horror flick from the 80s. A laugh, maniacal, perhaps my own? The glint of silver was so smooth and fast that I had no time to realize my own actions.

The girl in the hood – she had taken something from the victim’s pocket. Car keys? A mass of blonde hair was seeping up the red on the sidewalk. It was hysterical. Two men were nearing the scene, all in black. With two pistols of Chinese make. Clearly new on the job, unable to stand the sight of blood. The sound of vomit reaching the pavement. The black-haired girl was running now, swiftly. Distraught. What had she expected, pretending that it would all be okay, travelling from place to place? We would always follow, like a shadow, even in the absence of light. We were always here.

“Good evening, my dear.”

She was running for the car, keys clanging on the lock in haste. Unfamiliar grasps of trial and error: she was unsuccessful in finding the correct key. Or was it the wrong car? A scream in the absence of sound, the absence of emotion, the absence of movement. No fear, no longing. Betrayal, sadness, understanding, all on her face. The keys struck the concrete with a jingle – like wind chimes. Peaceful melodies.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The jingle and sparkle drew my attention from the bag of chips I was wrestling. I hopped over to the corner, peering into the scene. Red streams flowing into the street gently, like a sad song. I sat atop the nest of nearby straw, pecking at the source. Lice were tasty this time of year – so difficult to find!

A deep melancholy sound erupts from my throat, and I see a white round object. It reminds me of children’s marbles, with the blue-black centerpiece. I hop forwards and observe the other humans: a female and an older male.

Oh my god, it was him! The bastard who threw his apple core at me last night in the park. I had been minding my own business in the trash can but no, he had to ruin my day. Well, I shall return the favour right now, I will redeem myself!

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

I was paralyzed with fear. She was dead, and it was my fault. Stupid girl, stupid stupid girl! You let innocent people die pointless deaths and never explain yourself or anything!

The old man before me was smirking, as if waiting a moment before silencing me forever. I could see the light flickering around me, and a car drove by, not even stopping to look at Emma’s fallen body. Poor girl. Poor me.

I pushed, screamed, kicked blindly, aimlessly, as he came towards me, a psychotic gleam in his eyes. I had witnessed his killings so many years ago, and I thought I had finally escaped this man. I had once believed in miracles, in devotion to prayer, to the imagery portrayed by His faithfulness.

“Please help me… someone…”

And that’s when it happened. A black dove from the midnight sky, fluttering through the white snow, the dust above. My saviour, attacking the face of my predator. I ran, without a sound, so quickly. Not looking back once at the haunting face. I was done with these lies, done with scheming and destruction. I need help, and I had been given a second chance, and I wasn’t going to fuck it up this time.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Elanor sighed, sitting back in her chair, looking at the work she had just finished typing. It seemed to be a trivial horror, without conventional plot or schemes, but at least it did not start with “It was a dark and stormy night.”

“I only have one line to write, and it’ll be finished,” she mused.

“Do not,” she wrote on the page before her, “by any means, screw with crows. They are vicious creatures and they will hunt you down. Crows don’t forget. Ever.”

Angels – In Progress

The holidays are a time for all sorts of shenanigans… such as braving the endless line ups in order to purchase the perfect gift for a loved one.

And sometimes, I decide to make gifts myself. Such as a painting.

A friend of mine wanted two angels in a post-apocalyptic universe, with some obvious symbolism to hang in his bedroom. I made a joke about it matching all of the assorted Pokemon and wrestling posters hanging up on his walls.

I thought that I would share my work-in-progress. Since we’re due for a post today. 🙂

Any feedback is welcome. It’s about halfway done at this point. I have to add a lot more details, as well as complete the background and the two figures.

Happy Holidays.

Dystopian Short Story – Through the Iris

Yes, this would be the debut to the website. And where the title of it came from. In all honesty, I just thought it sounded really cool when I said it aloud, and the name stuck. Two weeks after I’d written the story, I realized that it was also the title of a song. Highly recommended.

This was inspired by a large selection of bands (Escape the Fate, Attack Attack, Alesana) and novels (The Handmaid’s Tale, Feed, Never Let Me Go, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest). Ideas tend to float around in my head and weave into some fabric that I spin into reality.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy the story.

Through the Iris

I was born without a name. Instead, a metal chain hangs around my neck, engraved with numerals. They call me Number 7952A: B had perished amongst the captives attempting an escape. He had been my nemesis, an exact physical replica. We were chosen at birth based on our brain activity. That’s what we were told. I am a genetic anomaly – born with white hair, red eyes. Sickly pale flesh. They thought I was a ghost, a reminder of a possible afterlife. An animated corpse seeking human companionship, affection. Things that were seldom presented within these walls, adorned with soft burgundy blemishes, the burning orange gates completing our prison.

Technology has advanced so much since Youth. I remember the innovative radioactive scanner, and the gradual disappearance of test subjects. The sinister red light glared through your body, exposing the electromagnetic core that is termed the “soul”. They were adamant in reproducing this, and I never understood why.

I remember back when we were allowed to go outside. They called it R.A., shorthand to say that we were allowed to walk the perimeter for exactly ten minutes. It used to be twenty. But now, they deemed this experience useless for the human development of our brains and so it was dismissed. I used to play at the swings when I was very young, but now their aluminum bodies lacked the shining colours to carry on, and their words were as forgotten as the structure itself, gathering red-orange peel.

Sometimes we would get visitors, people in ebony suits, flecked with crystalline shimmer. Their faces remained stiff, and parted lips spewed out speech. One of them bore a necklace of human teeth, yellowing with the burgundy of dried blood. His eyes examined us, looking for incidental flaws. Only the best were presented to him, and I had been pushed forward today. Those cobalt spheres chilled our bodies, shivering ran rampant; it was all a sick test involving trained men that were flawed designs. How else could someone replicate the illusion of being emotionless so well?

Other times, small groups of men and women viewed us: we were on display, the evidence of scientific progress. However, we are the originals. Wouldn’t that prove nothing – a complete lack of success? These people were adorned in patched, filthy stripped clothing sets. Definitely not regulation. They must have been outsiders. It was very clear that the Suits were above us, above our caretakers, the Apollo. What these people lacked in adequate nutrition was supplemented with facial expression.

One of the women had run forward, onyx hair flying in wisps behind her, and locked me in a two-armed hold. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her eyes must have been broken, leaking some sort of clear saline liquid, and she shouted in Spanish – “Mios dios, Olivier!” The Apollo managed to pry the psychologically disturbed individual off of myself, and I nodded to them. They were doing the right thing, ridding society of this person. She was dangerous, capable of so much destruction. The rest of the group gasped, and only silence followed her obscene screams of terror.

There is nothing to fear here. We have iron gates to keep out everyone else, and to keep our utopia exclusively within. We are free from the tribulations of society. They had installed a large viewing window some time ago when R.A. had been cancelled so that test subjects would not feel deprived: they could still view the natural world. All of the green fields had been reduced to a wasteland, an abundant mass of sandy gray flecked with black destruction. It slowly possessed the entire area, and I was almost certain that these were the unmarked graves of test subjects, past and present, their deteriorating flesh encompassing our little facility.

Even the sky couldn’t muster the courage to glow; it had given into a hazy blue state of indifference, cloudless and sinister, with the sun burning a ferocious shade of ruby. I sighed – it hadn’t always been like this. Only the newest replicas were adhering to the “no emotions” standard, and the quest for the “soul” had been put off. Perhaps they realized that they couldn’t recreate people and manipulate their minds and bodies for their own selfish desires.

It was a gorgeous nightmare in itself. The frustration of the Apollo, the increase of screams and deaths, the lifeless eyes, the bloodless bodies, beaten down, broken bones askew. They couldn’t succeed, and it angered them. And with each passing year I would gain a little more insight in regards to this little realm of perfection.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

My generation, we were the children that prostitutes, beggars, and thieves had borne. These people had stolen various elements of humanity, and the Apollo had stolen their prodigy. No, someone above the Apollo must have done it. In my 16 years of life, I’ve never seen a single one of those navy jackets leave the premises, except to bury something. So many secrets, so many lies. Some of us were early prototypes of replicas, called “clones”. They were a success, and had provided the foundation to delve into the project. The issue was that some of them had tendencies to develop mental disorders; it was a glitch that the early Apollo had overseen.

They were always watching me, as I turned the corner, as I braided my snowy hair into something presentable. I was different, and they knew. They said it was creativity, and that promoted emotions. That it was against the rules and therefore Taboo. They only started caring about this when they claimed to revolutionize cloning us into thoughtless droids, essentially slaves. These people never got enough from us. We’d unwillingly devoted our lives to their reckless research in hopes that it might amount to something. My twin had found out early on that this was a trap and attempted escape: suicide. Succeeded, too. The lucky bastard.

I rolled up my sleeves. They were a fluorescent white, bleached to an extent that the paranoid found amusing. The Apollo… messenger Gods, or so the children’s book on Greek gods had proclaimed. It was the only book on the premises; many years ago, we had a library that assisted us in gaining intelligence and opinions. It was converted into a drug distribution center, and all of the literary works had been taken away in armoured trucks, laced with electrocution sensors.

If you could read, then you had a chance in this place. Some of us could, but the first cloning procedures had taken the lives of nearly all that harnessed that power. They said it was an accidental glitch. I say it was murder. They had known too much, and became enlisted as threats. And paid the ultimate sacrifice. I’d never seen so much charred flesh before, and the scent was unmistakable. The Apollo knew they couldn’t commit such genocide again since it would arouse suspicion.

We were classless; therefore, the guinea pigs to all future scientific research to come. The Suits, with their gold-adorned wrists, came here to taunt us, to manipulate us, and for the few women, to marry them. They vanished, and no one heard from them again. It wasn’t for love – it was a purchase. A woman’s heart could replace another woman’s heart: secretive organ donation tactics. Why tell the miserable soul what is to come? She’ll never know happiness anyway. None of us will. We are a stain upon the Earth.

I tell you all of this, Number 7953B, because I will no longer be here tomorrow. This green wristband suggests a positive result for mental illness. I, Number 7952A, have Multiple Personalities. At least my white locks can be donated to a person of my choosing. Maybe I can find someone with good intentions to evoke smiles upon the dreadful leaders of society. Maybe inspire change.

Oh, who am I kidding. Tomorrow I will be a null. And I’ll never have the chance to experience love, or embark on the quest to feel such a profound emotion. Lobotomy’s are the cheapest method of killing someone, even now. Now you know why burning bodies are so common – high voltage. We are segregated by class, and they wish to dispose of the inferior in an elusive manner. Why prolong the suffering? I was born to die, just like every other person in this facility.

Might as well die with some dignity.

The Beginning.

Welcome to my nook of the internet: a place where freedom and self-expression are boundless entities, forever gracing our presence.

I am very passionate about the arts, be it music, dance, painting, writing or any miscellaneous seance that passes us by. The truth is, we’re all just trying to find our place in the world. And self-expression makes the soul happy.

A little about me.