Whistleblower

                                                                                                                                          

They say that we are part of this nation. They say that we are its essence, we are its pride. That we are a democracy, and that everyone, everyone has a place here. They also say that we are safe, that we are respected. That we are all equal.

Lies. Nothing but lies. Pathetic slips of information that had us fooled. We thought that we were dull grey cocoons swaying gently against a tree, one day to be elegant butterflies, splashes of colour creating our individuality. Instead, we are doomed to forever sway and one day be cut down, dead and lifeless. 

Everything that I believed in came crashing down without any warning whatsoever. My sense of security, my sense of place failed. Instead, whilst my girlfriend was exclaiming about how lucky we were to be so protected, I was constantly looking over my shoulder.  And finally, I realised that there was no point in lulling the people of this country into a false sense of trust. I had to tell them the truth. I had to prove to them that they didn’t belong – that no one really cared about them.

I had to sacrifice my life which had been much easier than I originally anticipated – except for leaving my family behind. I guess when you’re sick of living a lie and carrying it out unknowingly, you detach yourself from it. I was anxious too – what if no one took me in during my big escape? What if I was abandoned at the mercy of a power that had once promised me a great life but soon would be pursuing me with possible intentions of torture?

“These programs don’t make us more safe.” Newspapers have quoted from me, and I can only look at myself from a distance, barely recognizing the passion – the happiness inside the tired man who fought so voraciously. “They hurt our economy, they hurt our country, they limit our ability to speak and think and live and be creative.”^[1] They jeer at our false sense of adoration too. They mock us, and snigger at our blind trust. They persecute the man who speaks the truth and encourages the organisation who fed them lies.

My plane had been grounded frustratingly in my attempt to seek asylum and so I was forced to stay somewhere that didn’t want me – Berlin, Germany. An unwanted Christmas present, they called me. Yet I hoped, just pleading to the God that I didn’t believe in that Germany would be merciful enough to give me a life here. I was forced to stay in the sepulcher-like embassy in Berlin whilst I waited for the natives to make their decision. It took a long month. A month in which I railed, and ranted and was hated and admired.  I thanked my lucky stars when they accepted my application, fervent in my joy. The feeling was ephemeral, however. A pyrrhic victory.

So then, I tried to start a new life, uncertain of how long I would be permitted to reside here, of how long my funds would last, if I could even survive on my lonesome. They say that humans are incapable of being solitary creatures but I had to put on a brave face so I attempted to smile and make merry. My nation wanted an authorization for my extradition, but Germany; thankfully my most loyal ally at this stage – they refused.

The government still declines to be associated with me otherwise, which is completely understandable because of their close alliance with my own country; though if I were to be honest, it did sting. But the people, the civilians, that belong here are so kind– oh, for a few scarce hours at a time; I almost feel that I am someone who is valued again. I feel that I can talk freely, and that I don’t have the pressure to hide away in fear of my life. They love me, they adore me, and in an odd way, I sometimes feel that they have come to care for me. But I can’t let it encapsulate me because it won’t last forever and a short-term attachment is only setting me up for instability. Getting a job was difficult too – whilst I was admired anonymously, knowing me in reality was thought risky. I managed to struggle through that experience, of constantly being rejected wherever I went – to have the people that I thought understood, suddenly gossiping about me, pointing me out in the streets as the new side-show freak. Even the weather is harsh, completely unlike the soothing winters of my country. No, these winters are almost terrifying, the frigid air whipping around at strong speeds until an individual is left staggering around like a young child all over again.

An amusing thing that keeps me entertained are the hordes of people from all over the globe making judgments about me, and my actions too. Sometimes, they dishearten me, especially if they are sourced from my own nation, but many times they make me rejoice because the words are getting through – and people are seeing the truth! The rose coloured glasses have taken on a different tint, and are quite on their way to becoming translucent.

 “What do you think – traitor or genius?”

“He gave up his life for nothing – everyone spies on everyone – he just provided the pointless evidence.”

“Perhaps he’s in cahoots with Russia. Rumours, rumours.”  

“He’s opened our eyes. Can you claim that you’ve done the same? I’m proud to call this man one of my nation’s greatest people. Disagree with me if you will, but you now know so much more.” 

“This man is just brilliant. A round of applause, anyone?”

“Gutless. Truthful. Passionate. Could this be the future of the world? #humanityinfaithrestored”

I worry about my family the most, I think, because I don’t know about their state.  I don’t know how they’re doing or how my girlfriend is doing and whether her family hates me or respects my actions. I don’t know where I stand with anyone, considering that I haven’t been able to get into contact with any of them and I gave them no warning in my sudden departure.  Not through phone calls, or measly letters, or even emails. I don’t know, if every day, they have to live in fear of their security, because they have seen our cracked society for what it really is. Hopefully, the public attention keeps them protected, because if anything happened to them… I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for they are the only people, the only ones who love me for who I am. I can bear their hatred, and I can bear their anger. What I can’t bear however is not knowing their fate. 

I’m called a whistleblower, but I prefer to name myself a patriot. I’m neither a villain nor a hero – I am simply doing my duty. I’m still a part of my country, regardless of whether my passport has been revoked – a lack of material piece of paper is incapable of denying who I am. I yearn for the day for when I’ll be able to call my country my home once again.

Word Count - 1200

^[1] Snowden, Edward upon the receiving of Sam Adams’ Patriot Award, October the 12^th, 2013. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5Kc6Cp1HHw>

School assessment concerning the topic of belonging. I have a feeling that I will be ready to burn  my english notes soon enough. (and I've still got a whole year to go) 

Don't know if you still check this. x

01

 

‘Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land...'
~Christina Rossetti, “Remember”

Patient 01, diagnosis depression…
Start voice recording? Yes.
Voice recording commenced.
My name is Hank Breyten. This is the forty-eighth day of my treatment. Anything I say in no manner represents the Nano Enterprises. I am aware that professionals have access to these records. I am also aware of the implications of continuing this treatment.
        I recall the day it was confirmed - my cognitive strength diminishing. I had suspected it for a while, the symptoms were obvious - the insecurity. The illness creeping in quietly inching its way to my mind, twisting and pulling; the Black Dog. I’m aware that this is not scientifically correct, but when I had initially experienced this feeling I wasn’t thinking about the lack of serotonin in my brain. How could I, when all that I could think about was the hopelessness of my situation? The gloomy forecast that was set over my failures. I had an opportunity to take the world by storm; I let it pass me by.  Cowardice forced me to take a step back, to be safe as opposed to daring when I had the chance to rid the disease. My life was my work and if I ruined that, there’d be nothing for me.
        I was diagnosed with depression. The symptoms matched; I was getting little to no sleep, my thoughts were deadly and the idea of simply not existing appealed to a side of me that only yearned for peace. People say those who are depressed are sad, constantly in tears over something or the other. It’s worse than that; sadness is an emotion. No, I had to face the void, where my chest would feel heavy, and I would lie in bed staring up at the ceiling; emptiness enveloping me in her shallow, cruel embrace. Luckily I was employed at Nano Enterprises, specialising within nanotechnology. Only because of that, was I able to start getting the treatment I needed.
        So let me lay the facts out for you. There’s a nanite in my brain, urging the basal ganglia to create more serotonin in order to balance the chemical levels. This tiny two nanometre robot that inhabits my brain is priceless. The effects are already obvious, my moods have slithered back in and I’ve been able to sympathise with others; a huge improvement. Impersonating living things in the nanite world is key; they are more likely to survive because of their shape, manner of living and transportation. The nanite is shaped like a sea lamprey, in which the mouth carries the tryptophan, the creator of serotonin through complex chemical reactions. This way the mouth’s protected and further harmful reactions are prevented through careful placement of the amino acid. There is a miniscule camera at the top of the mouth and that’s for me. Each night before I settle into bed, it’s my responsibility to make sure that there’s an adequate amount of the hormone being released (see; remote access) otherwise it could potentially give me Serotonin Syndrome and let’s say that that isn’t ideal. Consequently, I constantly navigate the nanite around the brain to adjust the receptors for the serotonin or to encourage further growth.
        I’m the first test subject, seizing the opportunity to use my own work within my body. And so as to be able to trace my journey I’ve decided to keep a diary through the Chip, a device that is planted into the right hand, index finger at birth. My experience will be life-changing, leaving my brain flawless.  

Voice recording stopped.

~ ~

Patient 01, diagnosed with depression…
Start voice recording? Yes.
Voice recording commenced.
Hank Breyten here. Nothing that I say endorses any aspects of Nano Enterprises; these are individual thoughts and opinions. Today’s the fifty third day of my treatment.
        I should probably explain how we managed to get the nanite into my body. I had to undergo a few too many tests; my body pricked with sharp needles, and blood constantly extracted. The thing is to be able to protect this expensive technology from my leukocytes (see; white blood cells); we had to disguise the nanite as one of my very own cells. The only manner in which to implement this would be to coat it in a layer of antigens that my body would recognise as ‘self’. This would allow it to travel through my blood stream (see; the circulatory system), without the leukocytes trying to annihilate it, so that it could make its way up to the basilar artery from where a gaseous exchange would occur and practically, the nanite would be diffused from the blood along with oxygen, allowing it to travel to the specific portion of the brain where it could proceed with its work.
        Whilst the nanite possesses a form of artificial intelligence, it isn’t enough for the nanite to become independent possibly causing destruction and chaos, like the millions of horror stories that plague today’s society of robots becoming overly intelligent. I access the data chips of the nanite, and that’s where the camera comes in, giving me a view of my gruesome host body but also the marvellous sight of the brain. Problems may occur and since I’m the operator, it’s up to me to fix them.
        We don’t know how long this treatment will take. I’m slightly scared, but anticipating the moment when the nanite will expel itself from my body and my brain will be in control again. Right now, it feels like the nanite is a life support system for my mind. I’m exhilarated. And yet, I can’t help but feel dismal because I swear there’s something I’ve missed.

 Voice recording stopped.

~ ~

Patient 01, diagnosed with depression…
Start voice recording? Yes.
Voice recording commenced.
Nothing I say represents the Nano Enterprises, and today’s the eighty first day of my treatment.
        It’s been a tumultuous month and emotionally, a very taxing one. I should be taking better care of myself; stress can dramatically influence the amount of serotonin produced. I’ve been thinking, and I’ve realised that this technology is powerful; it’s too strong and I fear will be the cause of future conflict. Forget stray artificial intelligence, this is the real issue of today’s society.
        Having access to a brain is no easy feat. It potentially means that the nanite is able to influence thought and personality and has the opportunity to reduce the production of hormones causing serious issues. No one would suspect a thing due to the bloody creature being nanoscopic.
        The darkness is starting to seep through and I have a suspicion it is because of the thoughts that have appeared. My sleeping patterns are out of whack again and I swear there is something I’m forgetting, but I don’t know what it is. I’m irritable one moment, and sobbing the next. I’m lost and I’m angry. Everyone gives me knowing looks; why? I can’t concentrate on anything and the worst part is that the hollowness has returned. What have they done to me? What have I done to myself?
        What is the point of the nanite? There is the potential for it to cause more harm than good. I’d rather be unhealthy, than be at risk of my body being hacked. I’d prefer to be dead than to have anyone or in this case, anything, controlling my very being.

 There’s someone at my door – one of the researchers who help monitor my brain. Slightly confused.

Voice recording stopped.
This file hasn’t been saved; are you sure you want to shut down?

~ ~

 Patient 01, diagnosed with major depression, serotonin syndrome.
Start voice recording? Yes.
Voice recording commenced.
My body has started revolting against the nanite. There’s too much serotonin in the system, it was an effort from the brain to get rid of the foreign material. What we didn’t count on was the fact that serotonin is also made in the gut. This increases the levels in the brain. It had been completely forgotten – and thus we hadn’t been able to monitor it.
        I’m terrified. It’s dark in this room, they say that I’ve become too dangerous but I don’t remember doing anything. I don’t know how many days have passed - I’m unable to access the nanite remotely as well, they’ve either removed or disabled it. 
        Why did we ever mess with natu-

Voice recording deleted.

“For, if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than you should remember and be sad.”
~Christina Rossetti, “Remember.”    

 

~~

So, that's my baby. The curing of depression with a nanobot, before it all goes wrong. Overdone? Possibly. The raw draft was much, much, better frankly, however I had to cut down atleast a few hundred words. So yes.

How's life going for you? I barely get to talk to you anymore, you little shit.

Normality

"Are you coming later on today?" She's turned towards by her friend, someone she values but expects so much more from than she ever receives. Her friend shakes her arm, pulling her out of her stupor and she looks over at her, eyebrow raised.
"What for, sorry? I'm afraid that I completely missed all that."
"We're watching a movie today! You coming?"
She shakes her head regretfully, "I need to get home tonight. I've got a ton of work to do." Yet her words seem insincere, and if you really peer into her meaning, you can tell something else is bothering her. Something else is niggling at her brain, something that prevents her going out to these outings, and then go green with envy later on. Is it her school life, which is extremely demanding upon her especially with her tendencies to procrastinate?
We don't know. We probably never will. Honestly, we doubt that she'll ever fully realise her reasons either.
Other excuses normally include, "I don't have a way to get home tonight," or even sometimes "My parents wouldn't be pleased, especially not today, I don't think."
And each week, on that Friday, she goes home and sits on her bed, never accomplishing anything of particular. She checks her social media; for her one friend who can always cheer her up but is never present, for her best friend who has been drifting from her, but she realises that they've got their own lives. She starts to feel like she's constantly intruding, laying out her problems; her petty idiotic problems that make her so uncomfortable towards them. If she's not careful, they'll get sick of her, and if she lost them, there'd be no one to support her, no one to urge her to want to live. So she retracts, she stops talking to them, in hopes that maybe they'll start the conversation this time, so she's not the one clinging to them for once.
And all the while, her heart sinks, because that is not how the world works, and if you ever want to talk to someone, you have to approach them directly. Some days then, are extremely good - she manages to pull through those days with an enormous smile on her face, but some days are wicked; whipping her raw with their brutality, making her eyes water as she laughs off the latest joke; as she wards off the next outing. And there's one person who'd understand her exactly if she opened up to him, but this one person has a life, he's almost ten years older then her. He's not even in the time-zone, and she wants to keep him interested. She doesn't want to come off as the whiny teenager, with the typical issues of her generation. She's terrified that she will lose him because before she met him, she was depressed. There was no one who could always cheer up; and that's the one thing that he always managed to do, whatever sexist shit he'd manage to spew out, he'd get her to giggle, to argue with him, the typical sixteen year old doting on a twenty four year old; something that would never happen. Ever. She doesn't even know his name, or his face, but she knows what sort of person he is. And he is so crude, and he's called her beautiful which caused her to burst out into tears, because it was a compliment that she had never expected, but recently he hasn't been there. And she can't blame him, but one moment, she'll hopelessly be checking his page, seeing whether he is online, and if he is - why isn't he speaking to her? And sometimes she'll alternate between despair, and happiness and anger. Sometimes, he has the capability to make her so giddy, her entire day is able to be brightened.
She knows how dangerous it is; to be so emotionally attached to someone who can up and leave without a word otherwise. She wishes it would never have happened, because if he leaves, and she's paranoid he will, she'll be in a worse condition. She thinks about him almost all the time, and curses herself out for caring so much, because she doubts that his mature self would even think about her twice outside their conversation. Little things in daily life remind her of him, and she reports back eagerly, and increasingly so, his reactions get more disappointing.
No matter. She'll struggle through this; she's gone through more emotional things that have made her want to curl up in a ball and die at times, and one day it'll just be another story, another reminiscing of a life that could have been. But for once, she's enormously terrified of losing him - he makes her days, he makes her nights. She hasn't even met him. He's the last person she'd ever want to lose, ever in her lifetime of emotional losses.

Abandonment, constant abandonment. Never good for anyone, never acknowledged, and always put into the worst positions. Is it because she resembles a pushover? God, she hopes not. She just wants to know what other people think of her, she tries to be a good person, but she feels as if she's not always successful. In fact, the other night, she went to a dinner, an important dinner with important members of the government involved, and an inspirational speaker, a woman who shocked tears into her unwilling eyes. And yet when she spoke to them all, she felt inadequate, she felt like she was constantly being looked down upon. She feels like she forces herself on people, and everywhere she is, that paranoia follows her, overshadowing her, murmuring cruelly into her ears as she begs for it to stop, she does belong, she does belong. She might not be blessed with the most beautiful face or body, or the most intelligent brain, but she's got a heart, and she's got emotions and people should care about that... right? And yet wherever she walks, she feels as if people go out of their ways to avoid her, they could care less what could happen to her, mentally or physically. Even her friends, how does she know that they don't secretly hate her, that they don't disapprove of all the endeavors that she decides to pursue. Why isn't she liked, what has she done wrong, what sin has she committed in this life or her previous, or the one before that?
Why does this feeling plague her? In photos, she's the person who never manages to look as attractive as the rest of the party, her shoulders are always slightly tense, her smile slightly forces, her back slumped in anxiety. She's always the one who has the wild, untameable hair.

Is that why she tries to pull away? So she never gets the opportunity to ever get emotionally attached, because that's her problem and she knows it? Because she fears that secretly, everyone is disdainful of her, of her capabilities. Maybe she's simply not funny enough; she tends to always feel like a second-choice, never looked at the same way, or not even respected.
It's gotten worse, she's starting to feel the same way with her family. Her paranoia with her friends is increasing as well, jokes are taken too seriously, and everyone she interacts with, she feels, only do so because they're forced to.

The thing is, she's not looking for pity. She's not looking for a random person to pop up, and tell her how special she is because she's different in an other way; she wants the truth.
Is what she thinks facts? Honestly? Is that what other people think of her, and is that how she is represented in this society? Not even that she is the outcast, but she is simply incapable for advocating for other people, and even more interacting with others she normally doesn't?

If we wanted this to end happily, she would have been able to put this all past her, and found the right person, and suddenly she'd have a broad range of friends. But this doesn't end happily, these thoughts will forever plague her brain, tearing it to pieces, and really making a person feel they're living in a personal hell.

Day One: I've forgotten how good it feels writing something other than fanfiction

In a moth ridden, flee bitten, washed out and watery suburban neighborhood, there stood a tree that wasn’t really a tree but the Whole Wide Universe.  

It was unremarkable in looks, fray at the edges like an old picture, and the color of peeling paint, with a mess of brittle branches clustering at the very top of the tree. The authorities would not glance at the tree because it was unremarkable, and the children swarming the blistering street would not climb it because they were preoccupied with their ipads and androids, updating instagram and whatever social network that swept the nation.

Parents would always glare at the tree and shake their heads, mumbling to themselves, “what a waste of space- why, a nice fountain would be twice as interesting as the tree and three times more elegant.”

And their friends would bob their heads in agreement and sip their coffees, because that is what adults usually do when they don’t have something insightful to add to the conversation.

Every Friday evening, when the adults and their children crammed themselves in their suburban living rooms, watching Australia’s next top model, chewing nearly expired canned sausage and gulping cans of zero calorie cola, a boy who was not really a boy but an Old Soul would take a flagon of tap water and sprinkle the tree that was not really a tree but the whole wide universe in three sittings, till there was not a drop of water left in the can. Then he would sit at the base of the tree trunk and rub his small hands on the bark, which would always protest in response and turn various shades of brown, because it was not a flamboyant tree, and highly appreciated its privacy.

At an unremarkable night, when the planets have not in fact aligned themselves nor has God given His daily blessing, when even the stars were reduced to dull bolts in the black velvet, shining without sheen, when orphaned children die without love and widowed men live without grace, El’an was sent outside by her parents to drop recycled trash in its appropriate compartment.

And because the weather was not humid and the temperature was not boiling, El’an decided that she ought to make use of her time and spend the night sorting her dreams, because she was a very practical child like that.

She walked by herself, eyes roving over the sky and frowning at the lack of stars burning in her eyesight, and bumped into the boy who carried a flagon of tap water, the liquid sloshing over the edge of the can and spilling into the dust minted street like a lone waterfall.

“Hey, watch it,” he said sharply, glaring at her with eyes that might have looked like the dregs soaking in a cup of unfinished tea.

El’an narrowed her own eyes, pointedly shaking her wetted pant leg with the hopes that the boy might apologies at the sight of her soaking pants.

The boy, much to El’an’s disappointment, ignored her, dropping his shoulders and shaking his head like an old man (who’s to say he wasn’t? For all El’an knew, he could have been a deranged cowboy who stalked the streets at night, hoping to catch a sliver of that enlightenment her parents would usually drone on and on about). “You know what that was? That was a whole flagon of water. A whole flagon. Wasted.” He heaved a great sigh, shaking his head some more.

Though she aught to have demanded that he apologize to her, El’an felt a trickle of guilt tainting her stubborn reasoning. Maybe if she wasn’t too preoccupied dream-sorting then the boy would still have his water, and he wouldn’t look so disappointed.

“It’s not really wasted, you know,” she piped, feeling that she owed him at least some sort of explanation as to why hope was not yet completely lost, “the water’ll evaporate into the atmosphere, and then it’ll condense into rain droplets, and when the clouds are heavy enough, it’ll start raining,” she recited dutifully, remembering the answers she’d written in her science test last Tuesday. At the crestfallen look he gave her, she hurriedly added, “and then you’ll have your water back.”

The boy shook his head. “No,” he said, “it’s not like that. That stuff you’re learnin’ at school? ’S all messed up.”

El’an didn’t know how respond to this, given that she was a firm believer of her school’s education system and was certain that her teacher would never lie to her, but after putting extra thought into her response, she adopted the attitude of a reasonable diplomat and squared her shoulders to fit the personality.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” she said in a no-nonsense tone (the one that her mother would often use on her older brother).

“That’s complete bullshit, but fine. We’ll just have to use the water from the fountain to feed the tree,” the boy said, lifting his knobby shoulders in consent, and then he turned on his heel and walked the opposite direction of El’an’s house.

She stared at his slight figure, uncertain on whether she should resume her walk or run back to her house, but when the boy turned his head to her, the shadows clinging to the hallows of his cheeks, illuminating his vast, quick-to-judge eyes, she decided for a fact that she wouldn’t be doing either of those things, but follow the boy to the tree.

“Well,” he demanded, foot hammering impatiently on the moon kissed asphalt, “you comin’ or what?”

“Er.” She tutted, turning her back to him so that he wouldn’t see her contemplate a rash decision.

The moon peered at El’an from behind a thicket of bruised clouds and nudged her in the right direction, for the moon was wise in her ancient, moony way.

A flood of warm moonlight coated El’an in a heap of ice and silver shadow, and her mind clicked with resolve.

Yes.

Settled and shining with a burst of ill-kept excitement, El’an said, “Yeah,” - and remembering her English teacher shuddering at her tendency to use slang, she cringed and quickly replaced her words as pragmatically as possible– “I-I mean, yes. I will be right with you ..?”

The boy frowned. “You want my name?”

She nodded mutely.

He considered her request for a moment before shaking his small head. “Nope. You’re not ready. Not even a little bit ready. Sure, I’ll tell you my name, eventually, but you’re gunna have to earn it.”

It was El’an’s turn to frown. “And what makes you so special?” She tried to not huff, but it came out of her anyway.

The boy smiled, revealing small, milky teeth that indicated that he was not yet older than seven, but because the planets did not, in reality, align themselves and because God has not given His daily blessing, because the stars were reduced to dull bolts in the black velvet, shining without sheen, because orphaned children die without love and widowed men live without grace, El’an did not believe that he was seven, or even younger than seven.

His eyes that looked like tealeaves in the dregs of an unfinished teacup looked no less than a billion years old.

Just a Few Short Stories

Hum-ho, so I haven't been keeping up with the weekly thing at all; I haven't gotten an opportunity to start, really. Either way, I'm very muchly excited to seeing you, and you really must get into contact so we can organise things; otherwise we might miss each other by a few metres, and let me tell you, I won't be happy about that...
So recently, I just had short bouts of inspiration, and really came up with three miniscule paragraphs. I'm not proud of them, per say, but this blog is getting stale. *poke*

~ ~

I'll wait for you, that you should know; should be able to hear the truth throbbing through your entire being. Whatever happens, in this twisted world of ours, I'll always return to your arms; warm and inviting. Your arms which will caress me with such adoration that I won't be able to help but to fall in love with you all over again. And each time, I fall harder and harder, which scares me because one day, you may decide that this world is itoo much for you; too much corruption, no civilisation. You were never fond of the country life; now that we've been forced into this ordeal, I fear that you will just give up.
Don't give up. You're the reason I live, the reason to why I breathe, my blood pumping in nothing but love. I exist for you, because of you.
And one day, I promise that we will meet again. Through the trials of hell and desperation, I don't care if you've been turned into a bloodthirsty monster, I will find a way to bring you back.
That's a promise.

~ ~

"I don't think you understand," he said to me, reaching out to my quivering form on the bed, "once you even think about it; you're diagnosed. Why do you refuse to get help?"
I shake my head, thinking about all my urges, and my moments of weaknesses where I had foolishly opened up to him; my thoughts, terrifying and all-too-real.
"In the retrospective of this world, my problems mean nothing." I mumble, the pillow muffling my voice as I wonder whether it would be easier to suffocate myself or...
He poked me, smiling, a touch of sadness kissing his face as he watched me curl tighter into a further compact ball, "You're the world to me." And I knew it was true. We might not have been the best of friends, but we were each other's most trusted people within the world.
Sitting up and glaring at him, with quickly filling eyes. "Tell that to the people of the world; who die; who starve; who lose family. Me, one person, I don't matter to them. Whatever happens to me doesn't affect them. I sit here, pitying myself when so close to home, people are dying because they don't have the same luxuries; don't you think I know it's stupid to feel this way? And yet, I can't help but do. Solve the world's problems before telling that mine are improtant; save a million lives as opposed to just mine!" I finish, screaming and immediately am gathered up in his arms as he cradles me gently, murmuring apologies into my sorry form.
"Then together, with support from everyone you love, and who love you back, we will do that. Yet, instead of saving only a million lives; we'll save a million and one." Here he poked my nose, causing my to narrow my swollen eyes at him, "Starting with you."
I sniff, pushing him away, settling under my covers.
How do you tell someone that it will be the last time you see them? How do you someone how much you love them but also how sorry you are for all the emotional turmoil that storms inside of you?
You don't. Death's a surprise; and a mighty fine one at that. Sometime's there no point in living. Each step is the same; nothing new or exciting being there. Each conversation is fake; pretending to be someone you're not so that friends are readily available.
But honestly. Forget about me.
Fix the world; and if I'm still here, we'll take all nations by storm, and everyone will be saved.
Healed. Replenished.
You'll be okay. We will all be okay.

~ ~

You're sitting there, pen poised gently over paper. Your face is crumpled as you scribble things down with an unsatiable fervour before tearing the pieces out and throwing them away.
What happened to your imagination? It used to be filled with exciting stories; diseases being tested on a human populace to a land where there is only water.
Now?
All that fills your head are sad stories; tales of real life. I bet you couldn't imagine or even describe a dragon if you tried anymore. Now all you can write about is emotions; rolling and swirling within you.
Are you sad? It's okay to be sad; it happens to everyone a lot. Existential crisises are the new fad in today's miserable society. The question that seems to be left is;
How long have you been sad?
Push away your despair; it's not good enough for you. Roar at it, forcing it to duck its head and cry. Give to it what it has given to you.
Write of dragons again, sparkling, magnificent creatures with golden honey eyes staring at you, lazily blinking.
Make the sadness kill itself; so that you never have to its face again. Do unto it as it has commited to you.
Live.

~ ~

Not my best pieces, like I said earlier.

Writing Prompts

There's only two rules; it has to be a thousand words, and you have to enjoy it. Obviously, if we don't get something done; it's not going to be so much of a shocker but just try your best, alright?
One thing however - don't feel compelled to take the perspective I've presented you with; make your own. Change it up! Make it bizarre - give me your interpretation.

1. What would happen if an asteroid struck Earth? Any perspective is permitted, any ideals, any time-zone.
2. Romance. Sad - happy? Your choice!
3. Pick a genre and and write an interpretation of your favourite fairy tale! Twisted fairy tales are simply the best.
4. The most amazing room in the world... and you, or someone you know has access to it. Ensue; a story!
5. What happened when Pandora opened the box? Bring on the horror; the romance, whatever you feel like this week!
6. A story from the perspective of evil. Any evil; a person, a sin, a deed. Reason it out; show whether it is ridiculous or makes sense.
7. Controversial issues. Not something necessarily that you agree on that no else does; but a topic that causes a lot of arguments within your country, your friends, your family.
8. Pushed into the dystopian future. What's happening - when are you? As abstract as you want or even as detailed.
9. The creation of the world. Were you present? Someone you know? Did they get pictures? Any perspective; any ideologies, so on and so forth.
10. Are you worth it? A story about someone's self-worth, of someone's conflict or assurance.
11. Steam Punk - what's your perception of steam punk? Here's a sentence to start you off; 'Dragons stalk the street, puffing out smoke and clattering their mechanical wings'. Use it within your story or as an inspiration.
12. Out into the universe. There's so much - quasars, neutron stars, science, emotions.
13. Adopt a suicidal mind frame. Tell your story through the perspective of someone else or the suicidal person themself. Reason out their thoughts; is it truly valid?
14. A life lesson.
15. "It hurts because it matters."
16. Tell a story through an inanimate object. What does the door think of the weeping child? What does the laptop feel about its abusive owner?
17. You wake up one morning and everyone's missing. There are no life forms to be found; it's you, only you wandering through your life.
18. "Out of the corner of your eye, you see a shadow. Yet when you turn swiftly, there's nothing to be found for it."
19. You're shipwrecked on another planet. The rest of your crew had died; you had just managed to make it. Is this planet habitable? Is it already inhabited? By what - or who?
20. Super secret missions. Did you accidentally walk into one or were you already involved?
21. Telling a story of you or someone you know getting a complete stranger to smile. To laugh. To feel proud about living.
22. What if the currency was made up of memories? How does this work? Do you lose them? Do they have to be material? Who would be the true beggars of the world? Would discrimination still exist via social class?
23. You're at school when there's suddenly an alarm; someone or something has broken it. Fantasy or reality. Sadness or happiness. What's it to be?
24. You meet yourself. Someone meets themself. Any perspective. Yet old and new must collide.
25. An invention. A good invention? A bad invention? Your choice; your story.
26. Losing your mind. What happens when your friend starts to get distanced? When they mean the world to you? Optimism or pessimism?
27. Something in second person. Make it creepy; make it funny. Yet it's a new style.
28. Slightly cliched - the world ending. Does it happen - how? Why? Who?
29. If humans were solitary creatures. If friends were ridiculously difficult to make. If you had no relationships that really mattered.
30. A heterophobic world. Inspired by http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=3ROXTFfkcfo
31. Who are the real monsters? Fantasy, realistic, romantic, whichever.
32. There's a forbidden wall. What's beyond it? Will cowardice keep you away from it?
33. Disappearances. What's really out there? Or is it simply kidnappings yet again?
34. Someone you could save if you'd sacrifice yourself. Is sacrificing yourself to something that will bring you pleasure that bad though?
35. Living underneath the water. Humans or unbeknownst creatures? Set in...?
36. What if we ran out of water? If it was so precious; so rare that it was common to kill for it?
37. A character from a book comes alive. Theories? What happened - what will happen with this character? Is it possible to return them?
38. You find a male in your bed upon returning home. Quite attractive, dangerous eyes, and a deadly smirk. Hate at first sight? Reactions?
39. "Look at what you made me do..."
40. A perfect world. How would it work? Is it really so perfect?
41. War rages around you. More of a free-style story, yet you're given a backdrop.
42. A fanfiction. Yes, we do need to indulge. Is there a familiar blue box in your backyard? Two strange men knocking on your door about the weird noises in your house? Or maybe a detective sticking his unwanted nose into your business? A skeleton? A prodigy?
43. Everytime you dream; you're living someone else's life. There are more bodies than souls. There are three people to one soul these days. It all depends on sleep patterns but are there further implications? Unwanted echoes? Does your society know of this?
44. "It's not wise to reveal your name in this sort of place."
45. What if Earth wasn't run by humans, rather humans were slaves of the true inhabitants?
46. The Bermuda Triangle - fantasy, as opposed to hard, solid facts.
47. Choose one of your favourite photographs from the internet and write about it. Do include the photo, love.
48. A zombie plague; humans becoming cannibals and you're running for your life.
49. Certain places in the world where there is no concept of gravity.
50. The first person in the world who died...
51. A world with an inversion of values. Good is bad, and vice versa.
52. Emotions. Hard, blinding, tear-jerking emotions. Portray them in any way possible.

A Finch

With the secure blanket of darkness smothering the city of Nottingham, a door opened precariously, an urgent hand beckoning a group of inquisitive people into the homestead; a mixture of young and old, female and male. There was only a candle at the table for light, and a boy watched the window, his gaze often slipping towards the alluring moon. He caught the eyes of some of the group as they walked in, his brow rising in judgment as he watched them settle down into a protective formation around the table. The unstable, wooden structure held an apparatus of which the company fawned over in awe and exhilaration of the upcoming event.

Benedict Wallace stood in the shadows observing his audience. A few young maidens were present, tittering nervously as they eyed the glass dome that rested at the top of the device; which could pose a problem for they’d be likely to draw attention to his home. The children giggled as they tugged upon their parents’ clothing; unscarred by the corruptions of the world, but eyes full of curiousity as their sights fell upon the machinery.  The adults themselves were sombre; and for the right reason. If they were caught today, the implications for everyone involved would inhibit the rest of their lives.

“An air pump, it’s called,” Wallace suddenly spoke, startling the audience to yelp with surprise, “They say that it will help us greatly in the future, but today is the future!” His voice had ended on a harsh note, causing the males to frantically nod in agreement.
“What an air pump does, you see, is create an area of low pressure right here by suctioning the air away.” He motioned to the bottom of the apparatus manically, “And that creates a high pressure system within the glass dome that from where the air then flows down to accommodate the air needed to keep the pressure level. But then what happens when there’s no air left? That’s what the scientists of the world puzzle about; the substance that is present when air isn’t. Though there is only one way to determine what it is…” With that dramatic speech out of the way, he turned to a cloaked stand next to him, jerking it off in a gracious flourish. A finch resided within a cage, glaring at them with beady, cold eyes before ramming itself into the bars, and withdrawing with a loud screech of aggravation as it started to preen itself with newfound energy.

The boy at the window looked back, a sneer in his expression as his eyes roved over the open-mouthed spectators, before gazing out again with disdainful eyes. Not paying heed to him, Wallace meticulously removed the air-tight dome before placing the bird within, and hurriedly re-attaching it.
“This is the first time that I’m doing this with an audience,” Wallace announced. “Though most of you have been waiting for this moment of truth. To see whether all the reports that the scientists give us are true. Behold; the experiment of the air pump!” With a loud clank, Wallace flipped the switch, causing a great, guttural grunting of the machinery before it spluttered into life, complaining whilst it started to suck the air, and exhale it with deep, hot breaths.

Indignant gasps filled the air, as the children clung to their parents, and wives buried their faces into their husbands’ shoulders. There was no sound from within the dome, so sight was the only observation upon which many could use. For a while the finch seemed lively enough, its frail wings flapping as it tried to navigate the dome; a mean of escape. After a few minutes though, when the machine was turned off and a stopper placed below the dome to stop the air flow to go back, it began to manifestly droop, appearing drowsy and clumsy as its wings fell limply to its side.

Wallace splayed his hand out, “So what does this dome consist of? Certainly, whatever remains is unable to sustain human life.”
Yet only silence followed as he looked over his audience. The only sound was of a young girl weeping steadily, muffled. Wide eyes were only on the struggling finch, which had now collapsed upon its side, shaking with twitchy breaths, wings futilely stretching. Weaklings, Wallace thought, that they couldn’t stomach an experiment that was vital for knowledge; for the power of being the dominant race. He was so absolutely sure that this was the answer to a stronger world; one filled with mechanical machinery and electricity. Instead of waiting for a hundred years for this evolution, he was determined to bring it crashing upon the world now and be famous for rushing the future; for helping the world to progress swiftly.
“And yet it remains alive for quite a while.” Wallace continued, forgetting his thoughts and disregarding the shocked quiet. Small steps at a time; first he had to convince an elite amount of people before appealing to the government “Does this give us the notion that the animal itself possesses something that keeps it alive?”
One of the men looked up, in shock, “You think so? Really? That was disproved years ago.”
“Animal energy.” Wallace nodded knowingly. “I believe strongly that it is what keeps it alive. You can see the plating here is steel, and what is the bottom? Copper. That is why the heart continues to beat.”
“Your theories are ridiculous.” Another gentleman disputed. “Galvani had tested it on a dead frog. How would it be affecting a living finch? And even as we watch; it grows closer to death, its eyes lidded with the pain and misery of this cruelty you afflict upon it! If only, it disproves your idea.”
“It will stay alive.” Wallace insisted stubbornly. “The animal energy will force it to take shallower breaths, to withhold as long as possible.”

“Eventually, it will run out, won’t it?” The boy at the window challenged, jumping down from his ledge by the window, looking disgustedly at the audience. “This animal energy, if it even exists; there would only be a limited amount.” He had watched Wallace conduct this experiment multiple times before and each time, the animal that was placed within the dome had died. Whatever Wallace was trying to do, he was killing harmless souls, abusing nature; abusing the world.

“Charles, you miscreant –“Wallace started speaking heatedly, his attention focusing on the boy; eyes burning in anger. The little brat had always tried to impose his narrow-minded ideas upon Wallace, but had managed to remain silent on the topic of the air pump. He should have known! Of course, he would have looked down upon it; the boy was simply a coward, unable to understand that to live in today’s world; one needed to make sacrifices on a daily basis. He shouldn’t have taken the little chit in, shouldn’t have kept him alive all these years.

The two men glared heatedly at each other; unaware of anyone else. The tension was palpable, and Charles could see a vein throbbing at Wallace’s forehead, and how he was starting to perspire. All Wallace saw was red; a dark scarlet that surrounded Charles; demanding his blood, and his dignity.
“You’re nothing but useless.” Wallace snarled, his hand rising to smack Charles and he ducked his head, waiting for the striking blow that would push him to the floor; like the countless other times that he’d been sprawled across the hard timbre floor, crying with shuddering breaths for the affection that he had never received. This was his life; but today he was putting a stop to it.

The blow came then, strong and harsh; his body tumbling onto the floor, as Wallace shook himself off with great effort; reining his temper in. Looking up, he saw the people who had originally come to witness the great miracle staring at him horror, some shaking their heads in revulsion.

“Sir Benedict Wallace?” A voice distracted him and he turned to look at the source of the noise; near the open door. Standing there was a man, dressed in a police uniform, his mouth set in an unforgiving line as he noticed the young male on the floor who was groaning in pain, as well as the finch in the air pump that had finally become still. Its body lay awry on the plate, breast upwards, and neck drooping behind its wings. He saw the finch’s eyes, glassy and lifeless, feeling a low sinking feeling as he realised that his rescue was too late; the animal had indeed been murdered.

“Wh – what do you want?” Wallace spluttered, his face red, as he straightened his coat and looked at the officer with a demanding eyebrow.
“A moment, please,” the officer sighed. “Civilians, I’ll require you to evacuate if you wish to not be associated with this man. Of course, we already have your names on record, but you’re being given a generous option here.”
The populace in the room looked at each other in resignation as they made their way out, some relieved, others grumbling about the new-found law.
The officer then put out a hand, picking up the young boy. “Is Benedict Wallace your father, young man?”
Charles shook his head, coughing raggedly as he looked up at the officer. “He’s my guardian.”
Nodding, the man cleared his throat importantly. “As you very well know, in 1876 – just last year – we passed an act as the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. You’ve just acted against the Cruelty to Animal Act Controlling Experimentation, and for that, Mr Wallace, I’m afraid that I do have to arrest you for breaking the law, and apparently abusing your charge as well.”
“It’s for science,” Wallace spat, looking around for an escape. “And he deserves it; just look at the little fool. Ever since the blasted police force has come into existence; you have made my life a living hell! I can’t do anything I want, constantly restrained by these ridiculous laws.”
The officer nodded knowingly, stepping behind him to take his hands, leading him out of the house. “Son, you’ll be alright until we get someone here, right? It’ll only be a day at the most.”
As Wallace was escorted away, expletives bubbling rabidly out of his mouth, he turned to see Charles give him a sarcastic, little wave before slamming the door shut. Growling in frustration, he vowed that one day, the boy would pay for the misfortunes that he had caused.

 Charles, as soon as the door was closed and locked, made his way to the air pump, where he removed the dome and removed the finch gently, placing it on the table. Taking the apparatus that had caused misery for many creatures; he went outside in a sudden rage, smashing it into small shards of metal and glass without a thought. The finch was buried hurriedly, and finally he was able to raid his guardian’s room for the information that had been abstained from him; information that detailed all the aspects of his life; facts that didn’t necessarily determine who he was, but where he came from. That night was spent reading through those papers, curled up in a  warm corner of the room, as tears teased his eyes, dripping steadily as he apprehended what had happened to his family. They hadn’t abandoned him, as he’d been told before in a mocking, taunting voice. They had loved him. They had cared. It was a good thing that he had alerted the authorities of Wallace’s depravity; had realised that his work was an abomination. Otherwise; he ever mightn’t have known about what occurred to his heritage; hadn’t ever learned the truth. 

As for Benedict Wallace, he was convicted for conducting animal experiments for years without a license, and for continuing the practice after the act that had strictly forbidden it had been put into place and thus sentenced to five years of harsh penal servitude.  The two never crossed paths again, much to the bitterness of Wallace who lived out the rest of his life, branded as a criminal.