Author: 285KKS

  • Red and Purple Blues (Draft #2)
    7–11 minutes

    Red and Purple Blues (Draft #2)

    Dearest Miriam,

    Do you remember the first time?

    Where we sat on top on the fire escape, bathed in cold moonlight, smoking a cigarette, or you at least you watched me as I did, you took a photo on your camera that night, the photo I’ve never seen, you never showed me because

    you said it was more romantic to not see it till it were digitised, “I don’t like looking at it till I put it on my computer”

    I’d scoffed at you then. What if I looked bad in it? Did you even care?

    Our feet were hanging off the edge that night, we pushed against the railing that budged ever so slightly because if the support gave away it would not be our fault, but just fate that had been tempted, like it was our siren song and not even death could resist our temptation. We were young then, it was a summer break in the middle of high school, and we’d not eaten all day, either of us. Maybe that’s why I felt high, or it could have been the delirium from my three hours of sleep, or the nicotine in my blood, or maybe the hallucinogen that was your perfume, or maybe all four.

    I’d kissed you that night and I stayed awake the rest of it thinking about nothing but the touch of your lips on mine, looking into the stars and imagining that the billions of burning balls of gas could not hold a candle to the passion I’d felt in that moment. I’m sorry I kissed you then.

    We’d be so good together, I’d said.

     I’d treat you better, I’d said.

    Better than he ever could, I’d said.

    Then kiss me, we’d said.

    And we did.

    It’s been years since then; I’ve never seen the photo that night but now I don’t think I need to. I have the image of you peering through the viewfinder at me, seeing a more picturesque moment of myself than I ever had in my life, seared into my memory. I find myself sitting on a fire escape again, in college, graduating college, I’m alone this time. I acknowledge the cancer the cigarette between my fingers is fostering in my lungs, like a little babe being cared for by the motherly love of tar, but I find that there’s a comfort in microdosing suicide.

    It had been a long time since I saw us, you’d moved borders three times since. I hope you’d be happy to know that I found myself in someone new. You were blue and she is red. I like red, but with her I find myself bleeding purple. Y’know, I miss your blue, the depths captured in your hues, the familiarity of your embrace. It was funny, the way you grew colder as we sunk deeper inside each other; the pressure mounted and your tight hug grew from comforting to suffocating. There was a peace to it though, when we were writhed in each other’s arms. The world outside was muffled, gagged behind a cloth soaked in poppers. My lungs filled with water, like a balloon you’re not sure is close to bursting or not, but I didn’t have trouble breathing, I breathed in you.

    Sincerely,
    Ione

    Dearest Miriam,

     Do you remember when I swam in you the first time? I do. Engulfed in all of you, swimming midst the kelp which rose from so far below I couldn’t see where it started, I peered deep into that abyssal cavity, and I remember sinking. I remember when the first of the kelp wrapped itself around my leg, and then the rest snatched at me one by one until I was tethered, unable to move, not wanting to anyway and being pulled in deeper, and as I descended it only got colder, and colder. I remember screaming as the tendrils tore at my skin, gashes oozing blood, the colour blending into the navy. I remember screaming, maybe for help, maybe for you. The words floated upwards encased in bubbles, clawing its way to the surface but when it popped at the precipice, I’m not sure anyone but you were there to hear it, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

    I love you, I remember saying. I remember writing you poems, maybe too many because

    you’d said it scared you.

    I loved you with such fervour, and I’m sorry if you were drowning in it

    When I surfaced, when you cast me out, I sat alone cold and naked, shivering till she came along. She saved me then, and she burned hot like the sun.

                Sincerely,
                Ione

    Dearest Miriam,

    We first met at a bar. Cliché, right? Meeting someone at a bar? We danced together before we knew each other’s names. There was smoke from the fog machine engulfing the two of us, and the way she danced was mesmerising, the way the smoke weaved around her, brushed against the contours of her body. The smoke turned inside itself and back out, splaying itself bare. The smoke choked the air, it moved in ways that was more than just in pitiful three dimensions, and she moved along with it. The world itself tore around her movements, like she could fold it all and put it in her pocket. She moved like fire, alive. I allowed my fingers to trace her body too, hot to the touch, scalding almost, I let my hand linger at her waist for a moment, we danced closer together, drunk on the scent of her cherry perfume.

    I don’t remember that night all too well, actually, I’d probably had too much to drink. I remember her hands in mine, playing with each other’s fingers and looking into each other’s eyes, hers like amber, and like amber I was stuck within them, completely frozen in time. Maybe a some point, I hadn’t said a word for a minute and just stared at her with mouth agape because she’d laughed at me then, it filled me with a warmth I find difficult to describe but there was a gentleness to it, the kind that makes you want to claw your skin off, like a blanket warmed by someone else’s body heat.

    I remember this time where we were smoking together on the fire escape, or at least I was watching her smoke, and I relished it second-hand, I swear it tasted sweeter after the smoke was suffused with her breath.

    “I want a photo of you” I’d said, but neither of us had a camera,

    “I want to remember the night” I’d said, she’d breathed in more smoke, stopping just shy of the filter, I remember raising my hand to her,

     “Put it out,” and I’d been marked.

     Y’know, I recall when my body was tattered in your waters, when my gashes were oozing blood and I remember it being blue like yours. It was blue with you, a beautiful, cold sapphire, but it’s not red with her.

    Why don’t I bleed red?

    Sincerely,
                Ione

    Dearest Miriam,

    I remember this one time I was walking with her; we were in the woods. It was Autumn, the leaves told me that. The trees were vibrant orange, red and yellow, and she walked beside me. I remember saying a joke, I don’t even fully remember what it was, the only thing that stays sharp in my mind, a recording like it happened only moments ago was that she’d laughed, she’d laughed hard.

    I’d never considered myself funny till I met her. See, it’s kind of crazy; when I speak, my words buffet her, waft off her, kind of like a candle you just blew on gently, she bends and dances, and stands up straight to listen, and then quivers and talks back to me with the heat of her breath touching my skin. I love her, but being engulfed in her flames burns. It singes my skin, and I tear away from it, without even thinking. I feel the gashes on my body welding shut with her flames; it burns so bad that all I find myself craving is a cold rush of water to make it all stop.

     But she’s warm, and I like the warmth.

    That day in the woods, we took photos, both of us were smiling and standing close together, the heat of our bodies mingling in the air between us. I took significantly more photos of her. When she saw them, she’d laughed at a few, the one’s where she was caught in an awkward position which made it look like she and the tree were about to lunge at each other’s throats, my bet was on the tree. Then she

    told me to delete a couple,

    which I did protest but she was adamant,

    She didn’t like how she looked, and so I obliged her.

    She’s intoxicating when I breathe her in. I love her swimming in my lungs, it singes the inside, but I can’t stop, I don’t want to. But even still, why don’t I bleed red? I wish I could just rinse my veins of your pigment, I wish I could bleed such a vibrant vermillion that she’d know that all I have space for is her. There are times when I sit awake far too late into the night, her sleeping in bed next to me and all my thoughts are of

    How are you doing?

    I hear about you from time to time, but I’ve always wanted to hear from you. I find myself wondering what you’re up to, whether you’ve met someone new, or if you’re still looking, or if you’ve given up, or if you’re dead, I suppose. Though I hope I’d hear about that.

    I find myself wondering what you’re studying in college, or if you’re working. Or if you’re married, or if you’re engaged. Or if you opened that restaurant which I’d said I’d be first in line for on opening night.

     It scares me to know, a part of my heart seizes when I think about but nevertheless, I find myself wondering if I’d coloured your blood the way you did mine.

    Did your water wash away any trace of me? Did part of me ever dissolve into you?

    Do you still bleed blue?

    Just blue?

    Sincerely,
    Ione, who wishes she knew where to send these.

  • Bewtiched, Bemused (Draft #1)
    10–16 minutes

    Bewtiched, Bemused (Draft #1)

    November 6 – Sunday (Evening)

    The snow had fallen the night before last and shimmered like crystals under the sun the morning thereafter. She had come to visit me, like she always did on Sundays; she was wearing her burgundy coat, two sizes too big. She had long hair which flowed down to her shoulder, a bit unkempt and frizzy, but luscious, nonetheless; sun-bleached brown locks cascading into itself. My eyes had traced her gate, hurried, but not rushed, it was purposeful. She had placed herself by the large Palladian window, the sun pranced through it, kissing her gently along her cheek, ceasing just shy of her lips, the phantom of which taunted mine. She had pulled out a book then, one I hadn’t read before, but I don’t remember the cover all too well anyway, just the grip she held, her delicate fingers caressing the leather tome, long nails gently scraping its surface. I shuddered.

    That evening, she’d left when the sun had set, and the courtyard was lit only by hissing lampposts. Her gate was purposeful, it was always purposeful, she knew where she wanted to go, and she had nary a wasted step. It was like watching a film, the way she strode, there was an art to it. I watched her fade out of view from where I sat, dumbstruck, my tea now gone cold.

    I wonder… what’s her name?

    November 8 – Monday (Morning)

    By some twist of fate, we sat next to each other in the lecture hall. I hadn’t noticed we had a class together until I walked in, scanned the room for my seat, which someone else had stolen from under me that day, and upon searching for a replacement, I saw her at the back of the class. She was scribbling in her notebook, staring absently at it as her pen glade along the paper. I glanced at her intermittently, being sure not to let my eyes linger too long in case she noticed, despite how badly my eyes wanted to drink her in. I couldn’t tell if she was writing or drawing, but given the odd swishes of her wrist, I’d bet on the latter. The professor began to profess, as they do, and I rummaged through my bag for a pen and notebook of my own. I patted every corner, but I couldn’t seem to find it. There was, however, a peculiar notebook-shaped object, my fingers traced a spiral-bound structure but that couldn’t be it, and there was this small bag which had these long thin plastic structures inside, which may have been a pen but I don’t think it was. I searched harder, making a face of desperate perplexion when a tantalizing voice emanated from beside me.

    “Do you need a pen and paper?”

    I glance up at my savior, “That would be great”

    “Here”  
    |
    “Thank you”

    And I began taking notes with this newfound pen, and this newfound paper. The pen was weighted excellently, just heavy enough at the top to fall into my fingers comfortably, and the paper was just thick enough to not need something under it to write comfortably.

    At the end I returned her pen, she grabbed it, and I offered a gentle resistance before letting go, “Thank you again”

    “Oh, it’s nothing”

    “What’s your name?”

    “Valerie, yours?”

    “Cercei”

    November 11 – Friday (Morning)

    She’d missed lecture Wednesday. I’d spent the class gnawing at my pen cap till the plastic shavings came off into my mouth, and then I found another pen to do the same. My notebook page for 11/11 lacked class notes but had hastily sketched figures all over it. My head was racing. What did I do wrong? Was it tugging on the pen?? Am I a fucking idiot why’d I do that? Did I scare her off? Oh god, I did, didn’t I? Did she drop the class? Because of me? Is she avoiding me? I’ll get to see her on Sunday at least. Should I say hi to her on Sunday? What should I wear on Sunday? Maybe… no, no, she’s already seen me wearing that, I can’t wear that again.

    Today, It was 4 minutes till lecture began. Is she coming today?

    3 minutes. She’s probably not coming today.

    2 minutes. She wouldn’t sit with me even if she did.

    1 minute. I’m repulsive, I made her uncomfortable, I ruined everything.

    The shuffling of the desk chair beside me jolted me back to reality, and I glanced over to see her sitting there. I smiled warmly at her, and she did so back, tacking on a gentle wave.

    She loves me.

    At the end of lecture as she got up to leave, I timed my exit with hers. We walked out of the hall together, first sharing brief pleasantries regarding the weather, what the rest of her schedule looked like today and how did mine.

    “Were you out sick Wednesday?” I asked as we made our way to the courtyard where branching paths split off into different buildings and colleges.

    “Oh,” Valerie started, shifting uneasily, “No, something just came up at home. My dad’s been…” she trailed off.

    My heartbeat caught, this poor girl. “You don’t have to talk about it if you’d rather not, I understand”

    Valerie smiled in relief, “Thanks”

    We walked a bit further in silence. “So, you’re an artist?”

    “Oh! Yeah, I am, do you wanna see?”

    We sat under a naked tree by the courtyard; winter coats pressed against snow. She pulled out her notebook, sticker-bombed to hell and began flipping through pages. There were sketches of trees, a few buildings I recognized. A variety of fantastical characters and creatures.

    “Holy shit, these are gorgeous”

    “Thanks! I paint too, but I don’t have those on me”

    “I’d love to see them sometime! I used to paint, but it’s been a long while”

    “Aw, why’d you stop?”

    “I…” it was my turn to trail off, “I just haven’t felt very… inspired in a while”

    “I totally understand,” she said, placing her hand on my shoulder. Warmth flowed through my entirety, as if I could sit out in the snow for hours on end and never feel cold while I had her hand on my body. I want her hands on my body, “If you do paint something though, I’d love to see yours too.”

    I smiled at her, and she smiled back.

    “Well, I’m going to be late to class. I’m headed this way,” she gestured in the opposite direction I was headed, and my heart sank just a little, “I’ll see you next week!”

    “Yeah. Have a good rest of your day!”

    I watched her walk off afterwards; she veered left out of sight after crossing the chemistry building, and then towards her next class. I wondered where it was.

    November 13 – Sunday (Evening)

    I sat at my usual spot in the library with my cup of tea. It was a quarter past 2. Valerie usually shows up around now every Sunday, almost ritualistically. She’ll sit down at the large Palladian window, and she’ll bring out a book to read. I packed my largest thermos, I had it filled with black tea, and I made sure to pack an extra travel cup for her. As if by clockwork, the library door opened, and she walked in, aiming directly, purposefully, for her usual spot. It was just then that it occurred to me, how do I walk over without seeming like I’m following her? I’d have to wait, and so I did, I’d brought out a pen and paper and began sketching. I watched the time tick by, but eventually the ceaseless ticking and the tocking bored me. It was then that I glanced back down to where Valerie sat… she was gone. Fucking… DAMN IT! I pressed the pencil into the notebook till the lead snapped off and rolled onto the floor.

    Damn it, damn it, damn it!! My breath began to hitch and my lungs pushed out the air faster than I could breath it in.

    DAMN IT…

    deep breaths… I try to take deep breaths
    but I can’t.
    I cant. I can’t

    I can’t 

    DAMN IT…  

    I inhale sharply and hold my breath

    I breathe out slowly

    damn it… fucking… fuck.

                God fucking damn it.


    Cont. November 13 – Sunday (Late Night)

    Inside, I offered to make her some tea. The thermos was over-steeped by now, so I threw it out and began boiling the kettle. I asked her what tea she’d prefer, she said she didn’t have a preference. I chose ginger. I handed her a cup.

    “You said you used to paint” she said, blowing on her cup of tea, “do you have your supplies here?”

    “I did, and I do”

    “What did you paint?”

    “People. I did portraits and figures”

    “Why people?”

    “I found it interesting. Bodies are varied; they’re a challenge. They’re like fabric, the different ways they fold. Hair, fat, muscles, wrinkles.”

    “Why’d you stop?”

    “I,” I took a sip of my tea, the ginger burned slightly going down my throat, “I lost… the drive”

    “What do you mean?”

    “The passion for it, I guess. It stopped exciting me”

    “Do I excite you?”

    I stopped breathing, “Huh?”

    “Do I excite you?” Valerie enunciated every word.

    “Yes”

    “So,” Valerie stood up and began to disrobe, “paint me”

    November 14 – Monday

    The image of Valerie was seared into my mind. The way she lay, the way I couldn’t take my eyes off her, the way she didn’t want me to. Lecture was about to begin, and Valerie wasn’t here yet. She tended to cut it close, and I was right. 1 minute before lecture began, she ran in and took her seat. Her hair was a bit frizzy, and her eyes were deeply set. I smiled at her; she didn’t smile back.

    Nearing the end of lecture, I aimed to time my exit with hers, but she shot up out of her chair. “Sorry, I’m in a rush” and she walked out the door before I could say anything more than a “Okay, bye”

    What was wrong? Did she hate me? Did I do something wrong? What about last night? Did something happen? Did I do something wrong? Did I do something wrong? What did I do wrong? 

    Fuck Fuck—

    I can’t breathe.

    November 16 – Wednesday

    After lecture, we walked together again. It was snowing, every step crunched underfoot.

    “Are you alright? You seemed a bit distraught yesterday”

    “Oh… yeah, sorry, I’m fine. My dad, he, uh, came down to visit the night before and we just,” she sighed heavily, “we just argued a lot, and then I had to run early to finish an assignment that was due within the hour”

    “You don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry it’s been rough”

    “Thanks… I’m getting by though”

    “Glad to hear it”

    Silence reigned supreme for a moment.

    “Did you want to see the painting I did?”

    She lit up, “Definitely!”

    “Are you free to come over tonight?”

    “Yeah, I can make it work”

    November 16 – Wednesday (Evening)


    Valerie and I walked over to my dorm room together. It was a quiet night; there weren’t many people who stayed out late on frigid nights like tonight. The snow shimmered under the lamplight and the moon, Valerie said she loved the snow, and so did I. There was a calmness to it, not only did it keep people inside, but it also softened the outside world. Sounds weren’t ever as loud, and every step had a comforting crackle to it. We said we loved seeing the footprints, it’s the only time you get to see footprints on cement, and every step tells a story of someone going somewhere, or a bunch in a circle tells another. Valerie and I walked closely, our footsteps paired together. I hoped that if someone saw it, they’d imagine a couple holding hands.

    “Did your dad leave?”

    “He left that night”

    “Do you want to talk about it?”

    “There’s not much to say. He drinks, he always has, he’s got anger issues, he always did. My mother never stood up to him, because why would she? She was scared, but I wasn’t. So, our screaming matches have been a part of our father-daughter bond for as long as I can remember”

    I didn’t really know what to say, responding with a…

    “That sucks”

    …felt reductive.

    “Tell me about it,” we walked up the stairs to the entrance to my dorm.

    “Never mind that, how’d your painting turn out?”

    I smiled, “Well, I had a gorgeous model, I just hope I did her justice” I turned the key and pushed open the door.

    “Oh! It’s a portrait? That’s exciting! I’ve never actually done portraits before. Is that what you usually paint?”

    The door fully opened, revealing the portrait at the center of the room. Valerie locked eyes with herself. I watched her take the step into the room, examining the artwork.

    “Wow, that’s excellent. The brush work, the—” she paused, “Who… who was your model?”

    “You?” I said

    “What?” Valerie turned to face me, and her eyes widened further, opposite her were more portraits, paintings and sketching all in different poses, “How did–?”

    All of her.

    “You came over…?”

    “When?!” Valerie took one step backwards, almost knocking over the easel.

    “Sunday night.” I took a step forward, “You came over, I made you tea,” I was getting annoyed, a tension held strong at my temples, “You asked me to paint you?”

    “Cercei, I wasn’t in town”

    “Of course you were, you were here” I said.

    “Cercei,” Valerie’s voice cracked, “you’re scaring me”

    “You’re lying to me!” I said
    .
    “Cercei, please, I want to leave” Water welled up in her eyes, her beautiful brown eyes.

    “Stop lying to me then” I said.

    “Cercei please…” tears were crawling down her eyes, “I want to leave”

    “NO!” I said, “Why don’t you believe me?!”

    Valerie bolted, she ran towards the door, pushing past me. I reached out to grab her, getting purchase on the ends of her dress. It snagged on her and she fell forward, head slamming against the corner of the dresser. She hit the floor with a hollow thump, blood pouring out of her head.

    “Valerie! No, no, no, no!!” I yelled, cradling her body, pressing against her wound, but her eyes were already glazed over. “No… please. I need you”

    I pulled her up and set her down on the couch, “You’re so beautiful,” Taking off her jacket, unzipping her dress. She lay there; she was beautiful. She was art, she would be art. She’d be my art. She’d be my muse, she’ll always be my muse.

    I placed a canvas on my easel, and I began to paint.

  • Press Release Writing Sample
    1–2 minutes

    Press Release Writing Sample

    PUDM Hosts “Pie a President” Event to Raise Awareness for Riley Hospital and Paediatric Healthcare

    WEST LAFAYETTE, Ind., Oct, 3, 2024 – Purdue University Dance Marathon student organization to host “Pie a President” event to raise awareness for Riley Hospital and Paediatric Healthcare. The event will take place on October 3rd, at Purdue Bell Tower from 12:00PM to 3:00PM.

    The event gathers five presidents of student organizations to get “pied” for a $1 per pie and is open to the public. The event will feature music, other interactive booths and opportunities to learn more about paediatric healthcare. All proceeds from the event will be donated to Riley Hospital for Children to help provide life-saving care and treatment to paediatric patients.

    “This is the 5th annual ‘Pie a President’ event,” says Avery Kerrt, President of PUDM, “we’ve raised a total $45,000 in previous years, and we’re hoping to bump up those numbers tomorrow.”

    For more information about the event, contact Avery Kerrt at kerrt123@purdue.edu.

    About Riley Hospital for Children:

    Riley Hospital for Children is the largest paediatric system with over 50 locations across the United States. The hospital is ranked among the top hospitals in the nation, collaborating with Indiana University School of Medicine, Indiana University School of Medicine, and Indiana University School for Health and Human Sciences to provide cutting-edge treatment.

    About Purdue University Dance Marathon:

    PUDM is the largest student-run charity organisation on Purdue’s campus, and it has been around on-campus for 20 years, and has hosted 19 18-hour dance marathons to raise money for Riley Hospital.

  • The Synonymous Oppression of People & the Natural World
    5–8 minutes

    The Synonymous Oppression of People & the Natural World

    Summary and Analysis of Cullinan’s If Nature had Rights & Ken Burns’ American Buffalo

    The oppression of a people is inextricable from the oppression and subjugation of nature. Colonisers have always used the strategy of attacking nature to weaken a native population. I will be examining the ways this was conducted against Native Americans, as well as looking at how cultural mysticism leads to reverence of nature juxtaposed against Western science and the commodification of it. For the purposes of the analysis, I want to look particularly at American Buffalo and Cullinan’s If Nature had Rights.

    Cullinan in If Nature had Rights attempts to equate the destruction of nature and the stripping of its rights (as could be seen with the Native cultures and the upholding of nature’s rights) to become a commodity, to the slavery and dehumanization of Black people in the US, which I find to be an egregious and inequitable comparison. Nature’s rights are undoubtedly important, but human rights are more so due to the fact of sapience; in American Buffalo, the act of skinning and making coats of buffalo hide isn’t the egregious part of the history, but the crime lies in the scale it was conducted at. However, if we apply this idea to Black people in Jim Crow US, their skin was used to make shoes, wallets, cigar cases and more (Jim Crow Museum), and I would argue that the latter is significantly more heinous. This example illustrates that the oppression of people and nature cannot be equated to the same moral depravity, though they are interlinked in many ways.

    Culture and nature are synonymous, all culture is derived from their surroundings. Looking at American Buffalo, one of the first things said is: “the buffalos were the life of the Kiowas”, thereby emphasizing immediately that the culture was tired to the buffalo, a part of the natural world, likewise, the Kiowa and other Native American tribes see themselves as a part of nature, and as we’ll see further into this analysis. The documentary covers topics of American Settlers colonising the continent, and the way in which their presence shifts the culture of the Natives, and the documentary juxtaposes the treatment of the buffalo by Natives with that of the settlers, and the industrial capitalistic systems of insatiable demand for buffalo coats they brought with them.

    The slaughter of the buffalo, however, was not solely driven but the demand for coats and the sport of the hunt. It was an intentional way of breaking the spirit of the Native tribes, “They understood the obvious, that the bison were the key to the Native economy, if you cut the legs from under the economy then you weren’t going to have much resistance from the native people” (American Buffalo, 1:11:46). They knew that removing the foundation of the Native economy would increase their reliance on the US government for food and the survival of their people. This extermination of the buffalo impacted the Native tribes deeply, “We had the songs but no buffalo to sing them to, it was spiritual trauma” (American Buffalo, 1:45:0).

    The Kiowa saw the buffalo as integral to many aspects of their culture and spiritual practices, for example they used buffalo heads as masks during such practices. The culture emphasized buffalo as a creature to be respected, they were taught that the buffalo was sacred and needed to be treated as such before they were taught of all the ways their society benefitted from the parts of the buffalo; hereby highlighting how the mystification of buffalo as a sacred being places it in a position of respect. When they killed a buffalo, they utilised all its constituents, from the horns for arrowheads and spears, and fed communities with all of the hundreds of pounds of meat; Gerard Baker in the documentary says, “Even the waste wasn’t wasted” (American Buffalo, 19:47), furthermore, they utilised the sounds of the buffalo in their hunting practices, which I would describe as harmonious with nature. The buffalo was thereby the legs that supported the weight of Native populations, providing them with tools, food, clothing, and invigorating their cultural practices. The Natives had other hunting practices that made use of animals, they’d shroud themselves in cowls of other animals to encroach on the buffalo unnoticed; they would effectively become one with nature. This relationship with nature was symbiotic, they took what they needed and gave back to nature, and treated it with reverence, this is an incredibly stark contrast to the way the colonisers treated it when their ships docked on the beaches.

    For the settlers, the buffalo was seen only for the benefits it could provide them, and the land was a resource intended for their exploitation. Their literal presence spread plagues among the indigenous populations, which I suppose could be morbid symbolism. The American landscape was teeming with Buffalo from Floride to Lake Erie (American Buffalo, 25:46), but by the end of their slaughter, there were only a handful left. The way the buffalo were used for their resources was far more perverse than the way the natives went about it, “they left 600 to 800 pounds of meat, along with the hooves and the head and the horns to rot”  (American Buffalo, 1:07:16), and even then the hides were wasted because the production line meant that many of the hides were not usable for coats (American Buffalo, 1:09:30).

    They were wasteful to the nth degree with the resources of the buffalo, where the natives ensured to use every part of the buffalo to nurture their communities, the colonisers slaughter the buffalo, took only the parts they needed to sell off in other parts of the country, and left all the rest of it to rot in the field. All the parts of the buffalo were not given the same (albeit still minimal) respect as was given to the hides because it was only those that were to beg a profit and were seen as valuable, the sacrifice of the animal disregarded. Near the end of the bison runner lifecycle, they came back to beat a dead horse (or bison,I suppose) and used the leftover skulls to make even more profit. No other image encapsulates the cold industrialisation more than the men standing before the mountain of buffalo

    posing and proud to be the harbinger of its near extinction. The hunting methods were also perverse, the use of guns killed bison at never-before-seen numbers, it was even gamified as a shooting expedition when the rails were laid for trains, furthermore they abused a product of evolution in their slaughter, illustrating their disregard for nature perfectly. All of this, the consumerist drive for buffalo coats, the production of bigger and better firearms to kill buffalo more effectively, and the gamification of it, all shows this cold commodification of the buffalo. The Kiowa and other Native tribes evolved alongside the buffalo for 10,000 years, and it only took a few hundred of coloniser hunting to eradicate their population.

    The subjugation of nature and its peoples are one in the same, and in crushing the mysticism of nature in favour of colonial capitalistic commodification, they can generate profits. Killing the buffalo made the Natives more dependent on the US Government for food, clothing, etc, and thereby was backed into a corner and controlled by the government to smother the flame of their culture. In destroying nature, the settlers destroyed the Natives.

    References

    Human leather – April 2013. Jim Crow Museum. The Mercury. (n.d.). https://jimcrowmuseum.ferris.edu/question/2013/april.htm

    Cullinan, C. (2008, January 1). If Nature Had Rights. Orion Magazine. https://orionmagazine.org/article/if-nature-had-rights/

    Burns, K. (2023, October). The American buffalo. PBS.
    https://www.pbs.org/kenburns/the-american-buffalo#watch

  • Kilfruit Oil
    3–5 minutes

    Kilfruit Oil

    Disclaimer: formatting breaks, flip your phone to landscape or lead on a laptop/tablet for the intended experience

    Bright.                                                                                                      Too bright.
    Warm.                                                                                                      Too Warm.
    Ah, winter comes, but not soon enough.
                                                  It’s an afternoon, just an afternoon, nothing more,                                                                                                                                                                                                              
                                                                                                                nothing less.
    The flask on the burner stinks quite badly,
                                                               emitting a rather foul odour, ah, 
                                                                                                          what trouble!
    Just another task on this afternoon inching it into the more,
                                                                          but I prefer otherwise, and I’d much                                                                                                                                                                                                             
                                                                                                                          prefer it
    in the less.
                                       Ah!                                               It’s burning!
                                                                                 No wonder it smells so foul,
                                                                                                           tsk tsk, I tsk                                                                                                       
                                                                                                               myself again,
                                  I appear to be an amateur!
                                                               60 years of alchemy and
                                                  I’m still a novice!
                                          I ought to be a bit ashamed,
    but why?
                             I don’t know really,
    but I feel like I ought to,
                             though it oughtn’t matter, I don’t think.
    Drats,                                                                                           what was I doing?
                Ah!
    Yes, mm…                                  ah, here it is!
                                      It appears I need
                                                                a dash of chronozymum, 
                                                                                          hmm, yes got that,
    yes, ermm.. hmm,                             a bit of hoglily, I certainly do,
    and lastly…                           oh dear, Kilfruit oil!      Drat!

    Hot.                                                                                      Far too hot!
    Yes sir,                                                                                 far too hot to breathe,
                                                                                                 far too hot for crowds!
    There are so many people,
                                               far too many,
                                          by far too many stinky sweaty vagrants
                                                                   sloshing and slapping,
                                                         intermingling, wrapping,
                                                                 coiling, themselves in each other’s fluids!
    Avert my eyes,
    look away,
    tear them away
                             from the slimy and slick and stinky bodies!
    No, I won’t have it!
    Not have it all!
    Refuse!
                   I’ll simply                                                                             step here,
    oh and here,
                                                                      skip over that brick,
                                                                                                          it looks unsafe,
    though why?
                                  I do not know,
                                                              I only know that I ought not,
                                                                                                                  so I oughtn’t.
    Aha,                                                                                                                   I live!
    With fanciful footwork
                                         and perfected pirouettes,
                                                                                                               I have arrived!
                                              Behold all, Sourtier’s Sourtier!
                                                                  A befitting name, though why?
    Why because,
                                       my good friend Sourtier sourtiers all the sourtres!
                                                                                                          Although no, I
                                                                                       cannot say certainly, no, I
                                                                                    haven’t a clue what it means
                                                                                                          to sourtier,                                                                                                                                                                                                             
                                      though I say, it does befit!

    Herbs.                                                                                            Too many herbs!
                  Kilfruit oil!                                                                                                      
                                      I beckon thee,
             oh, kilfruit oil!
                                                                  Where dost thou hide in this menagerie!
    Alas, good sir, in this collection of various
                                                                sizes, shapes, colours, and
                                                                   scents, textures, tastes, and 
                                                                      properties, efforts, rates, 
                                         where might one,
                                                            or two,
                                                            or three,
                                                            or four, 
                                                                         find kilfruit oil?
    Mightn’t you say?!
                                            Say it is not so!
    …So?!                     No!
                              No,
                                     no,
                              no!
    Damn, it be so!                     Hm, where?
                                                                                                             Down the road?
        Left of the cookshop,                                           right of baker?
                                                   In front of hm? 
                                             Ah, the watchmaker!
                        Tick                                                                tock!
                                              Tick                                                                tock!
                                                                   Agh, that blasted--
                               Tick                                                                       tock!
                                                 Tick                               tock!
                         Stop!
                                  Gah, would you look at the time?!
                                                                              Each moving hand,
                                                                      more day
                                                      becomes more, and
                                                                       less day to
                                                                  be less, which makes
                                                                       less
                                                                       more!
    Dammit,                                        Sourtier!
                                                       Sourtier!
    I implore you                       Sourtier!
                              You must sourtier
                                more sourtres!

    D a r k.                                                                                                 Far too dark!
                         Only more,
                                  more and
                                  more!
                                                                                                             No more!
                                                                                                             No more!
                                                                                                             No more,
                                                                                                                     I say!
        Agh!                      To the cookshop,
                                                                                                                  by the baker,
                                                                                  ah there it is!
                                                                                        It must be!
                                              Hello, madam! I require—
                  you’re stunning,                                           so stunning in fact, 
    that I’m too stunned  to                                              speak, what can I even say?
    What is there to say?                                                      To one as beautiful as you, I do not know, may                                                              I even be allowed to grace                                                                          myself in your                                                                      presence? To bask under your sight?!                                                                             Madam, may I ask                                                                                                      for your                                                                                      hand in—                                
                                                               ah… drats!
                                                           Madam, kilfruit oil!
                                                                Aha!
                                                                        Magical!
                                                         Marvellous!
                                                                        Musical!
                                                          Masterful!
                                                                        Miraculous!
                                                     Kilfruit oil, I’ve found you now!

    C o l d.                                                                                               Far too c o l d!
                         S h i v e r i n g,                                          
                                              c h a tt e r i n g, and frozen!
                                                                                                             Now again,
                                              once more,
                                           I must,
                                  to make the more
                                                        less,
                                and make the less
                                             must.
                                                                   A dash of chronozymum, yes,
                                                                       a bit of hoglily too, and lastly, oh yes!
                                                   A generous pour of kilfruit oil, now, slowly, yes,
                                                                            this time! To be sure, slowly,                                          
                                                                                                              slowly!
                                                                  Easy there now! Slowly! Slowly…
                                                                                                                                  ah!
                         The flask smells quite pleasant, oh yes,
                                                                   perfect!
                                                                   Perfect to be!
                         Take it off heat,
                                   quickly,
                               quickly now!
                                                                                                             Ah,
                                              now its
                          cold, and the black turns
                                                            grey turns
                                                                     purple turns
                                                                                  brown turns
                                                                                              yellow turns
                                                                                                           green turns
                                                                                                                       blue,
                                                                                   ah! What a beautiful blue,
                                                                                           like the lazy sky blue of                                           
                                                                   an afternoon,
                                                            just an afternoon,
                                                                   nothing more,
                                                                   nothing less
                                                          than an afternoon.
                                                                                                                                  Ah!
                                        It’s cool, and it smells marvellous!
                                              Drink,
                                                                                        swig,
                                              chug,
                                                                                        slurp!
                                              Slurp it up!
                                                                                        All of it up!
                         Blue!
              Oh, so blue!
                                              As more turns to less and
                                                                            less into
                                                   must,
                                                                an afternoon
                                     nothing more
                                                               nothing less,
                                                                                      
                                                                   turns into the afternoon,
                                                          nothing else,
                                                     nowhere else,
                                                                                just afternoon.

  • Fresh Meat: Flash Fiction
    3–5 minutes

    Fresh Meat: Flash Fiction

    The following was submitted for a class.

               The ocean grumbled and groaned, tossin’ the ship back and forth in its tantr’m. The men held down their mugs on the o’ken table, palms as lids so the rations don’t spill over, ‘course, some did. One’a’the mugs lay tipped onto the floor, one sorry bloke stared helplessly at the thick chum, seeping into the wood; we all av’rted our eyes, gripping our own mugs tighter. The lads and I were having a game of cards, least we were trying to, the ocean wasn’t too keen on it, it seemed.

    The ocean struck the ship again, the wood coffin cried out like thunder. The hold lurched and everyone fell forward with it, thudding against the furnishings. “F- auGhk!!” the lower edge of the table struck my stomach, I sucked sharply, gritting my teeth, and accidentally crumpling the Jack of Hearts I held in my hand. Two other boys fell and slid to the other side of the cabin. The room fell into an anticipatory silence, all’a us eyes looked around steadily, gauging the planks an’ scanning ‘em for cracks; could never be too sure that the ship won’t give.

                “Oi lads, steady. ‘tis no problem at all” said Barns, one of the older fellow on board. He had a red beard matted with weeks of grime, looked like a damn nest, as if some bird burrowed its way inside and built it out of loose splinters of wood and barnacles, “We repaired her two moons ago in Jango, she’ll hold.”

                “ ’ow can you be all that sure, eh?” cried one’a’the boys from the other side of the hold, steadyin’ himself on a barrel behind him and massaging his bruising hip. I wince at the thought, not fun, hurts whenever ya’ move. “At this fuckin’ rate…” the boy paused, trying to control the shaking of his voice, “it’ll be the locker for all’a us!” he cried, boy was sheddin’ tears now. Hard to watch. I wince at the thought, not fun.

                “Oh, shut up, would ya? Brown ye’ pants, have you?” said Brans, getting up from his seat, wiping his mouth of the ale dripping down his chin, surprisingly steady on his feet with the boat rocking under him, “Fuckin’ pansy, wipe ye’r bloody eyes!!” Aw hells, there he goes… “Fuckin’ disgrace!!”

                I push off my seat, steadying myself on the table against the movement of the ship, “Oi, go easy on the lad. First fuckin’ day, Barns, first fuckin’ day!”

                Barns seemed’ta ignore me, though could be he didn’ hear, fucker’s practically deaf.

               “Barns!” I cried again, the rest of the boys just watched, you could tell they wanted to help, you could tell they didn’t know how.

               “You think all’a these men in here ain’t as scared as you?” Barns bellowed, gesturing wildly behind him, “Ya thinks I ain’ as scared ya? No matter how much fuckin’ time ya spend on a ship, I’ll fuckin’ tell ya,” The boy practically curled into a ball under the yelling, desperately trying to run back but there was nowhere to run to “it never gets less bloody terrifyin! Ya’ think y’urself special? Well, you ai—”

               The ship lurched again, Barns fall forward onto the floor, catching himself on his arms and knees. His mug of rations rolled beside him. He looked at it longingly for a moment and tried to stand. I scamper out of my seat, reaching down to help him up but he swats me away.

               “Let go’a me, ye fuckin—” he looks up at me, I glare at him sternly, and he rolls his eyes, groaning loudly, letting me hook his arm around me, and then looked at the boy, who looked both terrified to continue sobbing and doing so uncontrollably. Barns sighed heavily, “Sorry, lad, what’s your name?”

               “P- Patty, sir” the boy managed to croak.

               Barns snickered, and a wry smile tugged at his lips, “Welcome aboard, Patty. Word’a advice, f’r the love’a God, just do what the rest’a us do… fuckin’ pray. It’ll keep ya’ sane”.

               We turned around to face the table, the men quickly darted their eyes back to their cards and continued playing as if nothing had taken place.

               “Ahem, Ya’ got any… threes?”

               “Uh, go fish”.

                I smiled, and leaned in closer to Barns, “go easier on the kids, will ya?”

  • Little Bronze Birdie
    3–5 minutes

    Little Bronze Birdie

    This was submitted for a class.           

                “Aaaaand…” Ratchet tinkered with the last couple of cogs, squinting through the magnifying lens attached to their goggle, brushing out bits of stray, scraggy hair out of their eyes. It was a bright and sunny day, light bled into the room, casting everything in a golden glow, glinting off the bronze parts which littered almost every corner of the room, neat piles, not-so-neat-piles, stacked precariously on shelves, or otherwise fastened to the walls, “almooost… there!”

                The newborn creature lay before them, a clockwork bird, about as still as… well, any other object, though, it was so much more than that. Ratchet pulled open a drawer beside them, inside were piles of finely ground coal, and scoops of various sizes on top. Ratchet grabbed one of the smaller ones, scooping a little bit of coal, and pouring it into a small valve on the back of the bird.

                Click. Click. Psshh. It spurred, letting out gusts of air from pressure valves.

                Click.

                CLICK. PSSHHH.

                A groaning sound emanated gently from it, a soft whirring and then the glow of hot coal in it’s stomach. “Yaha!!” Ratchet leaped off his chair which promptly fell to the floor with a loud bang, kicking up plumes of dust.

                Click. Click.

                The bird hobbled to its feet, and craned its neck, intricate gears clicking melodically as it moved. It spread one wing, large gears embedded in the centre of them both, it spun gently with the bird’s slow flaps. The bird hopped again, springs on its leg contracting as it landed, and flying back upright.

                “Hello!” Ratchet said, leaning in close to the animal, they felt their chest swell, “you’re aliiive!” Ratchet yelled, raising their arms in the air in a grandiose huzzah.

                The bird hopped over to the windowsill, kicking aside papers as it did. The construct pecked at the glass. It sounded like a coin tapping gently against it. “You wanna go outside?” Ratchet called, “I’ll get it for you!”

                Ratchet went over to the window, unlatched the bronze clasp, and pushed open the glass, and the bird immediately leapt out, flapping its wings as it did, CLICK, CLICK, sunlight encased it, it glowed like a star and for a moment, CLICK, it flew! It flapped it wings hard, CLICK, CLICK, and the wind swept it from underneath, and it soared!

                “Yeaahaha! Go birdie go!” Ratchet cried, but it only flew a foot or so before it went straight down.

                “No! No! No!” Ratchet tried to grab it out of the air, flinging themselves out the window and clambering onto their desk, but it was just out of reach. The bird plummeted downwards, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, it flapped its wings desperately, “No! Please! Someone catch it!” They yelled out the window, “Watch out!”

                CLANG.

                The bird struck the ground, Ratchet watched as gears rolled out of its carcass, like someone just dropped a coin-purse. Their heart sunk. In that instant, they leapt off their table, and ran out of the room. “He’s dead!! Birdie fell!! HE’S DEEAD!!” they yelled, eyes tearing up. They ran through the house, darting around corners, sprawled chairs, Clockwork constructs and various tables.

                “What happened?!” a voice yelled from behind Ratchet, but they’d already turned the corner, grabbing the wall and sling-shotting themselves down the spiral staircase, fingers glazing the bricks on the sides, and burst out onto the streets. The sun beat down on them, their eyes stung as the light pierced them, “Ack!”, they raised their hands to shield their eyes and darted their head around frantically.

                A small crowd had gathered just outside the workshop window. “Move! Move! Outa the way! Outa the way!” Ratchet yelled, pushing people aside and burrowing their way into the crowd.

                There it was. Ratchet stared at the remains of what was Birdie, who lay sprawled on the concrete.

    “…” Ratchet stared blankly at the mass of bronze.

                Click. Click.

                “!!” Ratchet perked up, eyes brightening, they leapt beside Birdie, reaching out to it meekly, afraid to touch it in case it broke further.

                Click. CLICK.

                Birdie craned its neck towards Ratchet, and tried to hop, but one of their legs was broken. The construct did a lopsided tumble and rolled onto its side.

                Ratchet reached over and raised it gently, they felt its warmth in their hands, but the glow was dwindling. “I’ll fix you right up, Birdie, don’t you worry! And next time…” they looked up at the sky with conviction, “you’ll fly!”

  • Family Dinners
    2–3 minutes

    Family Dinners

    The following was submitted for a class.

                There’s the sound of music clanging gently against my skull, and the droning of the road like a dull ache.

                In.

                            One. Two. Three. Four.

                Out.

                            One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight

                In.

                            One. Two. Three. Four

                Out.

                            One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight

                In.

                            “YOU’RE LISTENING TO— Pszk”

                Huh?

                            “We’re here!”

                I look outside the car window. Man… it’s always so cold in Aunt Pol’s house…

                The car door clacked open. Snow crunched beneath my boot which was two sizes too small now; my toes felt cramped; it hurt, just a little.

                            “HIII” Aunt Pol screeched.

                Ack…

                            “Come on in! How was the drive?”

                SLAM. The door shut behind us.

                I can already feel my head starting to ache.

                            “Help yourself to any of the food! There’s also drinks in the fridge, you kids better not touch the beer, y’hear! Now, sit down, sit down!”

                Oh God, okay… I look frantically for a chair at the dinner table, which was decorated with various decadent foods, I liked the head seat.

                            “How was ƚʜɘ pɿıʌɘ oʌɘɿ⸮ “

                            “Pretty good, Ⴑɒʏdɘᴎ iꙅ ꞁuꙅƚ ꙅƚɒɿƚiᴎǫ ƚʜ ǫɿɒdɘ, ɒᴎd Kat’s ɒ|moꙅƚ iᴎ ɔo||ɘǫɘ!”

                            Hm?

                            “Isn’t that exciting! What’s your major going to be?”

                Is she talking to me…? I look around the table, everyone’s eyes are fixed on me, expectantly.

                “Oh uh…”

                “Major?”

    “Oh! I’m planning on poli sci”

                “Oh, what is that exactly?”

                “Political Science”

                “Fun! Are you going to be a politician?”

                “Well,” I look to Ma, she’s watching me close, “probably not but I haven’t really decided anything yet”

                “Right, right. Of course, well don’t fret too hard, you’re still young”

                “She’s not getting any younger though!” laughed Ma.

                I breathe in my nose, and quietly blow it out of my mouth, and eye the grandfather clock in the room: 1:30 p.m.

                Aunt Pol turned back to Ma, “So, how is everything else? I hear that ʏou’ɿɘ ǫɘƚƚiᴎǫ ɒ ᴎoiƚomoɿq! Tʜɒƚ’ꙅ ꙅo ɘxɔiƚiᴎǫ, ?ǫᴎiod ɘd uoʏ ||’ƚɒʜw”

                ”woᴎ ƚʜǫiɿ ʞɔɘᴎ ʏm ᴎwod ǫᴎiʜƚɒɘɿd ꙅi ƚᴎɘmɘǫɒᴎɒM .dɘƚƚimduꙅ ƚi ɘvɒʜ dᴎɒ ,ƚɒʜƚ ||ɒ ʜƚiw ɘᴎod m’I ɿɘƚᎸɒ ꙅɘmoɔ ’ᴎoiƚomoɿq‘ ʏm dᴎɒ ,woᴎ ƚʜǫiɿ ꙅƚɔɘꞁoɿq ꙅuoiɿɒv ᴎo ǫᴎiʞɿow m’I dɘƚɒɔi|qmoɔ ꙅ’ƚI“

                “…”

                “…”

                “…”

                “…”

                “Kat? You’ve barely touched any of your food, are you okay?”

                Hm? Oh. I glance at the clock, 2:12pm.

                “Oh, yeah, sorry! Just lost in thought, I guess” I poke at the veggies and mashed potatoes on my plate, slowly working my way through them.

                “Take your time, dear! I know how I was at your age, haha!”

                          What do you mean by that?

                “Oh, we were much better!” My dad chimed in, he’d been quiet all afternoon… or maybe I just missed it. “Kids these days qoᴎ’ƚ uᴎqɘɿꙅƚɒᴎq ʍʜɒƚ ıƚ ɯɘɒᴎꙅ ƚo ʍoɿʞ ʜɒɿq, ɒ|| ƚʜɘʏ ʍɒᴎƚ  ƚo qo ıꙅ ꙅıƚ ɒɿouᴎq ɒᴎq q|ɒʏ ʌıqɘo ǫɒɯɘꙅ Ꮈoɿ ʜouɿꙅ uqoᴎ ʜouɿꙅ oᎸ ƚʜɘ qɒʏ, oɿ ɿɘɒq ɒ qooʞ, quƚ ᴎo ʜuꙅƚ|ɘ, ᴎoᴎɘ ʍʜɒƚꙅoɘʌɘɿ!”

                Blegh… this broccoli is undercooked.

                “…”

                “…”

                “…”

                “It was great catching up, I’ll see you soon, okay? You’d better come home to ours next time, we’d love to have you!”

                The car door closed.

                “Pszrk- YOU’RE LISTENIGN TO—”

                I enjoyed the silent ride back home.

  • Proof of Concept: Fight Scene using My Novel’s Magic System
    2–3 minutes

    Proof of Concept: Fight Scene using My Novel’s Magic System

                Räth’s heart pounded in her throat, her hands tense around her polearm; she felt the alo flow through the weapon and herself, a cold sensation throughout her whole body. Mundo stood opposite her, a large Athipa fighter, a two-handed axe at his side, she could feel the cold alo oozing of it.

                He took a step forward, tendrils of alo from his feet writhing its way into the ground, he planted his leg and the ground beneath it burst up, hurtling him towards Räth, axe primed for her throat. Räth inhaled sharply, gathering herself just before he struck, she ducked under, front leg stretched out, she thrust her spear up, hoping to skewer him but it bounced off his black exoskeleton, scratching it slightly.

                Mundo landed on the other side, catching himself with the 6 legs at his back, springing off them and bringing the axe over his head, and pouncing on Räth. She didn’t have time to move. The spear in her hand burst inro array of cyan strings, she raised her arm to block the axe, trying to form a shield in front of her moments before impact. The axe struck the half-formed armour, breaking it immediately into another burst of string, throwing her. She rolled on her back, and caught herself with her hoofs, but Mundo was already at her again.

                She rolled out of the way and got to her feet again, running around him in circles, her legs propelling her faster and faster until Mundo couldn’t track her with any of his four eyes. Just then she b-lined towards him, a short dagger forming in her hands, he turned to face her, but she was faster. She jumped on him, running the blade through the gap between his plates and into his neck. There was a moment of stillness, Mundo tried to throw Räth off with one hand, but he was too weak, and it felt more like a gentle push. The axe in his hand fell, slowly dissipating into strings on the ground. Mundo fell to his knees, shaking the ground as he did, and knocking Räth off beside him and onto her back. He fell forward onto the ground, and Räth was left alone. She took a deep breath, blowing out a sizable gust of wind to empty the alo in her bloodstream, and then exhaustion struck, she felt her eyelids close, and all was quiet.

    Author’s Note:

    I didn’t mean to post this when I was writing it but I thought it would be interesting to put up, and see what the masses think! I don’t explain much of what is happening in this fight in relation to the system, but I quite liked the flow and momentum of this piece which I hope you will to! Räth is my MC, and Mundo is a punching bag I made for this fight. Let me know what you think in the comments! I might post excerpts as I actually get to working more on my novel, but I’m always afraid things will get stolen… so we’ll see. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading it!

  • The River Runs Deep
    5–7 minutes

    The River Runs Deep

    The following was submitted for a class.           

                Click. PzzRrzrKkZrrzzrr.

                They closed their eyes.

                The harp sang gently, notes flitting through the air like delicate flower petals, carried by a divine humming which burrowed into Yvan’s mind. The ballroom was bordering on ostentatious, the pillars and arches gilded with gold, the blaze of the hearth throwing dissonant light onto it the reflective surfaces, making the whole room breathe with the flame.

                One. Two. Three. One. Two Three. Yvan counted the steps in their head. Taking one forward, and Zel took a step back. They held each other’s hand, waist, shoulder; gently ebbing and flowing, like a groggy river who’d just woken up. The fiery, golden ballroom heaved around them, fellow dancers stepping to the melody. Everyone in the ball wore bright colours, reds and blues, greens, and yellows. Zel herself wore green, and Yvan wore blue.

                Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum.

                Pzzkrrzk.

                The violin thrummed and called out in a shrill, discordant melody, flanked by gentle strings, sending notes swimming through the open air. The violin swelled, writing her name with a pompous signature as the musician played the instrument with a burning passion, quickly sliding the bow on the steel strings, beads of sweat dripping down their face.

                Yvan danced faster, and so did Zel. They held each other close, stepping to their left, and then behind, pushing each other apart, and leaping to the right. They let their bodies sway, controlled by the current of the music, before pressing them together again; feeling each other’s heartbeat press against their own, noticing the reflective glow of the fire on each other’s sweat-glazed foreheads.

                Intoxicated on the music, Yvan swivelled on their heels, bringing Zel with them in an unnatural twist. She tripped on her foot, nearly falling before Yvan caught her and swooped her back up in an awkward motion, Sorry! they mouthed. Zel rolled her eyes, stepping aggressively on their toe. Yvan winced but smiled through it.

                pZZk–

                One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.

                The song slowed, they slowed with it. Gentler steps now, then Zel took the lead. She placed her hands on Yvan’s waist, pulling them along with her, taking them into a waltz. She stepped lightly left, then right, then back, then she let go, she spun backwards, and looked up at Yvan, her eyes calling them closer, and they obliged, walking up to her, and gently taking her outstretched hand. Zel spun them, Yvan’s deep blue tailcoat fanning out, their feet twisting around each other, barely keeping up with the twirl. Zel pulled them back in by their waist, holding them against her, Yvan gazed into Zel’s eyes, she was enjoying herself, and so were they.

                The song began to climb.

                The rest of the ball faded into a blur, as if they’d just entered a painting, and the pigment spread and splayed with each step, staining the canvas into an abstraction of what was once the ballroom. Every motion of their bodies, a different stroke of the brush. Yvan took a step forward, and Zel swirled away, extending one leg in front, and bending the other, circling Yvan in a hypnotising display. They spun and grabbed her arm, twirling her upright, placing their hand on her waist, and taking two steps to the left, then forward. The rest of the world no longer existed and neither of them could be sure it ever had.

                The music hit its crescendo.

                Trumpets blared, the violin screamed, the horns cried. They pushed apart, holding onto each other with one arm, the other outstretched behind them. They whirled and threw each other into independent spins, their attire splaying out. The world smeared into a psychedelic whirlwind; their eyes glowed with the colours. The very floor seemed to come apart, the marble rippling with each step, like a droplet falling into still water. They pirouetted, landing lithely on their feet, dipping down, and arching their back, sweeping a leg one way, and sweeping it back the other. They spun and spun and spun till they were dizzy, till their feet could no longer do what they commanded it to.

                CRACK.

                Zel twisted her ankle, a scream clawed its way out her throat and she collapsed, falling to the floor, the whirlwind of colours stopping with a sudden jolt, its kaleidoscopic patterns unnervingly still. The music continued softly, muffled as if from another room.

                PZZCZRkkrZCrrZkkRrrzzRRz.

                They opened their eyes. Throat painfully dry, their tongue cracked like the desert floor. Yvan groaned, wearily moving unfocused eyes around the room, it was dreary inside, dust wafted in the air, a thin coating on the every surface; one large window overlooking an alley between two smaller buildings, both of which had been abandoned for some time. The ballroom was gone, the colours were gone, Zel was gone; the only sound aside from Yvan’s breathing was the soft buzzing of electricity in the walls and static from the radio.

                PzzCrZk— Click.

                They turned it off. Their feet were sore, and their t-shirt clung to their skin, sopping with sweat. They took a step, knees weak under them, old floorboards creaking beneath their weight, another step and their knees buckled, Yvan fell, almost slamming their head into the dresser if they didn’t catch themselves on the wall.

                “Auuarrgh…” they groaned, meekly moving a shaky hand to the drawer handle, the metal cold to the touch. Yvan pulled it open and grabbed a burgundy velvet bag from inside. They let themselves fall to the floor, sliding their back down the wall. Yvan unzipped the container, reaching inside, rifling through the wads of mildly bloodied paper towels, grabbing one and setting it aside. They opened more compartments, and pulled out a rusty quarter, a frayed rope, and a syringe with some blueish-green liquid inside.

                They placed the quarter at the fold of their elbow, tying the rope around it tightly, holding it in their yellowed teeth. They grabbed the syringe, wiping a bit of dried blood away from the needle with the paper towel. They took deep breath and placed it against their skin. And they pushed.

                They winced as syringe entered their body, and they pressed it in; a cool warmth ran through their arm like a River flooding into and over them, pushing them down into its bed and holding them safe.

                They crawled over to the radio and changed the station.

                Click. PzzRrzrKkZrrzzrr.

                They closed their eyes.

Saye Kamal