Much Ado About Something - Chapter One - An Awful Hullaballoo

“Did you know,” said the Tentacle, stroking his beard and staring intently at the delicate skin of the bright orange fruit, “That bananas used to be yellow before the fifty-second century?”

“Outrageous,” said the Ear.

“Outlandish,” cried the Newt.

“Unheard of,” quacked the Frog.

“Ribbet,” said the Duck.

And the Eye just stared at them all and rolled his eye in its socket. What he was thinking of was highly disturbing, but as Eyes are often puzzling beings, perhaps it is better to leave those things unsaid. It was then, as then was a particularly interesting moment, the Clock chimed ten and gave everyone a cry of delight.
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“Time for second breakfast!” cried the Newt. “I must say the Clock is behaving rather queer.”

And he was right too, for the Clock was shaking on the mantelpiece, looking quite excited and tick-tocking a rather too hard. The Frog quacked thoughtfully. The Ear jumped up and down on the Duck’s new tablecloth.

“Well!” demanded the Italic. “Look at the time! We must get going. Everyone, would you please tell us what you think and oh dear, for goodness sake please wash those dishes in the back!”

“I say the Italic calm down,” suggested the Ear. “What do you say?”

Everyone’s hands went up in the air. Except for the Eye, who did not have a hand, and contented himself with rolling his eye for the twelfth time that day. Behind them, the Noodle poked her head through the door and squawked crossly.

“Oh, would anyone please put the tick back in the tock!”

The Frog quacked in agreement, and the Ear nodded vigorously. The Eye simply stared at them all. "Perhaps," said the Tentacle, still stroking his beard, "It would be pragmatic to remove Clock's tick, and replace it with a new one." The Noodle huffed irritably and slammed the door shut, which creaked apologetically on its rusted hinges. After all, the Tentacle posed a very sensible suggestion, so sensible in fact, that everyone was instantly disinclined toward it. "What bollocks!" cried the Newt. "Let us return to food. I'm hungry! It's been almost ten minutes since we last ate. The Clock will sort himself out. I heard he was having very distressing dreams last night, and I'd say that he's just been frightened, is all."

"That makes no sense," said the Tentacle. "Last time the Clock behaved strangely, there was nobody to wake us up in the morning and we lost two months of our lives. I say we act now. Duck, what do you think?"

But unfortunately, we will never know what she thought, because at that precise moment the Clock gave a strangled screech and died out entirely. This was so utterly unprecedented that the Duck croaked alarmedly and toppled over on her tablecloth. The Newt screamed. The Ear flinched. The Frog quacked. The Eye widened its eye. For the longest time, they all just stood there, rooted in their individual positions, until the Tentacle finally dared to whisper through the silence.

"Oh dear."

"Well, now what do we do?" cried the Newt, gesticulating wildly and clutching the watery Eye in terror. "There is nothing to do!" cried the Ear,  "We are dead! Oh, tarnation! Oh, sweet, sweet, tarnation! Oh, pray to the Lord! Pray to the kind Lord!" And so he collapsed on the floor in tears. The Eye tried to comfort him, but sadly he too had begun to cry in distress. This was unfortunate, because when the Eye cried it did make quite a mess. His tears were rather large, after all. "My God!" said the Tentacle, staring at the two with disgust. "Look at yourselves! Do you have no shame? This situation can be remedied yet." The Duck, who was perhaps the most optimistic of then all, straightened herself and croaked in agreement. "Ribbet, ribbet ribbet. Ribbet!"

"Yeah, the Duck is right," quacked the Frog, helping the Ear off the floor and patting him on the back. "We kinfolk must stick together in times like this." There was a cry of agreement. "We must call a meeting!" declared the Tentacle. "Today's turn of events has been quite frightening. We must assemble and decide the next course of action." "Hear, hear!" cried everyone. "Ear, ear!" cried the Ear.

And so they all gathered around and started discussing a plan. There were quite a lot of differing opinions on what to do, but after a quite some chattering, quite some yammering, and a little bit of tattering, everyone finally agreed on the solution to what was turning out to be quite a frightful dilemma. "We must procure a battery!" cried the Tentacle, and everyone nodded. Except for the Eye, who unfortunately didn't have a head. The Newt seemed to be confused. "What in the name of tarts is a battery?" he demanded, looking bewildered. "It's one them things that powers them electrical doodads," quacked the Frog. The Tentacle nodded, stroking his beard and appearing ever so wise. "Well, then," snapped the Newt, "I don't see any of you with a battery! Where do you plan to obtain one?"

"That," replied the Tentacle, "Is actually a fantastic question. I have no clue." The Newt snorted. "Well, it's not like somebody is just going to come barging into our house with one of them!"

But unfortunately, our dear friend the Newt was about to be proven wrong yet again, for at that very moment, the door smashed open with a sigh and the Noodle charged in, huffing and puffing and overall in a generally disagreeable state. In his arms was a giant metal cylinder, covered with constantly turning dials and knobs. "It's a battery!" cried the Tentacle in triumph. Everyone oohed and ahhed. This really was quite impressive.

And a bit convenient too, sadly. But hey, don't look at me. I didn't make this stuff up, right?

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Boy, I haven't had that much fun with a story in a long time. This particular piece was something I wrote a couple years back, and only recently found among the chaos that is my Google Drive. It was short, unfinished, and barely even fleshed out, but as soon as I read the first few paragraphs, I realized I simply had to turn it into something bigger—and that's exactly what I plan to do! As always, let me know what you think in the comments below (or tweet me @starlightjason2). I've never written anything like this before, so I'd really appreciate your feedback. Does it work? Does it not work? Should I continue it? And if so, where do you want to see these characters go? I look forward to seeing your thoughts!

My World - Chapter One - Ground

This is my prison; I was born here. For what, I don't know. Raised by machines in a stone castle vast and unforeseen, an empty binding to the cosmos indifferent, they have fed me, clothed me, washed me, and nursed me. Not people, not sentient in any morbid sense of the word, for they are not alive, and yet intelligent enough to know they are not alive, but that they are hollow men not quite so different from me; they see the world not through consciousness but through hard, floating numbers that govern their actions that they don't know they make. Emotionless faces, hollow eyes—that is who they are. They are not sentient in any morbid sense of the word, but I yearn to join them, for they are all that I know, and I envy their satisfaction. Yes, these are the machines that raised me in a world void of others like me, a world made of stone, marble, and mud.

"Where am I?" I would ask them, and they would reply, "Nowhere."

"Where is nowhere?" I would ask them, and they would reply, "Everywhere."

So, by and by, my questions turned to mediocrity and I raised life into my own flock, for otherwise, it leads me where I know not. And yet through ignorance, my curiosity returned, and I asked, "Why did you give me speech if you don't want me to use it?"

And so they’d answer, "We didn't give you speech, for it was within you, given by your parents and their parents before them, and we have merely brought out in you what you cannot bring out in yourself."

"Who are my parents, then, and from whence did they bring me?"

"They are dead, and they brought you from the dead, so that you will live, to someday return to death."

I didn't understand this, and so as I grew older, I began to explore. This was good, for before long I discovered that my home was large beyond comprehension, with overgrown thickets, vast carpeted rooms connected by empty corridors and hallways, and abandoned mine shafts lit by cracked bulbs in the stone ceiling. An abandoned bastion, made of dusty marble and rusting metal, supported by broken rock that threatened to crumble at any moment. I found room after room, chamber after chamber, opening after opening, all connecting in a vast labyrinth that was this castle. I found bugs crawling on the torn carpets, nesting and breeding in a constant state of rebellion against the arid loneliness pervading their home. I found machines, not like the ones that fostered me, but even stranger, like mechanical boxes the size of entire rooms, purring all day long in a strange language I couldn't understand, imploring each other to do strange things I didn't want to understand. Whenever I'd approach them,  their workings would go silent, waiting patiently for me to leave so that they could start back up again. Once one of them even grabbed me with its wires, and strangled me in a grid tight like iron, clutching me so tight my neck would be red for weeks—when I finally wrestled myself free, I vowed never to approach the things again. Later I'd convince myself that I'd imagined the whole experience, but I knew in the dark recesses of my minds that it must be true. Nevertheless, from then on, I stayed away from that part of the castle. I moved on, only to find even more unanswered questions—elaborate astrolabes, broken timepieces, stark needles covered with what I could only hope was rust. I tried to ignore what I didn’t want to remember.

But it was not all darkness. One of my favorite rooms was the library, with thousands of dusty books resting on colossal shelves that stretched upward into the sky, surrounding me with sweet, sweet knowledge. It was here I learned it was the sun, not the earth, that was the center of the solar system, as the machines had previously taught me. I learned of the arts and the sciences, and read of tales from times long gone, times when there were no machines, and the world was populated with real people. And yet not a single text I came across told me anything about this place, and what it was. Once I came so close—a text from a millennia-old manuscript talked of a dead castle made of marble, one that bore an eerie resemblance to my home. This was a holy manuscript, and one that had born much meaning to the people that once lived in this land. It spoke of God, and Jesus, and sin—but what good was this to me? It was the stuff of fantasy and fiction, not the stark, harsh reality I confronted. A curdled mystery, and all I had for answers were the machines.

But the machines were no better. I didn't trust them anymore. Whenever I confronted them, they'd do nothing but posit nonsensical answers. Nothing they said made sense. Was I simply stupid? Possible. Only when I asked them about the mechanical boxes did they show any emotion at all, warning me that if I inquired further into their purpose I might just find out. I knew now that the machines had a dark side, so I relented. I didn't mind death, but I couldn't bear leaving this world before I had my answers. No, I must find my answers.

Days passed, then weeks, then years. Centuries might have gone by, and I would have been indifferent. Each hour of exploration brought me absolutely nothing other than questions. Where did I come from? Where did the machines come from? Why was there a forest at the edge of the castle? And why was it so silent? Forests are supposed to be teeming with life, and yet aside from the occasional insect, there was nothing to be found there except trees. And why was it that whenever I tried to venture beyond the forest, I somehow always ended up going in a circle? I knew the world was round, but surely it couldn't have been so small. Could it? I doubted the machines now. They never had my trust, but now they had my suspicion. Why must they lie to me? Was it normal? Once I stayed out there for a whole week, determined to find something interesting if it meant the end of me. I let the mud collect in my boots and the sweat drain from my face. I let hunger starve my body for days if only it'd rouse some answers.

Nothing.

So I made my way back to the castle and washed the dirt off my face. My footsteps echoed off the marble floor, echoed my emptiness. Was this it? Was this the fate I'd been condemned to? Maybe. But I mustn't accept it, must I? Maybe.

I returned to the library to marvel once more at its size. I could barely see the end of it when standing at the door. But there was nothing left here for me now. I'd read every book, every scroll, every letter that graced even the highest shelf. I'd climbed the ladders and scaled the walls, all to obtain that sweet, sweet knowledge. For what? So unsatisfying. I strode inside and collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. My legs ached with pain, and yet there were no chairs here, only books. I'd done all my reading on the icy marble floor, never even thinking to bring a seat from elsewhere. Maybe it was a symbolic thing. I didn't even care anymore.

I closed my eyes. The darkness was welcome; loved, even. I had nothing but love for oblivion, but the void did not contain myself, it contained the machines, and I wanted nothing but to be free. And yet was there even any point? If I did find the truth, the reason, the answers, will I then finally be happy? Perhaps the human experience was built not on satisfaction, but on the mindless pursuit of one obsession after another, curling down a spiraling fractal that never found itself. But how would I know? I was nothing but a single human alone in the world. Perhaps my insanity had finally caught up to me. Perhaps this was all but a nasty dream.

"Human."

I jumped to my feet, startled. At the door stood one of the machines; steel muscle, silicon mind. His name was Shard, and he was the greatest of them all. Powerful in strength, but that was not his skill—it was his intelligence the others feared. Why? I don’t know. But fear is in the same in all minds both man and machine. "Yes?"

"Walk," he told me, his red eyes flickering. I noticed now that they were cracked. His entire body seemed broken, actually, and covered in what appeared to be rust, or perhaps blood. They very same substance that had covered the needles. Strange. Frowning, I slowly walked towards him, careful not to make any sudden moves. Shard was known for intermittent violence. "Yes?"

Shard stared at me, his metal face unmoving. Clasped in his hand was a loaded pistol. My eyes widened, and yet I still stepped forward, drawn as if by some ephemeral compulsion.

"Shard, no—please—"

Shard smiled, and his smile broke me. I had never seen the machines smile. "Follow me, human. I have something beautiful to show you."

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Boy, this is probably the most experimental any one of my work has ever been. If you're curious, this was inspired by one of HP Lovecraft's short stories, which you can find here: http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/o.aspx. Of course, this piece is incomplete—the beginning to a longer story I'll be working on over a larger time scale. The reason I don't put out fiction as much as I like to is usually because I like to take my time with it, to stew over every word, puzzle over every phrase, and piece together a narrative like a child pieces together his playtime, with a loving care to every detail. That said, this particular tale doesn't have much left in it, which might surprise you. So many questions still to answer! And some to not. A truly great mystery leaves something to the reader, for them to puzzle over and figure out on their own, even if that something is small and insignificant. I suppose we'll see. Until then, let me know how you liked this. I'd love your feedback. Thanks for reading!

Sitting on a cloud

Sitting on a cloud,
I see the world below me.
Stretching out forever,
Under the sun's good grace.

And here I shall sit,
Waiting till the rain comes.
And takes with it the clouds,
And washes the world anew.

Look now, the sun has risen—
My plight is over, so now I rest.
Rest till the rain comes,
And takes with it the clouds,
And washes the world anew.

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That was nice, wasn't it? Once again, I must apologize for not posting in so long. I've been insanely busy lately and simply haven't had time to just sit down and write. That said, I have a bunch of stuff I'm working on, so stick around! This is just a fun little poem to hold you over until then. I'll see you soon!

Unity

Summer days like summer nights

See the colors see the sights

Washed out light in sunlight too

Lights my face my skin in two

Colored swans in dancing sea

Far above the canopy

The soul that unites us

The pigment that divides us

Reminds us who we want to be

Who are you, why do you cry

Your color doesn't make you try

A blind man doesn't want you to

Tear the book the page in two

Black or white in mindless rage

See the eyedrop in the sage

Your image in the water

Does it beg you to slaughter

A man for his righteous wage

Summer days like summer nights

Feel the colors feel the sights

The looming shade like sunlight too

Don't let it tear your heart in two

The birds still sing in the tree

Feathers of every race and creed

The song resembles unity

Does it anger, does it kill

Or remind you who you want to be?

Dungeons and Daggers

I stare at the dagger, the sun's cold light creeping up on me in the fearful cracks of the stone walls, my silver breath frosting the blade, like the silver spirits trapped inside the women and children, men and mages of this forsaken dungeon. At least there is a window, even if it remained pathetically small. The enticement and hope on the children's faces are like knives to my heart. The ghosts just grumble, but even they know, as well as the dagger, that there was Something about this year, and it wasn't good.

Something. It echoed in my heart, the glimmering, glistening word that whispered of change, which perhaps was the prison of my own self. Since the defeat of the king, of my country, the people, since the survivors had been dumped in the castle dungeon to die, Something slept. The humans aged and went old, leaving behind naught but young men and children, young ones who did not understand what was happening to their tender lives. And then they too grew old, and their children now stared at me, the one they considered immortal, the one with the dagger. They hoped for Something. Hope. Hope sapped their souls like death. Something.

"If the Dagger does not answer, trouble not you," the old man whispered. The oldest man, who had survived for more than two centuries. Old when it started and old when it shall end. No one knew how he did it, not even me, and no one remembered a time he was young. He rested his frail hand on my shoulder now, and I felt the toils it had been through. "We shall try again, next year. Nothing more can be done."

"I don't know." My voice is a mere whisper of myself. "I can feel it from the blade, but it does not answer. I feel—"

I can't say the word. It catches in my throat, like phlegm on a cold day. Something.

The children continue to stare at me eagerly, but the adults have given up hope. They don't want it to sap their souls anymore—they want to be free of this gate and continue onto the road, even if death is the toll. I don't blame them. 

"You said that last year, you and your forsaken dagger," one of them growls. A ghost breathes down my neck, but that doesn't help me. The Eve is not past yet, and the dagger has still to pass judgment. I take a deep breath, commanding my soul to obey me, and not to become another wandering specter.

"It's not over yet. There is yet judgment to be given. We must still hope. For—"

Something.

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Thank you for reading! This was just a little something I wrote several years back, and since it's fairly decent and I haven't posted in a while, I figured I might as well put it online. I do have several pieces of new writing I'm working on, however, so I hope that I can be more regular with my posts in the future. I'll see you again soon!

Water on the Windowsill

In the midst of hail,

When the snow blazes,

There's water on the windowsill.

There's water on the windowsill.

Now spring has come,

A green cross,

Bearing sun

And shining sky.

There's water on the windowsill.

Summer looms,

The flowers bloom,

The grass has wilted.

There's water on the windowsill.

Fall brings with it the rainbow,

And the nauseous colors

That hang on the wind.

Still, there's water on the windowsill.

There's water on the windowsill.

And winter again,

With the ice,

And the white rain.

Damn.

There's water on the windowsill.

Now the sky is gone,

The ground opens.

I see the devil,

And he too remarks,

On the water on the windowsill.

The water on the windowsill.

Dead night,

Open day.

There's water on the windowsill,

There's water on the windowsill.

There's water on the windowsill.

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Okay, I know I said poetry is something I dabble in only occasionally, but I've been taking a course on poetry recently, so the definition of "occasionally" might inflate a bit. Anyhoo, I hope you enjoyed that—I'm afraid I don't have anything philosophical to say this time, so hopefully my verses will talk for me. I had a lot of fun with this one, and I'm actually quite proud of it.  Leave me your thoughts in the comments below. Thanks for reading!

The Sky

Welcome to the sky,

It’s a lovely place indeed.

Welcome to your home,

Please, sit, relax.

Have a drink.

You'll need it.

Fear not the dust,

Or the dangling cobweb.

Fear not the disrepair.

Soon you will clean it.

Why did you come here?

Do you know?

No, of course not.

No one does.

Many came here once,

Came for rest and refuge.

But their names were forgotten,

Lost in the sky.

Why do you stand? Come, sit.

Finish your drink.

I understand your fear,

You want to be remembered,

You want a legacy.

You came to the wrong place.

Yes, many came here once,

They wandered into the sky,

Looking for something,

Something bigger than themselves.

And I just watched them,

Watched them age and rot,

Watched them die,

Watched them be forgotten.

Now you sit in their dust,

You tread in their bones,

Is this what you want?

It's what you get.

Ah, I see you've finished your drink.

Very good.

Anytime now your eyes will close,

You will find yourself sleeping,

Drifting back into the dark,

From whence you came.

Yes my friend, welcome to the sky.

It's a lovely place indeed.

But if you wander too far,

Don't be afraid to take the fall.

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Well, that was fun! Poetry is something I dabble in only occasionally, but in the current political condition of the world I felt I had something relevant to say, so I decided to go ahead and say it. I hope this provided you something to think about and was thought-provoking in the reminiscent way poems often are. There was much I wanted to imbue within this piece, and notwithstanding the importance of authorial intent, I do hope I was able to convey some of it.

The Narrator is of interesting concern to me, and there are several interpretations of who they may be, all equally valid within their own context. Originally, I wanted the narrative of this poem to be somewhat of a dichotomy between foresight and hubris, with the Narrator embodying the former and the protagonist the latter. It seems I was relatively successful in this endeavor. As I started writing the verses, however, I began to notice that the Narrator was turning into somewhat of an immortal being, as well as an omniscient one. God perhaps, or the Devil? Maybe Fate, or Humility. I will leave you to contemplate on this.

The Sky, of course, can be interpreted as a reflection of excessive ambition and reckless pride. When one is swallowed by their own obsessive aspiration of a legacy, they often find they have a price to pay for their desired immortality. Many climb toward the Sky, and many reach it, but for what? And at what cost? Eventually they, like everyone else, will die. Often times their entire life would have been a race towards something greater, or towards some timeless ideal worth dying for. They might sacrifice everything for what they believe. Will they find redemption in this sacrifice? Maybe. People often devote their very lives to answering this question.

And what of the protagonist? He enters the Sky of his own accord, but I never mentioned why. This was not a coincidence. A legacy is something almost all of us want to leave, and yet many times our reasons for wanting to leave this legacy is subjective. Is it merely the result of some universal human desire for immortality? The fear of death, in other words. A sort of deal we make with our mortality. We must accept that we will die someday, but if we leave a part of us behind after our death, maybe it's not so bad, right? But many times we might not even have control over what legacy we leave behind. Other times we do. Should we still try to shape it, then? Or should we just accept our mortality, and live our lives in the moment?

These are hard questions, but they're worth asking. I'd say it's absolutely vital to ask them, in fact, because the answer we provide can teach us valuable things about ourselves. It can shape the way we live our life. So today, I ask them to you. What do you think? What affect did this poem have on you? What questions did it make you ask? And how will you answer those questions? Let me know in the comments, and hopefully, we'll further this discussion together. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you in the next post!

Alone

The day was empty. Ice stretched out seemingly forever, merging with the blue sky at the horizon. I blinked slowly, my chest rising and falling as my breath collected on the frosted glass. Outside, the wind blew the settled snow into the sky, and it flew in swirls, coalescing into flakes that hailed from the heavens. The frost danced on my skin, kissing my face deliriously. There was nothing to be found here, nothing but chill, and occasionally, death. It didn't come often enough.

A sigh escaped my lips, and I leaned back in my chair, my fingers curling around the armrests, tracing patterns in the coarse wood. I found myself wondering how I'd ended up here, sitting in this lone prison in the frozen tundra, inhabited by none but seal and fox, and the bear that reigned over them all. Isolation was strange, and it did fiendish things—it toyed with the mind, showed it great orchards of fruit, and even as I let the taste fill my mouth, I could almost feel the poison fill my veins. How long had it been now? A week? A month? A year? Did it really matter? Death was coming for me, making a great pilgrimage across the snow, and my flight from it would not last long. And yet life was precious, even if it was cursed. A starving man must eat the poisoned fruit, even if he knows it will be the last he will ever swallow.

I was young when my father had first taken me to the pole, making the long voyage to see the endless sheets of ice, the ruthless polar bear, and the glorious Aurora that graced the skies. We'd come by ship, my father seeking to do research on the strange behavior of electromagnetism, and I seeking glory in being his accomplice. He'd educated me well, and I'd understood his endeavors with ease—they fascinated me to no end. I dreamed of immortality within the sciences, of solving what the greatest minds could not. I'd told him once, "Father, I shall seek to do the impossible, and my name shall echo within history!" Such is the folly of greatness.

Weeks passed, then months. We started out in a small cabin at the base of an Inuit village, constantly trading supplies and equipment in an attempt to survive in this hostile hell.  Every day my father conducted experiments, setting out on great expeditions, and I went with him, constantly moving closer to the pole, and yet with every passing day, we saw the futility of our venture. The crew we had sailed with were uncomfortable in the wake of such undertakings, and while my father attempted to muster morale, one by one they left us, and the remaining hopefuls succumbed to frostbite. Even our captain, a strong-willed and resourceful individual, began to waver. He was a rich man, and one of noble birth—he was the one who proposed the mission in the first place, providing the finances and such. But every man has his limits, and as his crew began to desert him one by one, his patience slowly worsened to the point of cracking. His temperament quickened, and he'd often scream in rage at the slightest mistake by his men. Even towards my father, he grew hostile, threatening him with a withdrawal of funds if he didn't finish his research soon. If anyone attempted to calm him, he'd swat them away irritably like a ranger swats a fly in the rainforest. And it didn't stop there. The captain's grim demeanor wasn't at all self-contained, and soon even the jolliest of our crew members was moaning and groaning whenever we'd compel them to get off their behinds and get some work done. It was slowly becoming evident that no good was going to come out this enterprise we'd embarked on.

As our days slowly withered away in the harsh tundra, I couldn't help but wonder at how quickly the human mind turns to despair. The captain had been one of my dear friends, and now he'd turned into nothing but an irate, sulky slug unable to do anything good with his life. There used to be a time when he was happy and jovial, glowing with pride for what his expedition would accomplish. He had a lot in common with me, really, and we'd often stay up talking long after hours, laughing and regaling each other with amusing stories and ambitious plans for the future. He'd tell me about the great scientific discoveries he'd made under Queen Victoria, and I'd tell him about the course of my studies and all that they'd taught me. He was quite astonished when I'd told him my age, saying that for a boy under eighteen I was stunningly accomplished. I used to glow with pride at his compliments, throwing aside all modesty and taking credit for the amazing work I had done, using it as emotional fuel for the work I did alongside my father. But soon he was gone, and all of this became but a memory of the past. The last of his men left with him, and we were left alone in the cold. "They will return," my father had said confidently, but we knew it wasn't true. And still, I pursued glory. "We do not need them, father! We shall further our enterprise alone, and years from now they will regard us with deference." He'd done nothing but silently nod. Two days later, I'd found his body lying a hundred meters from our camp, half eaten and ripped apart from head to foot. The craftsmanship of a bear.

I'd wept bitterly, but my tears did no good. I was alone now, and my glory lay only in sorrow. I'd always thought myself a resourceful individual, and now I put that to the test. The very next hour I packed up everything in our camp and took a dog sled south, racing through the snow, feeling the ice bite my eyes. My tears had dried now, and I wished nothing but survival. Two long days later, I was forced to resupply at a local Inuit village. But there I met someone that spelled the end of my legacy: the good captain.

Of course, at first, I'd received him with nothing but relief. "Kind sir!" I exclaimed. "I did not think I would meet you here, but seeing your face I know that I shall not languish in the snow any longer. My good man, my father has met his untimely end, and now I am trapped here. I would reward you greatly if you could grant me charter on your ship. I know you do not need money, so I shall provide my services instead: I shall devote my genius intellect to your profit! Surely it shall benefit you greatly."

Evidently, the captain disagreed. He said that I and my father had brought him nothing but ruin and that he had lost his entire crew, as well as a shocking amount of money. I had ruined his reputation, he'd exclaimed, and by extension, his whole life. And then he drew from his person a pistol, and I ran for dear life, leaping into my sled and spurring my dogs into action. I screamed at them to run as fast as possible, and they yelped with excitement, turning the sled around and racing into the tundra with their tongues held out. Even given the terrible circumstances, I couldn't help feeling a pang of regret. These creatures had been through just as much as I had in the last few months. I urged them on, making a mental note to take better care of them in the future.

By acting fast I had given myself a head start which would prove to be invaluable. Soon the captain was pursuing me, racing across the snow on a sled of his own, gun drawn. Panic swelled in my throat, and I pushed my dogs faster, the snow flying into my face and up my nose. "Yield, boy!" the captain screamed as he caught up to me, firing his pistol in the air, and then at me. The bullet whizzed past my ear, melting the frost that had collected on my face. And then, in a stroke of fate, the captain decided to aim at my poor dogs.

The crack of gunshots filled my ears, and blood sprayed through the air. One by one the animals fell. My sled tripped over the ice, tumbling head over heels and smashing into the ground. I was thrown from my vehicle and into the unforgiving snow, and I screamed as blinding pain seared through my body. My breath came in rapid gasps. I could feel hot blood flowing down my legs, the pain keeping me conscious. Splinters dug into my skin, causing me far more pain than my much larger wounds. This undoubtedly meant the end of me. Beside me, the captain had circled his vehicle around to a halt. Rage was etched into his face, his eyes blazing with what could only mean murderous intent as he slowly and purposefully cocked his pistol. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged my heaving body to his sled. But there was still fight left in me, and I struggled in his grip, punching, kicking, biting. The captain cursed, stumbling, and I took advantage of this, slipping out of his grip and snatching the pistol from his hands. Before he even knew what had happened, I'd taken aim at his head and fired. There was a deafening crack, a flash of red, and the captain collapsed senseless on the ground.

His blood turned the snow a dull shade red, and my face what could only have been a pungent shade of green. I scrambled to feel his pulse, but it was no good—he was dead. The pain that had plagued me a second ago seemed to vanish as I slowly sank to my knees, my actions washing over me. The world swam before my eyes. I had never taken another human's life before, and I could hear my own heart pounding as I stared at the lifeless body before me. A rush ran through my head. Is how murder felt? Strange. Terrible, maybe? No, that wasn't it. Disgusting? Perhaps.

I rose to my feet. Oddly enough, the dogs hadn't been disturbed by this at all. Evidently, they had seen more death than I had. I swallowed the bile that had collected in my throat and dragged the captain's body away from the sled, digging a small hole in the snow and burying the body with haste. The snow around the site of our skirmish had been stained a gut-wrenching red, but this quickly being remedied by the fresh snow that was ceaselessly hailing from the sky, washing out my grim actions in a blanket of white. Like a blank canvas, almost. Hopefully, a canvas with which I would be able to paint myself a new life. After all, soon there would be no visible evidence of the scuffle except for my crashed vehicle and the dogs that the captain had killed. The bile I had swallowed began to crawl up my throat once more. Those animals had served me well, and I couldn't exactly say the same. At least they were at peace now. I massaged my temples, trying to clear my thoughts of the fog that had clouded them. I needed to get away from all this. The sun had almost ended its journey in the sky, and unless I sought shelter I might just go the way of my father. My mind still dazed, I mounted the captain's sled and sped away from the scene.

But I was speeding away from nothing but my own fate, for only two weeks later my crime was discovered and I was doomed. I was in the Canadian provinces at the time, trying my damnedest to get a charter back to London. I was arrested in the harbor, and taken to the local judge, to be given a trial the next day. I did not resist. I knew that I must suffer the punishment for my murder, for such was God's justice. The jury declared me guilty, and the judge decreed a life imprisonment: luckily for me, he was a kind and forgiving man, and so instead of being killed, I was to be tossed in a small prison up north and forgotten for the rest of my days. Such irony.

And so now here I sat, holed up in jail, rotting in isolation. This was always a small jail, but at least it had been populated when I first arrived: a dozen criminals used to reside here, languishing alongside me in the horrid cold. But Death's cold fingers eventually wrapped around their necks, and so they slipped into the nether, one by one, until I was all alone in the frozen tundra. And then, yesterday, the two jailers who dwelled here also died, succumbing to pneumonia. Locked in my cell, with no food and water, it seemed I would soon follow suit.

I sighed. Perhaps it was fate. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, the cold flooding my senses until I could feel nothing but the gentle frost dancing on my skin. A poignant sense of sorrow embraced me as I reminisced my days in the tundra. Is this the only glory I was destined for? As a child, I used to believe in something larger that myself, something that could seduce me endlessly and lead me to greatness. My fellow children had invited me to play with them, to live in ignorant bliss as youths often do, and I'd laughed at them, told them that they would loiter away their entire life as I studied my way to immortality. I'd buried my head in books and lived my days in isolation, my only company being the great men of yore, men who pushed me even further into my solitary endeavor.

A chuckle escaped my lips, and then a shiver. The cold around me seemed to have worsened, and the only sound I could hear was the clatter of my own teeth. My blood seemed to freeze in my veins. I gulped for breath, but every gasp sent jabs of chill down my spine. I wanted to open my eyes, but they were achingly numb and ostensibly paralyzed. A sense of terror struck me, and then a feeling of peace. I thought back to the good captain I had slain. Perhaps I would be able to apologize to him now. My shivering slowly stopped, and the cold seemed to be replaced by sheer exhaustion. Somewhere not far I could hear my father's voice, beckoning me to join him. I felt joy swell within me at the thought of seeing him again.

A smile spread over my face. Lethargy seeped through my body, and slowly I felt a powerful sleep washing over me. Yes. Yes, I would see him any moment now. Perhaps I would apologize to him as well, tell him of my great folly. Any moment now…

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I hope you enjoyed that! I wrote this piece on a bit of a whim a few weeks back, but I do think it shaped out rather nicely in the end. "Alone" had been one of the more interesting projects I've worked on. It's been a fascinating if somewhat short-lived undertaking, but nonetheless, it's taken me to unexpected places I didn't think it ever would. Writing is like that sometimes! Every story is an adventure to discover, constantly leading us to novel places and experiences. It's one of the reasons we as a species tell stories in the first place. In particular, I found it very surprising when I looked back upon the words I'd written and realized I'd never even mentioned the protagonist's name! And yet it worked so well.

I wrote this story as bit of a foray into what I think modern literature is somewhat afraid to explore: the idea that sometimes, even though we try our hardest to make life work, our fate eventually catches up with us and we're left to die alone and unremembered. It's not quite tragedy—it's something very different. It's something that leaves us empty and hollow. It's something that strikes us in a place we often try to forget. It's something that's just a depressing truth about life, which is why I think we as writers often steer clear of it. But I figured that for once, it was worth acknowledging the bitter side of life and seeing the impact it had on readers. And as I mentioned in my previous post, I firmly believe that the real beauty in art lies in the experiences it gives us, and how that experience impacts our lives in both big and small ways.

But philosophical ruminations aside, I genuinely enjoyed writing this, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Let me know your thoughts in the comments below! What impact did this story have on you? Do you agree with me? Or do you think that writers should steer clear of the hollow side of life, and focus on things that make us feel whole inside? I look forward to furthering this discussion in the future. Thank you once again for reading, and I'll see you in the next post!

Some Thoughts on Art

 The following post was inspired by Ursula K. Le Guin's "A Message About Messages". You can find it here: http://www.ursulakleguin.com/MessageAboutMessages.html.

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A while back as I was idly perusing the Internet, I saw someone online complain about the meaning and purpose of art. They said (and here I paraphrase) that art was inherently useless to the world, and it was doing nothing but impeding our progress as a species. It wasn't the first time I had observed this kind of thinking, nor do I think it will be the last. Naturally, this person’s argument seemed rather unfounded to me, and I don't know where it originated from, but nonetheless it got me thinking: is there any inherent meaning in art, or some sort of universal purpose to make it in the first place? And if there is, how does one go about discovering it? Does authorial intent play any part?

My initial response to this question I asked myself was rather intuitive: there is no inherent meaning in art but what we assign to it. A single piece of art can have any variety of impact on its observer, depending on the context it’s placed in. Maybe art is not where meaning lies then, but in the people who experience and enjoy it, and the aforementioned context they see it in. So is that the answer? Perhaps. You see, a work of art is unlike most other academic disciplines in that it does not contain any self-evident truths that can make it “right” or “wrong”. Therefore, the experience one draws from art is generally unique, and so is the meaning it imparts. But in the end, we are all human, and so when we see a work of art we're usually able to agree on any homogeneous meaning it may have, and by extension the "purpose" it was created for. This especially stands true for people living in the same culture at the same time. These people often share worldviews, and so often interpret a work of art in similar ways.

With that said, perhaps now might be a good time to bring up authorial intent. When an artist creates a new piece, they do it with some purpose, right? Some point they want to get across? Sometimes, yes. And in those cases, the artist’s intent can definitely be relevant, and at the very least provide context, and by extension nuance, for the experience that their art provides. Other times the very pointlessness of a work of art is its intended meaning. But even more often, I think that the beauty of art lies not in any inherent meaning or message that the artist wishes to deliver, but in the mere experience.

Yes, experience. I’ve used that word quite a lot in this post, and that’s for a reason. I think that the true universal meaning in any form of art lies not in any message we attempt to divine from it, or any point the artist wanted to get across, in the experience it gives us. In the emotions it makes us feel and the thought it makes us think. Art inspires us; it gives us hope to keep living and keep creating. It gives us reason and purpose. It gives us empathy and connection with our fellow humans. It teaches us about the perspectives of others, and even more often, about our own perspective.

All this provides nice circularity back to the latter of the questions I posed at the beginning of this post: do we have any consistent purpose in making art in the first place? Taking a closer look at all I’ve said so far, I think I’ve already answered this to some extent. I don’t believe we need any purpose to make art – I believe that art is a natural reflection of the human condition. Art is a mirror through which we see ourselves. It defines us; it makes us who we are by teaching us about ourselves. It gives us a language that rises beyond society and geography. Humans have always been making art, and we will continue to always make art, for the day we stop, we will no longer be human.

So to answer my original question: is there any inherent meaning in art? I would say so. But I don't think that meaning lies in any message imbued within the art by the artist, or even in the context the art is viewed in, but by the mere experience that it provides. That experience may or may not be unique, and it may or may not be what the artist intended, but in the end, it is what gives art its importance. It's what gives it that meaning we have been searching for all this while.

And does art have any purpose? That question, I believe, is intrinsically flawed. We need no more of a purpose to make art than we need a purpose to love, to cry, or to laugh– it's simply one of the several things that make us who we are.

Thank you for reading this rather incoherent collection of thoughts that I have been musing over for quite some time now. In this current state of the world, I feel like it’s more important than ever to remember the importance of art, and I hope that I have done a decent job of explaining some part of that today. I hope to see you again soon!

Welcome!

Hello, good reader! Welcome to my blog, where you'll find a collection of my various thoughts and musings. I will be posting on here as often as possible and on the subjects that inspire me the most, whether that be literature, programming, mathematics, or art in all its disparate forms. I'm also an avid writer, and over time I will be posting several of my works here, where I hope you'll be moved to take the time to read and comment on my words. Thank you for visiting my small corner of the Internet, and I hope to see you again soon!