“No, no… eat it like this… like this! See what I’m doing? No, you hold chopsticks like this… No! Ryo, this is your fault!”
Continue reading →Author / MNK
Riftbreaker
The following is a small scene reconstructed from vivid dreams. I believe it has the potential to become a YA novel, if pursued.
Thanks for reading.
-MK
“Korinna.”
She materialized from the darkness in a cloak of heavy mist. Her skin was delicately pale, long white hair billowing lazily, and her eyes bore no pupil: only an eerie whiteness. Her face shone of a beautiful youth but the glow that enveloped her body spoke to an incorporeal existence, the torn wisps of a once stunning dress clinging to her body.
Y – dream
First memories were a strange and wondrous thing. They were blurry and distorted messes of collected images and thoughts and childish emotions. They were proof that the past was real, or was at least real to their beholder. It was a sort of validation, an invaluable Turing test of the psyche. One could argue against this praise of commemorated antiquity, but why would anyone wish to do such a thing?
Her first memory was the only proof her mother ever existed.
Continue reading →
Close to Closure
It took two frustrated attempts to ignite the lighter, his hands shaking. The ocean air was too damn cold: he remembered it once as a peaceful sensation but now it just made him apprehensive, almost bitterly so. The flame caught the tip of his cigarette pinched halfheartedly between his lips, and died against the wind a moment later.
How long ago was it he started smoking? He asked himself the question without wanting the answer. He knew. He didn’t want to remember.
I wish you didn’t smoke those.
He turned his head and coughed violently, spitting the cigarette into the sand. His lungs were screaming in rebellion as they did every year, every time he came to this spot and inhaled that stupid, masochistic poison, and every time he hated himself just a little bit more because he didn’t want to remember.
And because he did.
Shifting footsteps and a red sunset and the feeling of butterflies and the sunkenness of a lost anchor, anxious hope and worthlessness. A thousand peaceful sounds time-locked in an overplayed memory. A picturesque romance typecast the enemy. A mistake.
The cigarette had gone cold but its job was finished. It was the smell and singular taste of sincerity. It was a sacrificial ritual in progress for decades.
He hated these fragmented thoughts.
What do you think you’re doing? Do you really think so little of me you’d make some stupid assumption like that?
I was just worried about you.
That’s a lie. You don’t get to barge into my life whenever you feel like playing lifeguard.
It was a punch in the gut, a lifelong fear. It had to be saved…
No, hey, I just want you to be happy. You know how I feel, you know I would never… never smother you.
Stop. You don’t get to do this. An exasperated sigh. He could smell that scent on her breath. You can’t just be a hero. You always assume the worst in people, like the world is a big black hole and you’re the only one that hasn’t been sucked in. It’s not a reality for us: it’s a reflection of you, because you just couldn’t stand living on without having someone to rescue. You need a damsel in distress. You don’t want me to be happy. You just need someone pitiful enough to save you from yourself.
One final exhale. A cigarette dropped in the sand and its scent hung in the air. It’s all that was left. All that could be known again.
The coughing stopped but his eyes were watering and the cold saltwater air didn’t help. He stood on stiff joints and brittle bones, muttering to himself. The stars were bright in the sky but he hadn’t the strength to care anymore.
I wish you didn’t smoke those.
He imagined it was her saying those words but he shut his eyes at the thought. He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve any one of them.
In Limbo #2
I have refrained from social media for almost a year now. I have no Twitter, no Facebook, no Instagram. And the platforms I do have, such as this site, I have no presence.
It’s an uncomfortably awkward situation, to have no presence yet wish to speak to the void regardless. Not many people are aware I have this page, and even fewer are interested in my hobbies. Perhaps no one is anymore. Those that were are gone now.
So where is this now? It’s incredible to look at my work on Supaku and realize it’s been over two years since I started the damn thing, and even longer since Senseless was updated. My interest in these universes hasn’t changed, but my voice faltered for a long time. I don’t feel embarrassed to say that, because it’s a reflection of my change as a human being, and a reflection of the flaws that I recognize in myself. Creation is a critical facet of growth, and to me it’s an astonishingly satisfying aspect of social interaction. I deeply enjoy the thoughtful reactions to my stories, but I think that’s a problem when it comes to proper motivation because, well…
If no one cares about reading it, what’s the point.
“Why would you say that, of course there’s a purpose! You write for yourself!”
Well, yes, in a sense. I create stories because they’re fun, but they’re also a lot of work. Most of my ideas are dreams and daydreams, suspended and muddied somewhere in my head, and whenever I’d like I can visit those thoughts and just soar through them as I please. Why would I spend my time working for someone else who doesn’t exist if I could just drift pleasantly through these dreams? There are obvious arguments against this mode of thought, but it remains.
“That’s disappointing.”
Yes, it is. To be completely honest, the situation is far more complex than this timid example, but much of the rest are more-or-less private matters unfit for public display. I keep away from social media for many reasons, and one of them is my dedication not to air my dirty laundry for a few pitiful likes. While I publish this update for my future self, I hope if there’s anyone reading this they can respect my reflections as partial glimpses into a situation that could never be explained in a single post.
White, Black, and Everything in Between. Neon Lights and a Testarossa. The Acquired Taste of a Bad Cigarette. These are the titles of stories I left half-finished this year. Maybe they’ll see light someday, and maybe they won’t. Perhaps the most important thing is that they were ideas that saw some form of immortality on paper. Perhaps the most important thing is that they existed at all: it’s proof that I’m not dead quite yet.
I’d like to finish this somewhat dreary and confusing post by saying if you’re reading this, thank you. I needed to write a bit about my frustration and I want to emphasize I’m not done. My method of writing has always been haphazard but recently I began outlining the structure of my Supaku novel and I’ve had so many exciting ideas I can’t wait to grow into something I can be proud of. In the future, I’d like to make more posts like this because, as you can likely tell, I’m rusty as hell and I need practice. Apart from my fiction, I’m confident I can write about general life, motivation, and social things. I don’t expect them to be popular or relevant, but they would be a fantastic archive of my thoughts and growth. What would this site be if it were just years-old stories and depressing Limbo posts?
Answer: exactly what it is right now. And that’s just unacceptable!
Fall – Chapter 3 (part 2 of 2)
The Ghost Wolf panted softly behind his mask. He caught his breath quickly, sheathing the swordbreaker in his offhand and tapping the body before him with the flat of his sword: no response. Just dead weight.
There were bodies strewn about everywhere. Even a scattered few the Wolf did not cut down himself, he recounted. The campfire that one side had started was spitting pitifully, unattended. The Wolf tread sowly over the ground.
From beyond there was a slight groan. It was no louder than a whisper, a stifled cough, but the noise couldn’t escape the ears of the masked ambusher. Within an instant he had pounced on a shapeless mass that whimpered at his grip, being lifted into the air by a single hand into the moonlight.
“They called you Madoc, did they not?” the Ghost Wolf’s words sunk into the air with malice.
“You… you…” Madoc stammered. The sight of the mask petrified him, melting away entirely his once cold and confident demeanor. “Hokkaido!”
The Wolf tightened his grip, causing the man to squeak. “Yes, you know of me. But I am of no importance.” He looked over the man’s broken body. The stump he had in place of an arm had been bandaged well, but not well enough, as it seeped blood and dripped audibly to the ground.
“Ha, no importance!” The man’s eyes bulged. “You killed damn near everyone singlehandedly. A fellow… with your reputation and skill, well, it doesn’t take much smarts to see how much gold you’re worth…”
The Wolf’s grip tightened further.
“Or…! Or… you might be interested in the many, ah, intangible things my employers can offer. I know people, Wolf, people who know things you can use…”
Madoc yelped suddenly as he found himself sailing through the air to hit the floor on his back and roll to a stop. And before he could blink the Wolf was on him again.
“I take care of the vermin that stand before me. Your begging matters very little in this transaction.”
“Nothing interests you, Wolf?” Madoc gulped. “Not even Warwick? Not even his—aaggh!”
Madoc didn’t get a chance to explain. With one precise slash the Wolf severed his one remaining arm. The man screamed and dropped to the ground, writhing and grinding his teeth.
The Wolf did not give him long: he considered himself no torturer. With another flick of the blade he sliced through Madoc’s neck and watched him drown in his own blood. Madoc’s dying gurgles were spirited but futile. After a short time, it stopped.
A peaceful silence hung in the air. Hokkaido, the Ghost Wolf, put a hand to the mask and lifted it.
The earth began to tremble.
Blades were unsheathed, but without purpose; no more enemies appeared. Instead, a peculiar thing happened: Madoc’s body began to glow. It brightened especially in the veins, which seemed to course with a sickeningly green substance. The skin began to crack, spiderwebbing like broken glass, and it grew pale as the moon before peeling slowly, magically, lifting slowly into the air as though carried in the wind. His skin disappeared entirely, leaving behind muscle, blood, and bone.
Desiderata
“What are we doing?”
The same thing over and over. The candles in the corner flicker; they don’t last very long. The sun will rise long after the wax is gone and the wick burned black. The air is stale and warm. In the hall is the sound of a slowly dripping faucet, the faint heartbeat of a placid house.
“What—”
“We’re learning.”
It’s true: it’s the closest thing to truth, at least. What else is there to say? Too much in too little time.
There’s reason in that truth: fear. It permeates and settles easily in those subtle places. Human nature seizes a piece of that bond between two people, a piece scattered and buried and made nondescript. It becomes a fear of the well-trodden path.
It becomes depression and monotony, the infinite sense of worthlessness. Her eyes are cast downward against the sun. The bedsheets are twisted and unkempt. Her smiles are reserved for strangers and stranger friends. There’s a slight and cold breeze in the air and the gas tank is close to empty.
It becomes anxiety and paranoia. Her lips are parting and closing with a whisper and the breeze seems to deaden at the sound. Someone jogs by on the sidewalk without looking up. She can’t remember if she left the front door open, she can’t remember if he was supposed to visit, she can’t remember—
Why would anyone care about you?
She can’t remember.
“We’re learning.”
They huddle close together. The bedsheets are folded back and the rising sun is soft and warm through the window, a pleasant prickling on the skin. A lengthy silence follows, a natural and gentle stillness. One of them shifts away.
“I hope so.”
Fall – Chapter 3 (part 1 of 2)
“I don’t know…” Mugs was speaking by the fire, across from Shin who was roasting a chicken he had managed to catch earlier that evening. Thomas sat beside him, mouth watering as he watched the bird’s juices drip and sizzle into the flames. Somewhere off in the dark were Jim and Kate, likely sleeping after the day’s nonstop trek out of the Wastes to make it to the meeting spot on time.
They were sitting under the rusted structural beams of an old and abandoned massive warehouse. High above their heads was a roof that was miraculously intact, though the walls themselves were pockmarked with holes. Half-broken and scattered wooden barrels were strewn around the premises, pieces of broken and useless machinery equally chaotic, giving the surrounding area an ominous appearance as the fire cast their dancing shadows.
“She never told me her name, Tommy.” Mugs flicked a twig into the fire. “And she don’t plan on givin’ it. What you have a burning ache to know it for, anyhow?”
“No need, bossman! Just curious, is all,” Thomas muttered.
“You fancy her, eh? Got a thing for mute girls?”
“C’mon, boss! Well…” Thomas gave a sheepish smirk. “She sure is easy on the eyes.”
“Don’t get too attached. Got no idea where she’ll be headed. We have no room for civilians in this crew and the way I see it she’s more use to our client. She’s dead weight here and everywhere else.” Mugs blinked and looked away from the fire. “Times are tough now. Won’t nobody that’ll take her in like that.”
“Ay,” Jim walked up to the fire munching on a piece of bread again. He was shirtless, his chest wrapped up cleanly to cover the skin that had broken from their encounter with the assassin. “She don’t need to speak to make use as a whore.”
“For the third time, Jim, it’s not happenin’, and if you make me repeat myself once more I swear to Mother Mary I will hit you again.”
Jim rolled his eyes and sat down, dismissing the subject. “So what we doin’ here, anyways? I thought the plan was to collect our money in New Petersburg and start movin’ up to the North Bloc.”
“Plans change, Jim,” Mugs said, “but we’re due to collect on our cash here. Tomorrow morning our benefactors will show. But whether they aim to fulfill their promise remains to be seen because we failed to fulfill our own.”
“Oh yeah, you’s was sayin’ before, something about that rich little native girl sittin’ lifeless back in the Wastes.”
Mugs clenched his jaw. The man’s insensitivity was a known factor, but it was more grating than usual. “Ideally, she was to be part of the exchange, yes. Her death has changed that. It will change a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Like war,” Shin spoke up. “The Emperor has been dead for years. The Sparkfall took his life and nearly that of his revolution. The Imperialists need a new face for their people. They need inspiration.” He pulled the chicken away from the fire and took a delicate bite from it, chewing thoughtfully. “She was to become Empress and their enemies knew of it. Spies everywhere. Belonging to gaijin or the backwards Tokugawa cult or other evil men. Her leadership would be a threat to many people. And now it is no longer.”
“Everyone’s already at war, Leggy. What difference does this make!”
“A war can be civilized or uncivilized. It can be fought between each side, away from the innocent. It can claim territory where the farmer does not care of the outcome. Where he is left free and alone because without the farmer and his wife there is no food and there is no children. And when a war is brutal and senseless, when both sides see only blood and revenge, there is chaos. The innocent die, the crops wither away and our future turns to dust. The uncivilized war is annihilation not for one’s victory but for the burning desire to see the enemy defeated, no matter the cost.”
Desolate Concern
“Why do you care?”
The question is grating. It’s saturated with a horror and a hopelessness akin to perhaps an evolution, yet where can they say it’s grown?
It didn’t used to be this way. They didn’t used to vilify these things. It was always a little cold outside, and the sidewalk a little dirty but that was okay. The beachfront was always busy, always with surfers and swimmers, always with playful dogs that leapt through the saltwater foam and kicked sand all around, always with silent joggers and their bouncing ponytails or ballcaps or earbuds, always with happy children and always with older folk content to walk at a tranquil pace. Holding hands. Always.
It’s not there anymore. It’s in memory, somewhere, inaccessible because of the question. It is a roadblock and it is hideous.
Can they call it growth if it is backwards? The sidewalk is clean now, and unbearably hot. There is no ocean, only sand and asphalt, metal and concrete. Can they say this is growth? Time has passed, but not even that is linear. Maybe if they stepped to the side they could see. Perspective is reality. Maybe if they tried to look at it another way… maybe it’s worse than they imagined.
But it is not a collective problem. Perhaps “they” is inappropriate.
“Why do you care, Jack?”
Because her eyes agree with him. Yes, that is the cautious enigma, how typical and naïve, how confusingly predictable, how dull and uninteresting! There is an ardent longing for something so long ago lost yet so close to heart. There is no need for regrets upon the deathbed: pain can be a learned lesson, like waves on the beachfront, that thing that never escapes from memory. Pain can be a reminder of something beyond its face value, of something greater.
Pain can become closure, if you allow it.
He wanted to answer the question. The words were stuck in his throat.
She wasn’t there. The room was quiet, the curtains closed and a small ray of light shone onto the bed. An unused ashtray sat on the dresser. Someone outside laughed.
He looked back at the mirror.
Fall – Chapter 2
Mugs wasn’t entirely ecstatic to hear the soft patter of rain creep up on the roof of their dilapidated hideout but he was not moronic enough to believe the situation wasn’t par for the job to begin with. Through a hole in the rusted sheet-metal wall he could see distant lightning crack erratically at the sky, a quiet, moody thunder resonating softly. The sky had quickly been taken by grey clouds, swallowing the sun and along with it any hope of warmth for the next dozen or so hours. He sighed to himself, content with the chill in the air and frustrated beyond measure by the deluge of idiocy from his companions.
Desiderium Fiction 