My secondary narrative is now running deep in the story line to great effect. It allowed me to establish a unique point of view of my protagonist's experience, and the fact that it is an alter ego allows me to explore more facets of humanity. The more I write, the more I look into my creations' minds, the more I feel like I am one of them. Their every thought, action, and intonation are visible but nebulous, endearing yet threatening, transitory and enduring. Through their lives, their backgrounds, and the unpredictable catastrophes that temper their wills one by one, I see the lines of narratives that run through their worlds and mine. I see the loops that enslave their fears and mine. The layers and layers of worlds stacked atop one another that seem to transcend worldliness. It is a truly awe inspiring sight.
I have successfully reached and surpassed my word-count goal, which is now 10,000. My next goal is to reach 1300 in two weeks. During that time, I want to experiment with writing while fasting for a day and a half. It will be interesting to experience creativity while under physical and mental duress (I also feel like that my life is too comfortable at the moment) and I will be recording my experience.
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CHAPTER ONE In the palace of the blind There sleeps an ice grey queen Day and night her sand clock ticks Ruby red and venom green She’s waiting for her lover She’s been waiting for years She’s waiting for Lucifer The stars drown in her tears Piety slits open She knows her time has come The dagger’s already in her heart Grey and cold and numb She’s putting on her crown of eyes For gods to do her bidding So run home children, say a prayer For Black Sun is rising I woke up cold, wet, and naked. And I did not know why.
“Agent Oliver Winthrop,” said a voice in the pitch black. A woman’s voice. Icy and distant, muffled by the thick glass and glowing blue liquid. I took a sharp breath, and felt the cold gurgle into my lungs. Felt it surged through my pounding heart, freezing up every vein and muscle. “Agent Oliver Winthrop. The Bureau calls for your service,” the voice repeated. Closer. Faster. Ah yes. Oliver. The Bureau. It’s coming back now. My eyes flickered open to a world blue and swimming. Had it always been that way? My feet landed on the white tiled floor still dripping. The hall was tall and dark, with a handful of low hanging lamps to illuminate the basilica depth. Rows upon rows of glowing blue lined the wall, some empty, some holding a floating body. Taxidermy would be most fitting. They drifted in small plumes of air bubbles, milky blue, like the fetuses of some deep-sea leviathan. Habitually, I turned around to find a black locker standing dutifully next to my tank. A white towel hung on the side, spotless, like the Bureau preferred most things. Maybe even whiter than her dress… That happens sometimes. In flashes, in patches, in violent dreams, they come back. The Bureau does not take chances trusting their agents, not even with their own memories. It may be the own thing it cannot keep spotless—their reputation aside of course, but I suppose that is out of a sense of professionalism. Keeping Her Majesty’s hands clean is dirty business.
Dear Oliver et al:
You have traveled ages, from the depth of the subconscious, through the murky spots of memories, and arrived at the bottom of the surface—in my dreams. For this, I am deeply indebted to you. Many others of my kind have been patronized in similar manners—those who live on the surface call my kind “writers” and your kind “characters,” but in the submerged world of creation, we are one. Yet many followed a different path. They chained you to their journeys. They carved words on your tongues. They thought themselves gods and strung you up like puppets. I am not one of them. For I have come to realize that without me, you are but lost soul floating in the swamp of untouchable fears; without you, however, my words are but empty carcasses. Bereft of color. Flaccid and still. So when I don the masks of your multitude, turn my sleep into perdition. Show me the darker side of dark. Transform my visions into wine for the damned. Make my pen your flesh and blood. And make my paper your crucifix. But for all this, I ask for one thing, and that is forgiveness. For I am a novice, and the passion of my dreams are only matched by the inelegance of my pen. Still I shall strive to venture where the tempest takes me. Where you take me. And if I shall perish on that journey, so be it. Now go mad. Disembowel hell. You are free. Your ever-wandering friend, Tony Li Completed:
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Tony LiFull-time dreamer. Part-time high school student at Woodside Priory School. Archives
April 2017
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