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r-e-fury · 5 years ago

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You are a world of your own.

That’s not to say you’re extraordinary, necessarily—you might be. Chances are you’re more so than me, at the least, but that’s not much of a feat. Rather, we are each little universes of thought, infinite in expanse yet bound by flesh; pioneers lost in our own minds. Every human is a wellspring of possibility and impossibility, every breath a wish for something greater as we run desperate from the impending dark.

We are, in a sense, prisoners to ourselves. Slaves to dreams we may well never grab hold of, working to the bone so that one day the schism between what we want and what we have might narrow ever so slightly. It is no surprise that every night we shut down for a brief reprieve, where we get a taste of the strange workings inside our heads. A glimpse into the potential we each have, raw as it may be.

When we aren’t asleep, exploring our own dreams, we look to those of others. Snippets of what it’s like to live in someone else’s mind; pretty portals to vast, new, and often beautiful worlds, or ones so terrible and forlorn that anything seems tolerable when compared. Something—anything—to distract from the one that we’re in. To feel greater than ourselves.

After all . . . isn’t that why you’re here?

~ ~ ~

Is it greed to desire something grand?

I often asked myself things like that as I killed someone.

Many lives have been forever reduced to similar questions that fade in and out like fireflies on a dark summer night—what’s ironic is that putting a sword through a neck is so much easier than finding the answers. It shouldn’t be, right? Just reach out and grab one of the little lightbugs and put it in a jar to study later . . . but every time I try, they vanish. All I get is a fistful of darkness.

By the time I was done thinking about all of that, there was only one other person breathing in the field before me: the man who had killed my family. My friends. My clansmen. I’d have cried looking at him if that well hadn’t dried up so long before; screamed if there were any leftover rage to burn.

"You're strong, Kinghunter," Ilhor Drago snarled, a hulking man in shimmering ebony armor patterned with wispy typhoons of cream and oxblood. He must’ve stood seven feet tall. "But this is my home, and I'll not die here like some flame you'd snuff out with a shovel of dirt."

He peered at me through two clusters of holes in a solid iron headpiece, describable only as a perforated bucket. The rest of his battalion littered the wood-lined meadow like smashed tin cans. They'd made quite a morbid medium for my art, shades of death tainting the lush, fertile forest around us, painting fern and flower slick with a contrasting crimson. In the holy glow of spring's sun, amidst a field paint-brushed with trampled fuchsia tulips and peonies that dribbled out of the treeline, the bloodied plants almost looked at home.

Ilhor charged at me, and I backpedaled toward the lake's muddy shore while keeping my sword raised overhead. Ilhor would be a challenge, no doubt—perhaps even worth three whole questions—but challenges are meant to be overcome, even if that challenge was once the most feared knight in any kingdom. A man known for cleaving children in two might terrify most, but I’d have fought God himself if that’s what it would’ve taken to put an end to Hadrian’s reign.

What will I do when all of this is over?

His footwork was perfectly placed with excellent tempo; he had the speed of a fox despite swelling with brutish strength, bowing the boundaries of human limits as if they physically couldn't contain his mass. Each swing of his enormous weapon left my own feeling heavier and heavier in hand, every metallic crack a seismic spasm that rang my soul like a church bell. I ducked and weaved through his razing, slowly backstepping to dodge; parrying had become too taxing on my aching palms. With each lurch forward, he churned huge piles of mud, flinging it around us. Though he was slowed, the length of his broadsword kept me from making a clean retreat.

Is there a place left in the world for someone like me?

Not only was I reduced to defense, but the stout cascade of steel he donned had virtually no openings, aside from under the armpits and a small gap beneath his helmet—one just big enough to slip a thin, thirsty blade into.

Another swing, another step, retreating further and further until I could avoid parrying no more and our swords locked with spark and screech. He grabbed me with a single hand that touched its fingers together at the nape of my neck, feet desperately reaching for the ground as he lifted me into the air. I must've looked to pedal myself airborne.

Why am I so damn good at this?

“Why did you come here?” Ilhor asked, though he didn’t care to relax his grip. “I defected. I defected!”

My words barely squeezed out between his fingers. “Hadrian wouldn’t let a defector live. Did you think an early retirement would save you?”

“How did you even find this place? He promised me it was safe!”

“Nowhere—” I punched at his giant gauntlets like a child, gasping. “—is safe.”

He grunted twice; once at me, and once at the ground.

With our weight combined, he sank past his ankles into the soft, dense mud that lined the lake's western shore. He dropped me, hoping it wasn’t too late, then yanked at them fruitlessly—an alligator has strength on the close, not open.

I lunged, but his sword slammed into mine and sent it flying further into the forest than reality should allow, nesting into the canopy with a grating buzz like a silver beetle. A pained screech and flurry of wings rang out, followed by a distant, wooden thunk. Before I could look back in disdain, his blade was thrusting straight at my heart. I ducked, twisting, and barely managed to get low enough for it to deflect off my mail, then grabbed his wrists and pushed forward with all my weight to outstretch his arms.

I only had a second before he'd overwhelm me, but that was all I needed. A small dagger, its polished gold hilt adorned with rubies, was partially hidden at his hip under a small flap of fraying linen. I let go of his off-hand, dropped even lower and grabbed it, then released his sword hand and pushed forward. In a blur of motion, I jammed the dagger into the thin gap between his helmet and breastplate just as his massive python of a left arm snapped at me again. A weary stumble backward was enough to escape his reach.

He struggled and sucked at the air, his words wet with blood. “I’m . . . not even . . . a king. . . .”

“How many innocent people did you kill for one?” I whispered, hacking off his head.

That was for you, Ophelia. For our little ones.

He plummeted into the coast, sinking into it a little bit. After a moment to collect myself, taking a few deep breaths, I was free to finally loot his body—a vulture hungry for the treasure I could smell on him. Out of a covered compartment at his right hip, I pulled out a golden scroll with reverence, cupping it in my hands and brushing my thumbs across its complex network of embossed vines. It was the fifth one I'd stolen, and it was every bit as mesmerizing as the first, glowing as though the sun itself had been laid out in my still aching palms. I knelt there for some time, drinking its glow, and aches melted to memory with each moment. Eventually, I found it within myself to forfeit worship and tuck it into a satchel at my waist.

My fugitive beetle-sword was stuck in a tree nearly twenty yards away, with traces of blood on and around it. Splintered branches and shredded leaves littered the area, but there were no signs of life—or death—anywhere. I yanked it out, apologized to anything I may have harmed in Dominaria Forest, and ran back to the lake's edge.

Hidden. No patrols, no shipments, no trade. Forest for miles on all sides. How ironic that your pet’s hiding place has become mine, Hadrian. It'll need a little cleanup, to say the least, but maybe this can be somewhere my roots can anchor.

A place to belong.

As I approached the castle, stepping over bodies like they were nothing more than fallen branches after a storm, a light, playful voice caught me off-guard.

"What a shame—I wanted to kill him."

I spun, reflexively unsheathing my sword to flare wary steel. A woman emerged from behind bark, crossing her arms and leaning lazily against the tree she'd been using for cover. Her weapon was unattended, dangling with a laxness inherited from its owner.

"I was rooting for you to lose, but your fighting skills are impressive. You're not like the others I’ve run into around here," she continued, her gaze sharper than a blade fresh off of whetstone, her lips hinting at a smirk.

I smiled as a cool breeze slid through thick trees, relaxing. "Yeah. You seem . . . different, somehow. You seem real."

You possess the ability of persistent lucid dreaming. Accompanied by a strange person, together you build a world you revisit every night. One day you see them at a coffee shop. You immediately recognize each other.

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r-e-fury · 5 years ago

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[WP] Ever since you were little you could read minds. You mastered it through the years, but one day you're with your SO and you hear a second voice in their head.

This is a redo of a story I wrote a long time ago, and I think it’s something we all need to hear. Enjoy! -- R. E. Fury

Honesty. It's a trait that matters to almost every human being, but is so often intangible. It gives way to trust, the belief in continued truth, and faith that it will not break. Plenty of people have trust issues.

I just don't have trust. For a person like me, it is useless, and impossible at most times. I can... hear things. Things I'm not supposed to hear. Things locked away inside the deepest confines of your mind, they scream into my head, ringing, swirling, echoing. Honesty is so important to me because, though it may be an unfair intrusion, I know when someone is lying. I know when I'm being betrayed, unable to hide under the cover of ignorance like so many others.

And then I met Kaylee. She's different. Straightforward, honest, at times blunt, but always sweet, she captured the stony heart of a man who sees deceit like a fire burning in the soul. In fact, it often feels like I am in a clay oven, surrounded by flames intent on reducing me to ash. Voices that swirl and whisper like mists on a chilly night.

I've learned to push it all aside, sweep the voices under a rug somewhere in the corner of my consciousness. The first date with Kaylee, things were a little rough- we were in a mall, somewhere with a high population density to make her feel comfortable. With that many people around, it's hard to keep things quiet in my head, like shoving rotten fruit under a bath mat. Liar. Whore. I hate this bitch, why is she even here? God, that dress is hideous.

I love you. I want a piece of that.

Please love me.

It gets draining.

Our second date was in a restaurant, a nice Italian place tucked behind the public library. Busy, but quiet, and fantastic eggplant parm. People were a shred less two-faced, and a lower head count means a quieter head space. I could hear Kaylee's most prevalent thoughts, even though I didn't want to, but did my best to tune them out. Everyone has a... a voice, in their head, kind of like the one you speak with. Though, it would be more apt to call it a feeling, and hers was like a warm mug of coffee in cold hands. Like feeling the sun caress your skin on a cool day. I asked her if she'd keep seeing me, and she said yes. We kissed goodnight, and I skipped to my car.

Our third date, she came over to my place. We ordered a pizza and debated what to watch.

"Ever seen Stranger Things?" I asked, idly flipping through Netflix. "Everyone at work says it's really good. I'm pretty out of touch with TV these days."

She was staring forward, as if looking at something behind the television.

"Kaylee? You okay?" I gently touched her arm, and she inhaled sharply, turning to me.

"Oh, sorry. I was totally spacing out. What were you saying?"

I looked into her eyes. "Are you sure you're okay?" There were thoughts, like whispers in my head, but I plugged my mental ears.

"Yeah." Her lips twitched upward for a moment. "Everything's great."

I could feel something looming over me, an undeniable presence, like lying under a wet blanket, that left me shifting in my seat. "Okay, if you say so. Ever seen Stranger Things?"

I love that show! "No, I haven’t actually. That sounds great!"

Some little white lies can be cute.

I clicked on the show and motioned toward the pizza I'd ordered. She stared at it for a moment, and something snapped. The unsettling touch on my mind turned into an icy claw crushing it. A sweeping tidal wave of despair swept me, and the loudest voice I'd ever heard seared into my brain.

You fat piece of shit. Why don't you just eat the whole thing? Wouldn't surprise him. I mean, he picked pizza for a reason. I'm surprised he didn't get a bigger one to feed you.

"Oh, I think I'll pass on the pizza. I'm not really hungry, but thank you." She coughed to try and hide her growling stomach.

"Come on! You look amazing, a slice of pizza won't hurt." She blushed, and reached out for a piece, eating it slowly.

"Thanks, Mike. You look great, too, by the way." She put the pizza down.

Stupid. That was the worst response you could have come up with. That felt so forced and fake, and awkward, just like you. Stop talking before you make it all worse. Damn it, this is why I don't date people. Why can't I just be normal?

The show started, but I couldn't hear what was happening. Kaylee was staring at the pizza in her lap, jowl knotted.

I paused it and turned to her. "Kaylee, are you sure you're alright? I'm here if you need to talk."

See? He notices it. He knows I'm fucking crazy. Why do I ruin everything? He seemed nice, too. Another one gone, and it hasn't even started yet.

"Oh, I'm fine, Mike. You're sweet to ask." The words were almost a whisper. She looked up at me and smiled, but in the light of my TV, I could see her eyes glistening. I reached out and wiped at one, and she frantically rubbed at them, smearing her mascara.

Really? Wow, girl. This is a new low, even for you. Crying on the third date. Word's gonna spread about this crazy shit.

Everyone's gonna know just how pathetic I am.

"Sorry, Mike. I just have allergies."

I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Oh, sure. Of course, I won't tell anyone."

He wishes he could tell you to go away.

"Sometimes, I hear voices in my head. I know that sounds insane, but sometimes there's just something in my head, you know? Telling me I'm just not enough, pointing out all my flaws. It's really hard hearing yourself be so mean to . . . well, yourself.

I could see Kaylee's breaths quickening, and she squeezed back.

"I don't really know why I'm telling you this. I mean, shit, it's just our third date. I guess it was on my mind."

"Does it ever make you feel. . . ."

"Like I'm not good enough?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, all the time. But . . . I guess what I learned is that the voice I hear--it's in my head, but it's not me. It's just fear and anxiety feeding me lies. Gets hard to think, let alone love myself."

"How do you stop it from ruining you?"

I smiled at her. "Step one is just knowing that you can't. Not alone, at least."

I felt the burden of hate and disgust lift from my mind, and in that instant, I knew.

She was free, too, if only for a moment. Sometimes, that's good enough.

For more of my work, check out:

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r-e-fury · 5 years ago

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you have the ability to hold full conversations with plants. you’ve only ever spoken to civilized pot plants living in houses or cafes. out of curiosity, you decide to speak with a lonely weed living in a dark alleyway.

I couldn’t NOT write a story about this with all the houseplants I have😂

~~~

"Would you please move me a few inches to the left?" the finicky fiddle-leaf fig asked me, its voice curt and shrew. "I don't quite like the strength of the sun right here. It's too warm."

I obliged with a sigh--who knew talking to plants would be so much work? They always demanded so much of me, crying at all hours of the day if things weren't just right for them, and that sweet spot was almost impossible to find. "Is this good enough?" I asked.

"No, but it'll have to do, I suppose. Don't be alarmed if I die a little, moving is such difficult work. I'll make it through, one way or another; that's what royalty does. It endures."

I nodded glacially, puckering my lips. "Right, that makes sense. Say, Fiddle. . .can I ask you a question?"

After a moment of silence, Fiddle replied, "I suppose I could entertain you, yes."

"I know you're new here, but you're already really big and beautiful. How did you find it in you to grow all the time, and become what you are today?"

"It's in my nature to," Fiddle replied abruptly. "I know nothing else but growth and regality. It's hard work, mind you, constantly having to make do with imperfect conditions such as this, but I do my best and pull it off in the end. Only the best of the best have what it takes. Days are never perfect, but I survive."

"Yeah, that makes sense." With a sigh, I stood and left the sunroom. Fiddle was the newest and least socially aware of my friends, and I wondered how he might get along with the others; though, something told me he'd be just fine, in any case.

Outside it was a bit gloomy, with light grey skies that tinged things a shade of bleak just strong enough to pull me down. Still, I wanted to go for a walk and clear my head. Sometimes I like to do that when life has me down. On my way out the door, I stopped by my corn plant, squatting beside him.

"How are you, Cornelius?" I asked, the words a sigh.

"Oh, I'm alright, I suppose. Can't complain too much. Thanks for asking, how are you doing?"

"I've been better."

"Me too. My leaves are a bit dry at the tips; it's not very humid in here." Cornelius had a rather flat voice that didn't indicate whining, but rather a statement of fact.

"Sorry about that, I'll get a humidifier for this room. Everything else okay?"

"Yeah, that's about it. Just getting by, you know. Making do."

I looked up and down the bright yellow bands streaking across the middle of each of its leaves and offered a half-hearted smile. "Well, that's good, at least. I get what you mean. Anyway, I'll leave you be. See you around."

"Bye now."

I heard him shiver when I opened the door, and quickly shut it behind me. It was nice being surrounded with friends, even if they didn't all get me very well; we were different, but that was okay. Better not to be alone.

The dull air hanging over my town was brisk but not too cold, and the lack of sun made me a little sad, but it was still a decent day out. Decent enough for a walk, at least. I passed a few trees on my way, most of whom know me but seldom say anything back to me. I think they find me creepy or annoying, which is fair enough, I guess. I'm not a plant, after all. Walking around town is much nicer in the spring and summer than the fall, because the grass sings beautiful hymns, and the trees whistle in fresh, warm gales. No one is very happy during the other seasons.

I continued down my usual route without stopping much, and decided not to get a treat on the way like I do sometimes; I wasn't feeling very hungry. In the last few blocks of my journey, I noticed something I hadn't before: a little blob of green on the ground, tucked between a couple commercial buildings that blocked out the sun. I ran over, thinking it had fallen from somewhere else and needed help.

"Are you okay?" I asked, tenderly assessing its limp leaves. It was embedded in the concrete, sprouting from a crack, and wouldn't budge at all.

"Hi there!" it replied, voice full of joy and wonder. "Wow, I hardly ever get any visitors here. What's your name?"

Stunned, I blinked a few times, then, "Olivia. What's yours?"

"Oh, I don't have a name. Never needed one, but that's okay!"

"Isn't that sad, not having a name?"

"I don't need a name to enjoy my life! Anywho, how are you on this lovely day?"

Again, I sat there in silence for a time, entirely confused by the strange little creature. "I'm. . .I'm alright, I suppose. Thanks for asking. How are you?"

"I'm wonderful," it replied honestly. "Just lovely."

"Aren't you cold?" I asked, looking all around. "There's no sunlight here, and the concrete doesn't hold warmth very well."

"Oh, no, it's not so bad," said the weed, with an earnest voice. "I suppose it's a little dark, and it's a little cold, but I'm sure there are plants surviving far worse situations than this. All things considered, I think I have it pretty easy over here."

I mouthed empty motions at first, stunned by the little plant. "Well aren't you lonely, at the very least? You have no other plant friends here, no one to talk to, no one to pass the time with. Surely that must hurt?"

A brief pause, then, "I have you, for now. I think it's wonderful enough just to experience a friendship like this for a little while."

"We're friends?" I asked, immediately biting my lip.

"I think so. You may be leaving very shortly, but a few beautiful moments are enough to make a life worth living for, in my opinion. That's why I fight so hard to survive in a place like this--because, even if it's a struggle sometimes, there are things I'd never get to experience if I weren't here. I won't let go of that."

I wanted to respond, but something welled up within me and I couldn't muster the words. They choked in my throat, sank to my stomach, and I stood there in shaky silence.

"Oh, look at that," the little weed said, giddy as can be. "What a perfect day. It's even raining a little bit, now."

"Yeah," I whispered, wiping my eyes. "It is a perfect day, isn't it?"

#writing writingprompts shortstory writingprompt houseplants plantlife writers

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