[{"content":"","date":"24 January 2026","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/tags/contemporary/","section":"Tags","summary":"","title":"Contemporary","type":"tags"},{"content":"","date":"24 January 2026","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/genre/","section":"Genre","summary":"","title":"Genre","type":"genre"},{"content":"","date":"24 January 2026","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/posts/","section":"Posts","summary":"","title":"Posts","type":"posts"},{"content":"","date":"24 January 2026","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/genre/short-story/","section":"Genre","summary":"","title":"Short Story","type":"genre"},{"content":"","date":"24 January 2026","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/","section":"Snow Shire","summary":"","title":"Snow Shire","type":"page"},{"content":"","date":"24 January 2026","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/tags/","section":"Tags","summary":"","title":"Tags","type":"tags"},{"content":"The thermal paper, slick with the thin polish of the chemical Bisphenol A (or S, determined by how a country tends to select the carcinogen that appeals to them) burned black into the pristine surface, feeding into the hand of the clerk. The paper extended about fifteen centimetres, until the sensuous whirring abruptly halted and she tore it with a clean, perfect rip. The very picture of a practice perfected through thousands of attempts. Without even asking (hardly anyone did anymore unless they were new to the job) she placed it, untarnished, into my waiting hands.\nThe procedure went as follows — and it is a delicate procedure, so pay attention: upon collecting a receipt, it is absolutely necessary to keep it as received, doing little to disturb the natural curl which the smaller receipts tend to normalise into. As for the larger ones, the problem lies more in the maintenance of the whole, assuring that nothing is unduly bent or dirtied as you bring it to its home in a clear container, so as to ensure that your eyes can observe its insertion into the box with its brethren, to ensure that all is well and safe. You mustn\u0026rsquo;t be deceived. Many a time have things appeared normal to simple inspection, only for gross impurities to lie under the surface. So, it required something beyond the calculus of a master, one with a clairvoyant eye that saw flaw without seeing. Upon my first misstep of that kind, the reverberations of such a miscalculation were a persistent malaise, one that crushes you mentally like an immovable weight. The receipt is not so fragile a thing, though, and with strenuous effort it is possible to corral them into passability.\nIt is only once you are assured of its propriety in the bunch (which must never reach above a dozen, as by that point they grow restless, pushing into one another and causing tears in the absolute worst case), the next step comes upon your return home, where you flatten them gently with something made for the task: I prefer an unheated iron but a flat stone or a hardcover book might just as well do the trick.\n“Do you really keep all of them?” she interrupted, looking at me quizzically.\n“So what if I do?”\n“Nothing… I was just curious,”\nThe nerve. I pulled back my hands, keeping the paper out of her reach. This kind of disrespect was not something I was wholly unfamiliar with, but all the same it was kind of nagging that wore thin on my papery thin patience. Where was I? Yes. Receipts told a story, a narrative which told of the places the tips of fingers grazed, the pressure points which pressed up against the city around me and returned their warmth — a physical imprint, an heirloom from plastic to the kind sheets which cost nothing.\nLaying sheathe within an unassuming cabinet in my room was the true intricacy of the system, where the pilgrimage came to an end. In an assortment of colour-coded binders, the very rudimentary pieces of my life have been collected and sorted into folders reflecting a taxonomy of mood, taste, situation. Red meant that some kind of strain came with the purchase, green was the indication of a reliance on a habitual, almost homely purchase to soothe the nerves. It was neat and ordered, the narrative of a small life splayed out in vivid polychrome.\nThe flashy nails of the cashier were much the same. They were glossy, reflecting the dim fluorescent light of the convenience store overheads.\n“Did you get those done recently?”\nI had no reason why they had caught my eye, even less certain why I spoke up about them. There was a look of strange realisation that I was in fact talking to her, meeting my eyes which lay upon her hands, before she replied, “Um… Yeah…”\nAn echoing silence descended throughout the deserted aisles of the shop, ending when I clutched the handles of the plastic bag and left with the faint jingle of the door. People have always called me strange, but not in the way you are probably thinking. Not the kind of high functioning sociopath which would make for a good case study, nor the brain-addled half-wit that is the cause for news publications in a small town with nothing better to speak about. My ailment was far more boorish.\nI had never been truly checked for anything because there was nothing evidently wrong with me, but through the way I lagged behind my peers when it came to the general outlook of life, it was clear that I was some sort of living specimen, inhuman in some regard. Never knowing my parents, I had come to the assumption that I was some sort of single celled organism, splitting off from another just like me and into existence. The sort of amoeba that simply is, but never strives for anything more — the conclusion I had long since come to was that the idea of conviction was created in utero.\nGreyish kind of entity that I was, I chose to document life through documented transaction. It might have been for fear of being forgotten, but it was more to act as a voucher. The only proof that they ever lived. My footsteps brought me to the blinding light of a restaurant, passing under the golden arches and into its bowels on the underground where there was a world of cut white tile, foreign to the night above. My fingers glided across the kiosk as I selected my food and with it came the low whirr of the delicate print. The surface was more matte than usual, some of the letters imprinted with blots evident as if the roll was spit out. With a rip across the triangular cutter blades I ended up tearing the lower part along its length. The perforated edge had been cleaved in two by my brutish hand. Smoothing it out, I delicately put it away hoping that the flaws may resolve themselves upon next viewing. It was an idle hope. I unconsciously tapped my foot on the floor, waiting. Finding my seat, I solemnly ate the food. Uncaring of its slovenly make, I chewed and chewed until the faint salty taste was the only thing left to my mouth.\nThe night was cool. I felt as though I were a part of the wind current, subsumed within the changes in atmospheric pressure, deflected by the looming highrises towards home. That night I sat at my ritual, feeling the tactile reassurance of the lustrous sheets. Like neurological pathways, they sorted themselves out. One to red, one to blue, one to green. At last I had come to the final two of the night. I lightly drew open the red binder once more, sliding the pristine sheet within. In the act, my eyes finally came to rest upon the final one. A torn, slipshod creation. There was really nowhere to put it. It was not the first time a receipt had come out bastardised, but it was the first time that the feeling was not accompanied by another. Disgust at its creation and my hand in it, solace in the purchase itself, none had visited my poor apartment tonight. It was empty.\nThe next night was not so different from the last. Work ended somewhat earlier and I was bid towards the long trail of the nightly commute, a narrow and unbroken pathway which stretched out towards infinity. The only company the fluorescent lights of the street. They were familiar strangers — a constant presence that I had never gotten to know. In spite of the season, it was still somewhat warm outside. In my hands was the plastic casket, empty for the day because of my inundation with the tedium of the day. And so, into the sheer light of the convenience store I soon returned.\nMaybe I was chasing something which I did not know. Avoiding yesterday’s catastrophe, I chose to peruse the instant food aisle, choosing beforehand for a cup of ramen as my companion for the night. Scanning through the inventory, the flavour I usually bought was not there. In search of my prize, a specific brand of carbonara that had a certain comforting punch, I robotically picked apart the shelves until they were bare. It was nowhere to be found. Did this portend to some greater evil I had yet to see? There was no way of knowing. Deferentially, I closed my hand around the throat of a wide, rigid bowl. Another familiar flavour, it was a red pepper my uncles would treat me with on visits, back when I was a child. Today it was plastered with the caricature of a smiling man whom I had never seen before, an assurance of quality which could be trusted for the whites of his teeth and his handsome face — if he could be in so good a condition, why would his food not be?\nApproaching the counter, I rummaged through my coinpurse placing each individual piece of metal upon the table and counting them up towards the total of which I was a little short. Unable to clear away the change, I sighed and moved to retract them before the colourful hand swept them away from me. Looking up, slightly bewildered, I met eyes with the woman for the first time.\n“Close enough, don’t you think?” she said with a sheepish smile. Looking at the figure on the ramen package, he looked almost the same. Though I could not really see her eyes in the reflection of her thick-framed glasses, I could only think they had assumed that similar piteous softness. “Though, I suppose I won’t be able to get you a receipt this time, that okay?”\nUncaring as to her donated kindness I reached into my coat, withdrawing a card almost surgically to complete the transaction. Only, I froze as she spoke a soft entreaty, “Seriously, I insist. Okay?”\nFinding no proper response, I could only nod my head and walk from the store. The feeling did not really hit until I was at my station, left to simply wistfully look from the coloured folders to the food who was divorced from it. It was orphanized. Its fate to disappear from the world, without a trace. He did not seem to mind given the look on his face, but was he really okay with that?\nWith reverence, then, I peeled back the plastic lid and poured in a rush of boiling water. Closing it once more, I poked holes through his cheeks to let the steam escape. Then it was all I could do to place my hands against the bowl to feel his warmth, fleeting though it was, as it rushed out of him. To complete the meal I donated him an egg, some fishcakes, green onions from my fridge, all a part of documented history, their marks perhaps speaking to his phantasmal presence on the lonely night. Maybe he might be remembered that way. Finally, I let myself bite into it. It was neither good nor bad, but definitely changed from how it tasted when I was younger. Such was the usual pattern — nostalgia tends to cloud how something felt when you had less worries. Though, it could have just as easily been a simple ingredient change. It had been a while, after all.\nAfter finishing, I reached for a cigarette which lay amidst the mess of the coffee table. Only a quiet, cold feeling remained, even as it caught fire. Holding out the empty bowl before me on the tips of my fingers, I studied its plastic ridges. There was nothing that would bring it back.\nThe man, once so assured of himself, was cast into the garbage. He was as discarded as the food in my stomach. In the depths of my heart I wanted to bring him back to life, to kiss those pallid, smiling lips into bloom and assure him that he would be remembered. Smoke clouded the room the more I exhaled, but it was still cold. As I moved towards bed, I spotted something on the floor. It was the receipt from yesterday, the runt whose smudged body had been further deformed by misplaced foot, causing it to tear nearly in two.\nBending over, I picked it up and stared at the content — the merchant info was illegible. I grabbed a pen from piles of garbage on the counter and scribbled a large M where it should have been. The transaction ID was half faded, irrecoverable. The itemized section was clear in some places, but not insofar as to tell what kind of burger it had been, given the split right through the item. Trying to wrack my brains, nothing came up; I tried fitting the broken ends together, but it did not really make it any more clear. The burger was pretty bland, so nothing helped to signify just what it might have been. Only that there was one of them (seen through the evident x1) and that I had eaten it. The price was perfectly fine, as too was the mode of pay and the legal policy scrawled upon its bottom. Dropping the pen, I truly looked at it. Reading the, “Thank You!” inscribed on its head, it felt like a joke. For the first time, I felt no reason to hold onto the receipt. Without another thought, I discarded the delicate sheet alongside the ramen bowl. I wanted to apologise, but it had no ears to hear me.\nWeeks passed. Nothing in my life had truly changed since that day. I had a feeling that the night had spurred something inside of me, but when I arrived to buy the morning coffee next morning, I relapsed into habit. I had traced my finger across the thin layer of polymer and it felt as if the hole had been mended somewhat. The faint, plasticy smell of the resin secreted from its pores and brought something like consolation as I had stood against the current of the morning breeze, pushing into me like an opposing tide. But it was not as my fears had been allayed. Since that night I have had a curious knot in my chest, worsened not when collecting the receipts themselves, but when I withdrew them by the end of the day, when categorising them into their little boxes. Somehow, it felt like a betrayal. A disembodied smile would flash to mind. Maybe it was a sin of some sort, but it was hard to tell given my inexperience with those kinds of things. The doors opened with the faint toll of a bell. It had changed since last time, sounding almost like what you might hear on the top of a church. Mechanically, I sorted through the columnal nave, reaching to pick up dinner. Whatever promotion had put a man’s face on the lid had passed, now bearing naught but an edited image of the food alongside some cartoonish caricatures. I sorted it into my basket.\nComing to the counter, I was met with a smile. Her face, eminently visible now, was smooth, almost like thermal paper.\n“No glasses anymore?” I asked, the words escaping me.\n“Contacts,” she responded genially. As I placed the items on the counter neatly, she began to scan them. The pinks of her nails were visible to the eye. She spoke up again, following my gaze, “I guess I switched one small hassle for another,”\n“It suits you, either way,”\nShe laughed as she continued her work, before abruptly looking upwards once more. “Your receipt?” the question hung upon the air.\n“Yes,”\nWith those words the paper began to feed through the machine, almost before I spoke them. Watching, I saw the result — the thermal head had not made its prescribed contact, so the sheet came out blank and white. The tear was perfect. Without paying particular mind to it, she handed it to me. I knew its ailment even as I took it from her hand. She only seemed to when she saw me hold the perfectly transparent sheet before me, its emptiness clear by the light which seemed to shimmer through it.\n“Ah, it makes these mistakes sometimes. I can fix it up, if you like,”\nTurning to her, something like a smile broke across my face as I shook my head. Grabbing the plastic bags from the counter, I walked from the store, the door shutting behind me as I left that rigidity behind. I used to think that it was the paper which burned those memories into reality, but they were only really warm for a moment.\n","date":"24 January 2026","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/posts/your-receipt/","section":"Posts","summary":"Can you make a heart of paper?","title":"Your Receipt?","type":"posts"},{"content":"A path that began at the forearm, she traced the subtle ripples of musculature through the silken veneers towards the rigid curve, however gracious, bringing her to the stalk of white. A sheer, wiry fulcrum from which his head blossomed. From the lidded hoods which curtained all but what was before her, she caught enough to see his lips twist into a smile. She returned one, folding her hands upon themselves as she lowered her eyes once more to the creamy decadence below.\nShe could hear their voices. Their insults, resentment. Their envy. At last she lifted her gaze, seeing distorted faces through the fine latticework which separated them by decree. They could not hold a candle to her. Russet villages and duller greys had conceived them, inherent in the slashes of ebony that cut through their visages. Born to the simplicity of the modern world, they could never bear her ilk, nor ever truly understand what it was to be implicit within the winding wooden halls, decorum somewhat like the paulownia leaves which ornamented the intricate trellises.\nTurning her back to them, it was a flaunting act. One done with delicacy, to brandish the untarnished fabric she lay swaddled within, a veritable doll which would have flattered any lesser dress. Her skin, lacquered in the marbled polish of an unparalleled craftsman. By touch, he swivelled her chin to meet his gaze. It was gentle, yet imperfect. The lines drawn with a certain prideful flourish. His eyes were soft in their shrouds, the bones situated right, lips pursed and full. Yet it was not enough. It was still flowering, an inchoate form of a greater shape yet unseen. She would draw it out from him. She had worn on his patience enough, she could see. The desire was palpable, intoxicated by her, in the temptation of what he thought was to come.\n“Touch me,”\nWith a faint smile, she stood and moved towards the corner of the room. From within a wooden chest, inlaid with golden vines, came another much alike. With a delicate hand it too opened and from within she laid her hands upon black leather gloves. A perfect fit as she returned to his side, placing a palm on his cheek. In spite of the distance, it had a pronounced effect. Slowly dragging her across his cheek, her cold touch lit a fire across his skin, dyeing the white a momentary red with her touch which disappeared as did her fingers.\nHe wanted for more. Slowly, his fingers began to slide from hard wood to the delicate folds of her white gown until he reached the enamel which lay within the folds of her bodice. Holding impossibly still, she continued to touch until he undid the first button. As it came undone, her hand retreated softly, not so much a reaction but rather discipline. It was she who reigned. Without another word, she rose once more and began to depart, ignoring the faint whimpers of apology he left in her wake.\nAs she returned to her chambers her retinue went to work, unravelling her body from its silken cocoon. Their hands worked with skill, but a cool form of distance as if they were made of the same porcelain that made up her kitchens. Looking to their faces, she could see naught but their headdresses, the girls bent over in work as if proselytising before her.\nOnce her body was bare she felt a shiver travel up her spine. She remained motionless, however, absorbing the feeling as they began to unravel the knots in her hair. Not raising her voice, she wanted to ask for robes while they continued their work unheeding of the wintry breeze which flowed through the wide breathy halls of her estate. But for whatever reason, the voice died on her tongue. She had grown accustomed to bearing discomfort in silence, so she simply waited whilst her body was worked upon by the hands of so many courtiers. Their cold fingers traced across her skin, as if attempting to coax something out of her. The pain felt somewhat perverse, as if its acknowledgement of it would be a cause for shame. Through the shutters in her grand chambers she could see abundances of snow lazily floating onto the expansive yard amidst the umbral dark of night; the pond, covered in a thin sheet of ice, was likewise blanketed by white drifts that would give way so easily to touch. At last it became too much to bear and her body gave way to a shiver as the maids at once halted their efforts.\n“My lady!”\nLooking down, blood had begun to trickle down her leg. It was dark, almost the colour of midnight. As if from the deepest depths of within.\nAs the sun rose in the darkened sky, a golden eye which wept light onto the pure, unadulterated powder that she gazed onto as she dressed for the morning. By contrast, she seemed dirty. The blood had been wiped from her skin but its traces remained, their immaculate work undone by soft droplets near the lip which blotted her inner thigh subtly. Draped in the trappings of her rank, she made for him once more. He occupied a room in the estate opposite to her own, causing it to be somewhat of a trek to meet with him. While they would tend to meet by happenstance, brushing together in the library or by chance seeing each other across the yard, today was different. It was as if she was being pulled towards him, at least today. She exhaled into puffs of smoke, caught in the chill that remained with the sun. Her ears had begun to freeze but she had instructed that nothing should cover her today. She had to display herself as she was, the blood red tips of her extremities perhaps even providing more blush to liven her face.\nLightly, she knocked upon his door. Dominated by a feeling of impatience, she took her time to adjust the fineries of the filigree embellishments that lined her neck and down her body towards her hips.\nNo one came. She opened the door to find an empty room, wispy with the hush of death that consumes any place so accustomed to being lived in, then stripped of it. She felt as if it had been hollowed out, his clothing shed about like viscera as he had come out, evolved. Still, it was not right to have her wait for him. Arriving in the great hall, she called an attending maid and asked her.\n“My cousin. What of him?”\n“My lady…”\n“Find him,”\nShe would not have it slip away, not have him slip away from her grasp. She was his sun, light and divine, nourishing the chrysalis which was now on the verge of shedding its skin and becoming worthy of her. All that was left for him now was to break down, to reach out and take her wrist — to wrap her in his fiery embrace, leaving her powerless to resist. He had not the courage before, but now that he had come out on his own behalf, it was necessary that they must meet.\nAs she fixed her gaze on the downfall which had become even worse than it had been yesterday, she saw in the midst of the storm a sole figure, solemn and almost fragile in the forecourt in a slow procession towards the front gate. She wanted to scream out, to call him back before he left into the untamed wilds of the dark city which the estate sat solemnly above, free from. Instead, she simply watched him go, speaking to a servant who drew open the large, ornate gates and disappearing into the city.\nStrangely, she found herself worrying for him as the day progressed. She spent the day with her eyes fixed on the gates, even as the snow faded into a storm of rain which seemed to cut away and into the white, turning it quickly into greyish mounds as the loud droplets struck at the wood above her head. Without heeding it, she tapped her wooden sandal to the floor, as if worried.\nIn truth, he had come to her as barely anything more than a boy. He was timid by nature and prone to flights of concern whenever not swaddled in the reassurance of her word. It was another rainy day, visitors had been filling from her property as the day wound to a close. She had been taken that day by a suitor who had come to claim her with the hushed assurance of a large fortune and anything that she had or will ever want for. What the lowly beings never truly understood is that she had never wanted in the first place — but intending to string him along, she had brushed up close, pressing her bosom against his arm as they strolled the expansive gardens together. When he offered his hand in marriage she had simply smiled, admiring the gloves he had given her as a sign of his deliberateness. The hundreds of letters from him in the months afterwards that she discarded into the flames of her hearth was worth the sight of him, hunched over in worry as she found him alone in their private little sanctuary, separated from the dining hall by latticework that cut them apart from the rest of the mansion.\nAs she sat in the very same place, she felt disgusted at herself. It was as if she could feel the ghosts on the opposite side of that screen leering at her, a chorus of hatred which wanted naught but to ravage her, to unleash their resentment all at once and to see her sink beneath it.\nThrough the black frame she could see the figure of a man. He was dripping with rain, but she could not see his face with the leaves which blocked the sightline. Taking a seat among the rows of the great hall, he was brought tea by a maid, to whom he whispered something soft, inaudible. The girl giggled in response, a grating noise. Slowly rising from her spot, she looked towards the chest in the corner of the room and decided to do without it for today. Opening the door, he did not turn back until she was above him. Rain fell heavy from above, drowning out the noise of her lips pressing into his. It was a deep embrace, tight. Her nails dug deep into the white of his flesh, clinging to the ivory as if winter would never come again. Where her fingers pressed the red remained, permanent like a brand. Digging deeper, her tongue bore its way into his mouth as she moved to claim him. As he moved to return the gesture, she could feel his hands. They were cold. Unbuttoning quickly, they met in the passions of lust, her naked body pressed to his.\nShe thought she could hear the individual droplets coming to the basin of her soul. His skin was no ivory, but rather blood red. She had tainted him with her touch. As he exhaled slowly into her ear, white mixed with red and slowly peeled herself from the supple body and quickly dressed herself, before leaving the room hurriedly. In her half disrobed state, she could hardly hear his entreaties. They were drowned out by the rain that tainted the pure, delicate decor that had once shone with such unalloyed grace, illuminated into a crystalline twinkle by the sheer and singular force of the sun.\n","date":"17 January 2026","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/posts/menses/","section":"Posts","summary":"The pure white tainted by the sin of man.","title":"Menses","type":"posts"},{"content":"","date":"17 January 2026","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/tags/period-piece/","section":"Tags","summary":"","title":"Period Piece","type":"tags"},{"content":"It feels as if it was just yesterday that the lost child had been nervously holding his hand as he led her back home. The forested valley, where once a proud village stood, had turned to charred cinders. All was silent as smoke rose in pillars from the desolation. The cruelty of it all was too much to bear. Like some wild beast’s prey, twisted into an amalgamation of black and red after heaving its final breath, leaving behind only the remains of its bloody carcass. Slowly he led her away from the ashes, away from all she had known, their feet leaving impressions in the mud — perhaps the only sign that some still lingered within the ruins. Her hand tightened around his and trembled violently.\nPerhaps it was to pierce the veil of the evening dark, or it was his mind searching for something to soothe the terrified child who stood by his side, but suddenly he recalled a lullaby his mother had used to sing to him when he was a child. She wouldn’t recognise the long dead language it was sung in, but all the same it held a certain peace which he couldn’t have expressed through empty consolations. It used to be sung to him in a low hum meant to soothe when he couldn’t sleep. As his voice trailed off into the night sky, she seemed to be looking somewhere far away, to the stars illuminated the horizon and stretched out endlessly before them, just above the reach of the towering sentinels which stood fast about them. Led by his voice, she seemed to melt into the blinding array of light in the sky, her shaking subsiding if only for just a moment. For giving her a brief moment to forget the desolation she had walked away from, he would eternally be grateful: a silly, pointless song it might have been, but it gave her comfort when everything seemed so dark.\nDays changed into weeks as he began a search for someone to take her in. He wanted someone more capable than he, someone who understood the plights of an orphaned girl; under the guise of doing her a kindness, he was trying to give her away — as if to wipe his hands clean of the whole situation. It wasn’t his place to raise a child. It was a bud he lacked the care or experience to help grow — much less one in the midst of a storm. Every morning he would wake her, make the poor child walk for hours, only to be met with empty homes, the glaring eyes of mistrustful strangers, or more burnt ashes. All the while she sullenly followed behind him, grasping his hand tightly as if afraid of letting go.\n“I’m sorry,” he had said to her one quiet night. He was exhausted and out of options: he spoke sincerely and without a hint of the awkward hesitance that caused so many of his attempted reassurances and condolences to die on his tongue. She had lost her home, there was nowhere left for her anymore, as if she was a single droplet which was whisked into the great expanse of an uncaring ocean. The girl stood, casting her eyes down to the ground, nervously trembling, as she mustered up a response.\n“Could I stay with you?”\nThere was a long pause, after which he slightly nodded, his features still chiselled in stone as if he hadn’t considered even the possibility of the question. It had been a few months since they had met, but it was now that he first saw her smile. It was a small, beautiful smile which was distinctly her. He would never forget it.\nThe recluse that he was, children were a tall task; so, rather than act as her looming eye over her shoulder, he played the part as a guide, teaching her how to live but not holding the reins. He was more at ease that way, cowardly as it might have been. This deference, though, let him focus on passing on something meaningful once she grew into adulthood: it placed an emphasis on the acquisition of skills necessary to survive — something he knew. Thereafter, he took great care in instructing principles into her, even taking some pride in it. She was a very bright child and latched onto new things instantly, diligently following his word. She appeared to hold a deep love for learning, seemingly enchanted by all the new things he taught her, a childish wonder stirring an endless desire to unfold that which were just beyond her reach. But still he was plagued by apprehension: was that feeling really her own? Was he hemming her into a life she was secretly unhappy with? She was growing up in front of his eyes, and as the years drew on his doubts swelled within his chest, all the while he silently wished for their moment together would last just a bit longer.\nThe heavy mahogany sheets covered up her frail body as she coughed with sickness. She was burning hot from fever. It was an anxiety he had never felt before, as he fussed over her recovery. Medicinal herbs ground into paste by her bedside, an empty bowl of soup, and damp cloth surrounded her like offerings around her ensconced body. An unconscious foot was tapping against the floor as she breathed unevenly beside him. As he gently pressed a hand on her forehead to check on her again, she reached for his hand and clasped it in hers.\n“Stay… please,” she said in a faltering voice.\nHe gave her a tender nod in response.\nAs she grew into adulthood, she became much more headstrong. One who wanted to spread her wings and fly from the little nest they had built in their short time together. It was a necessary part of growing into oneself, but he let her make that choice herself. She traced a path which she continually conquered, becoming her own person as she managed her way through the chaotic course of her life.\nAs she grew into a fully fledged adult she found someone she loved. He was a similarly bookish boy from a nearby village which had been established recently. He was a little stubby, with a mop of brown hair and eyes which always seemed fixated on some point in the far distance. The two became inseparable after their frequent run-ins growing up, though he could not say he approved of the match. More and more the boy would venture deep into the woods to keep the girl company, and as time passed he felt as if he was getting in their way.\n“Might I have her?”\n“She isn’t mine to give,”\nWinding their way through life together, they at last became one. She had found a place to be, and so, she left. It was something he ought not to interfere with. He was an outsider, only with her for a brief time. It wasn’t his place. It was at that time he decided to leave too — to dislodge himself from the tangle that was the life of a little human child he briefly knew. Leaving was a prospect he never before considered, but one he felt urged into by the growing pit in his chest. The girl was gone, too far to reach anymore: but the fondness he felt for her didn’t go away. It was something that had been sewn deeply into the fabric of his heart, it was a dazzling, vivid colour given to his life of grayscale. To have it taken was far too cruel.\n── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──\nIt was many years of wandering. From town to town like a wandering spectre seeking refuge in the lands of men. He had settled in a town far from his home forest. The people there treated him with hospitality; a menial people, brought up on the scent of spring in their valley hidden deep within the mountains — what they lacked in means they made up for in kindness: they had welcomed him as one of them the moment he had stepped through their gates.\nHe was greeted with flowers from his students that morning, a mixture of various species found all throughout the village to create a multicoloured wreath. It was the fashion of the town to award them on great occasions, and in this case it was as thanks for his efforts as a teacher. They gave their thanks in turn, as today was the day they were to graduate. The children shone so brightly, their smiles as he addressed them in turn, thanking them and wishing them well into the future. This sentimentality was a feeling which he had learned, and it was one he would keep forever in his heart. Each child reminded him of the warmth of the first one he had taken in, though that memory had faded: he could hardly even recall her face. This parting too hurt, but as long as he had known them they had confided their hopes to him: to become a great adventurer, to sail the seas, to help those in need. All had made a choice, and thus it was inevitable, an intrinsic part of their short human lives that they must at some point part. He had come to realise this difficult part of human relationships very early. During his travels he had been separated from those he held close by death, by distance, and even by time. At each point the ache of their parting never lessened, opening a fresh wound into his exposed, beating chest, but it was something that he nevertheless continued to search for.\nHe softly retreated to his home. The evening deadened the town into a hush quiet, as all the colour was drained as the imposing shade embraced the valley. As time faded deeper into dusk, the dim twilight availed a modest reprieve from the otherwise total black of night’s reign. There was a faint knock at the door. Slowly rising from the chair he had sunken into, he ambled towards the sound. As it creaked open, he was met with a woman. Her face creased with the line of age, but its shape was vaguely familiar.\n“Have we met before?” he said, deep in a biting contemplation that had already begun to eat into him. He felt that this stranger was important, somehow, but he could not place where they had met.\nIn her eyes there flashed a deep sadness despite her features which seemed imbued with a satisfaction, like she had gotten what she came for. He could not discern what lay beyond them. He had been moving around for decades, building temples within himself in devotion to the people he met — and yet, he could not place this woman who seemed to be searching for him. He felt the need to apologise, but he knew that wouldn’t make her feel any better. She whispered a brief apology before excusing herself. As she turned to leave he felt a strong desire to say something aloud, but nothing ever reached his lips. He bit his tongue as he stared at her silhouette slowly disappearing into the night.\n── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──\nIt was another time. Another place. He had been on the move again, no more sure of his aim than he had decades ago when he started from the forest for the first time. As he passed through the sun bleached streets, he took a moment to pause in the shade of the impressive stone tower which crowned the now desolate town. He was weighed down by a blanket of fatigue. He had come so far, and yet he was no closer to mending the constant ache he felt. The air was stiff and heavy as he started once more, carrying himself onwards to nowhere in particular. The village, far removed from its former splendour, stood on the brink of collapse, and he wasn’t interested in living out its final few years. The phantoms which still remained seemed as ancient as the stones which made the foundations of their homes.\nClouds of dust clouded the road as his legs bore him from one empty building to another. It was a hollow husk of a settlement, one that gave the impression of once having been a major landmark, a place of commerce and wealth that had since fallen into ruin. It was a wonder that there were still people living among the crumbling stone walls. Like little insects slowly eating away at the bones of a wondrous beast centuries after it had died. It was erosion that had caused its collapse: once the river shifted its course and the town was separated from its vital support, it could no longer survive on its own.\nIt became dark. As he reached the edge of town, he could see a river in the far distance. The same one that abandoned the decaying town which he left behind. Beside it he saw the light of a city. Finding an empty home that stood overlooking the town, he laid down to rest on the softly packed dirt. As he drifted slowly towards sleep, he thought of his mother. Her arms cradling him as his chest rose and fell in regular intervals.\n“My boy,” she said gently. “I’ll always love you, okay? Don’t forget that, no matter how long I’m gone,”\nHe said nothing in response. She played with his hair as he sunk further and further into slumber. She began to hum a song that he had long forgotten. One that she always used to sing to him whenever he was crying, whenever he was having trouble with sleep, whenever he was sick. He had heard it thousands of times: he cherished that song deeply, but he hadn’t thought of it for decades now. Why was that? As he lay still in the arms of the one who he cherished so much, he thought of what he would give to feel her touch again. She had been gone for so long that these last few decades felt like the blink of an eye. As he continued to drift like an ebb and flow, his eyes closed as his mind began to focus on the song she sang.\nIt was a song he remembered well. One that reminded him of a girl with a bright smile from long ago. Her long forgotten face flashed in his mind. How long had it been? It had been years since she had come to him in that village in the mountains, where that woman had come to see him. He was now certain that it was her. He had given nothing back to that child. He must have hurt her terribly. Was it too late to see her once more? Was it even right for him to see her? Looking towards the distant horizon, he searched for the forest which was long beyond his sight. Would she still be there waiting for him? It didn’t matter to him — whether he was too late, or whether she didn’t want to see him — he was going back to see her anyway. He felt it was something like a duty, tinged with a selfish desire to see her face one more time. It was nothing more than selfish ambition, but it set aflame a dormant ash which lay in his chest.\n── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──\nHer home lay close to where she had spent her youth. It was a modest cabin that lay on an open field of blooming flowers. As he stumbled through it, he saw children playing in the yard. A young woman setting laundry out to dry. A young man at work splitting logs. It was a place that teemed with life. A stiff breeze fluttered through the field, blowing the grass toward its side as if in reverence to the home he approached, as he continued his unsteady march towards the home which lay at the centre of it all. Receiving queer looks from the residents — the family — of the girl he once knew, he was called over by the young lady of the home. Before he had the chance to exchange words with her, she dismissed him with a knowing glance, and quietly opened the front door and ushered him inside. Following her through the home, they at last came upon the room. She bowed and took her leave.\n“You remembered,” she spoke in a quavering voice, barely above a whisper. A weary smile on her lips.\nApproaching the bedside of the dying old woman, he responded with his own small, sad smile as he sat beside her. Looking upon the girl for what would be the last time, he watched as her faint breaths made the sheets she rested under rise and fall, slowly. It had been many years. Far too long. A strange feeling welled up in his chest: a swelling of longing tinged with a warm glow which had always burned brightly in the sea of his heart. But she was right in front of him. The girl he had raised. The timid little child who loved when he told her stories of his past. The one who devotedly studied his teachings to the point of exhaustion, and teased him when he overslept for her lessons. He was enveloped by that strange warmth as he reminisced on the child which now lay before him.\n“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, Aria. I-”\n“Don’t apologise,” she spoke softly, her words fading into the faint breeze which blew in from outside. “You came back for me. That’s enough,”\nShe extended her hand and clasped it in his. It was the last time he felt her warmth, but still it made him happy to remember it. Silence crept in as her hand faintly trembled in his, so he began to hum the song they shared long ago.\n","date":"22 March 2024","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/posts/an-aria-everlasting/","section":"Posts","summary":"Each star a song.","title":"An aria everlasting","type":"posts"},{"content":"","date":"22 March 2024","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/tags/fantasy/","section":"Tags","summary":"","title":"Fantasy","type":"tags"},{"content":"","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/authors/","section":"Authors","summary":"","title":"Authors","type":"authors"},{"content":"","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/categories/","section":"Categories","summary":"","title":"Categories","type":"categories"},{"content":"","externalUrl":null,"permalink":"/series/","section":"Series","summary":"","title":"Series","type":"series"}]