AUTHOR: Aeriel Holman
ACTIVITY: Point of View
Approx. Words: 575
DATE: February 21, 2012 (created)
NOTES: This was my first assignment for my Eng. 11 Creative Writing Class. We had to write a story in first person. The twist was to write about an experience that was not our own. I decided to do mine based on a crazy person I had somewhat known about. Being well experienced in all POV (first, second, and the three third persons), I decided to instead focus on a type of genre through first person. Having read about "bizzaro" fiction, and read a story or two in this genre, I tried my hand at it. Go on and tell me how I did!
Where It's Going
Where are you now? she asked me, in that much too boyish voice that was much too syrupy-sweet. It floated above me, guiding me in my quest. My closed eyes opened, bright and blazing, awash in the scenery unfolding before me.
Suspended boulders of haphazard units of time and space and dimension were shifting, dancing in a waltz like a sylph of deathly movement. Velvet and decadent. I could call out to her, but I knew she was following me steady, with her gossamer wings of light and ambivalence. A staff of justice, wrapped in scarlet ribbons, and those trinkets of great and awesome power dangling in the windless wind.
"I can see it—there!" I pointed, one finger without gloved protection. I can't see her, but she lingers behind with a shadow, and even her own dark disguise behind her lingers, leeching off a pale neck and gorging itself in sickly red sweetness.
The monster guarding our truth of cherry blossom tree awaits…
Somewhere midnight and black and shadowy, I approach him on undeveloped land turned occult and criminal. Holding a sword of the roughest oak, I point it at our opponent—daring him to show himself. He shimmers and slides in shadows, part of nothing, and part of the blue-colored everything.
When I felled the terrible creature after hours, days, millennia, I roared in his ashes that drifted in the whirlwinds like snow.
After I return home, its warm and solid beneath steel booted feet. The figure behind me stares solemnly. Although we should rejoice at the toppled defeat of our enemy by percolated song and by saccharine drink, she tells me through wide, white eyes, "You lost," and it vaguely echoes, "You've lost—"
Focus, where are you now?
By rights, I blink at the strange wisp of a man in my scarred arms. He who would prefer bloodshed to love… or was it love to bloodshed? Ah, no, I remember it now—love by bloodshed. Pointed teeth smile at me. Was it he who I fought on this journey of truth? No matter, I cling to him for hope of truth. For, truth I do know. It knows me and is my friend and we have courted, laughing all the while at the perilous web of "half-truths" and dared to stand beneath a waterfall of omissions.
It's cold, and hot. Like when ice burns to the touch, and fire makes you freeze as it licks porous skin. In my castle, I'm swaddled in leather, and yet, without the Kingly clothes. Decorated by flashes of vivid colors in a Charmed Book before me, screaming with owl screeches, "Believe! Believe! To Be is to Lie! V! Victory!"
For some reason, I see tiny pink pills in my hand. They smile at me like the Hidden One, should I ever see that covered face again, or is it the mask that pervades the face? A devil of an opera…
Wake up. Snap.
My closed eyes open to see the good doctor, almost breathless, uncertain what to say from that lofty, cushioned seat. But I've always known what to say, even if I don't know where it's going: "Sorry, forgot where I was for a second… It's fun, this odd white jacket like her eyes. It's as if it's trying to keep the pieces of me together. Didn't anyone ever find that ironic? Wait, is it poetic justice? Oh, well, guess you've lost, too, Doc."