a-court-of-ink-and-fire

[a-court-of-ink-and-fire]

reflection

This semester, my writing has changed. I have spent years cultivating a writing style, but like any art form, it is ever-evolving, and before the start of the semester, I had horrible writer's block for months. This class provided helpful prompts that got my creative juices flowing, and in fact, I wrote one of my favorite pieces in this class (The Iron Fears the Rot). Outside of the course, I have also been able to pursue my personal endeavors, such as plotting out the outline of my own book and writing small pieces here and there for my friend.

There's always room for improvement in writing; while I have been at this since I was a kid, I am no exception. I love learning new things and learning ways to improve my grammar, story-telling, pacing, etc. I think there's always a way to become better as a writing, and stagnating or deciding you're "too good" for that will only hinder you as a creative. 

I love writing and have loved the art form ever since I can remember. I have been an avid reader since I first learned to read, and reading is the number 1 best way to improve one's writing skills. It's beautiful to watch how someone's mind works through their writing and how different every person's writing style is. You can draw inspiration from other types, of course, but something always makes it unique to every individual.

I loved the novel that I was assigned, The Black Kids. I'm thrilled I was given it over my first pick because it's enriched my life. Christina Hammonds-Reed has a unique writing style; every page was engaging and kept my attention. Her descriptions were so creative and drew comparisons in nature that I would never have thought of. Overall, I will reread that book a few more times. I already have it thoroughly tabbed, but I can find more things to annotate.

[a-court-of-ink-and-fire]

draft

“You like cats?” 

Beadie makes a face, her thin red lips curling into a sneer at the sight of the fluffy grey splotch on her couch. 

“No,” she says, plucking the pearls from her ears and massaging the lobes. She tips her palm over the glittering glass seashell that houses piles of jewelry, and the earrings settle delicately next to an ornate sapphire, gilded at the edges and connected to a thin golden chain. “Zeddy insists on leaving cans of tuna out on my fire escape for the little beasties, and now word has spread ‘round the neighborhood, I suppose. Like I’m running some kind of Kitty Hilton.” 

“Puh-lease,” Zed scoffs. He collapses in a heap next to the cat, who hardly even stirs as he gathers it into his lap. Its pointed face fits in the cupped palms of his hands like murky water, and I catch a glimpse of jewel-bright green eyes as it blinks and chirps at my friend.  

“You love Ziggy just as much as I do,” he says. Ziggy stretches, smoky limbs straining toward the sloped ceiling, and stands on Zed’s leather-clad legs. It chirps and bumps Zed’s hand with its head, demanding pets as recompense for disturbing its slumber. Zed obliges, cradling Ziggy’s furry face in both hands and bending forward to plant messy purple kisses all over its forehead. 

“Ziggy, then Freddie, then Billie Joe, then Rocket-Man,” Beadie recites, edging her fingers beneath the lip of her already peeling wig. She wiggles the digits into the gaps near her temples and pulls; I watch her milky skin stretch and snap back into place as she relieves her head of the undoubtedly immense weight of the hairpiece, and her eyes roll up in ecstasy once she’s yanked the last stubborn spot from the nape of her neck.  

Beneath the synthetic blonde fibers, Beadie is completely bald. Her real hair is thin and white, like wispy clouds rolling over the expanse of her skull. The patches of flesh within her steep widow’s peak are pale and freckled, like white blobs above her otherwise tanned and bronzed face.  

“What’s that hideous one called, the one with the bald tail?” she asks Zed in the mirror. She slings her wig over her shoulder like a shawl and brings both hands up to scratch at the skin, red nails moving in spirals all around her skull.  

“Cyndi, and she isn’t bald, you ass,” Zed says. “Her tail was broken and when I took her to get it fixed, the vet had to shave it.” 

Beadie rolls her eyes and waves a dismissive hand. “Semantics. They all piss on my furniture and coat every solitary inch of my home with hair.” 

“Oh, like your ex-husband?” 

Beadie whirls and chucks her wig right at Zed’s face. He laughs and plops it on his own head, chunks of pale yellow spilling through the harsh black angles of his liberty spikes. It looks like an animal caught within the tarry black spokes of a trap. 

[a-court-of-ink-and-fire]

sunday afternoon

Ally smacks the carpet with open palms, creating bursts of noise that excite her puppy. His lanky, cream-colored body bows in front of her bent posture, ready to strike. His long tail sticks straight into the air like the pale feather of a quill. Ally leans further into her dog’s face, undeterred by his mouthful of gleaming white teeth, and after a beat of silence, pounds her hands on the floor again while barking out a resounding “Woof!”   

She falls back on her haunches and giggles as her dog darts away, his long, awkward body flopping and tripping over itself in excitement as he barks at her.  

“Get ‘er, Linguini!” Emily laughs from her spot on the loveseat. She spreads her open book across her thigh, highlighted pages splayed out over her stained black leggings, and adjusts herself, so her back is flush with the corner of the sofa.  

“He’s so funny,” Ally snickers.  

“He’s gotten so big,” Emily remarks. She unplugs her vape from where it rests, silver and stocky, on the arm of the loveseat. After a deep breath, she blows out a cloud of Fruity Pebbles scented vapor that descends over my head like fog.  

“Oop, shit, sorry,” she says, waving her hand in my direction to dispel the remaining vapor. I shrug, mirroring the motion of her swinging hand.  

“You know I don’t care," I say.

“Is he still trying to bury his head like an ostrich at home?” Nadine asks. She pushes her thick glasses up her nose and spreads her fingers inside her open book, saving her place. “Like, in your bed, blankets, and stuff?”  

Ally nods. “Yeah, like, mostly while I’m sleeping, which is annoying.”  

“He’s just a little boy!” Nadine cries, gesturing wildly to Linguini with the pastel quilt draped over her shoulders. He sits in front of Ally, tongue lolling out of his mouth, dark eyes bright and attentive as they dart between Nadine and his mother. He reaches one massive paw up and brings it down against Ally’s cheek.  

“Ow!” She moves back, allowing his paw to fall in her lap, and grabs her injured cheek. He sniffs at her, pushing his wet nose against the side of her head before she pushes it back.  

“Asshole!” 

[a-court-of-ink-and-fire]

observation

The flickering, fluorescent light above my head buzzed monotonously, casting long shadows across the sterile white walls of the room. Crude paintings of children’s cartoon characters smiled at me, their eyes black and empty. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, thin paper crinkling and tearing beneath my weight and sweat-damp skin. I became aware of two things simultaneously – I was cold, so cold in fact my teeth couldn’t stop chattering and my skin was rippled with goosebumps, and I was stark naked beneath the flimsy hospital gown tied loosely behind my back and neck.  

I contemplated pressing my back against the wall to avoid the prying eyes of...someone. Where was everyone? I looked around. 

To my left, a tray of silver medical supplies lay untouched, unused. They seemed so severe, so mismatched with the childlike atmosphere of the room. I swallowed hard; my mouth was so dry I could feel the little saliva I had managed scraping down the sides of my throat. A sink stood across from me, water dripping steadily into the stainless-steel basin, flanked by a box of blue latex gloves, a bright red sharps container, and a hand sanitizer dispenser.  

The wall opposite me was barren. In the place where medical posters would usually be splayed toward the ceiling sat a vast expanse of nothing. The top right corner of the room was marked with a surveillance camera, steadily swiveling back and forth. Its glassy eye shone down at me with indifference; there was a blinking red light just beyond the eye, signifying that whatever was happening to me was being recorded. 

What was happening? I scooted forward just enough that the tips of my toes brushed across the tile floor. There was no door in this room, so how had I gotten here? What had I been doing before? What reason would I have to be stuck, mostly naked, in what looked like a pediatrician's office straight from my nightmares? 

I approached the unnerving blank wall. Fingers trembling, I reached a hand out to touch it. It was smooth, icy...like glass.  

An alarm blared above my head, and I dropped to my knees, clapping both hands over my ears to attempt to block out the noise. “Subject 4, please step back from the observation wall,” commanded a voice in between the sharp bursts of the alarm. 

[a-court-of-ink-and-fire]

therapist's office

The early morning sun bounces off the cream-colored walls, interrupted only by the thin white blinds on the window. The quaint room smells faintly of eucalyptus and coffee, simultaneously medicinal and inviting. My shoes squeak against the hardwood as I inch to the navy-blue couch crowded against the wall. There are paintings and motivational posters pasted along the walls, some kissed by sunbeams, others clustered in the corner where my therapist's computer resides.   

The cushions of the couch almost envelop me entirely as I sit down. In front of me is a small, round table holding only a box of soft tissues and a bottle of hand sanitizer. It's the kind you spray onto your palms instead of squeezing a glob of alcohol between them. My therapist rises from the black rolling chair in front of her desktop and smiles; she slides her cloth mask over her nose after we say our hellos. Mine digs into my cheeks – an N95 with thin elastic straps that slip down the back of my head. I keep having to adjust them as I speak.  

My therapist is called Brooks. She's a slight woman, willowy and graceful in her movements. She floats from the corner of the room and flutters closer to me. She sits cloistered in her plush chair, a matching shade of blue to my couch, kind brown eyes observing me above her mask as I speak, a shock of curly black hair pulled neatly into a ponytail behind her head. An automated soundtrack of trickling water supplies a background to our conversation, played on a small white speaker sitting on her desk. I find myself uncomfortable, looking into someone's eyes as I recount why I'm here today, what has happened to me – My Story. So, I choose to look around the room instead.  

A lanky white shelf is near her computer, decorated with small plants in colorful ceramic pots and self-help books. They're all, oddly enough, similar shades of pale green. Mint, sage, seafoam, apple. Is it a coincidence? A picture of a dog is pasted right by where her head would be as she taps on her computer, inputting the details from the rest of her clients; it strikes me how many people's deepest, darkest secrets are floating around in one space, unaware of each other's existence and yet occupying the same area. The dog is beige, with a long black nose pressed against the camera. Its eyes are black and round, the eyes of a teddy bear. Its tongue lolls out of its smiling mouth as I ramble to Brooks.   

I fiddle with the knotted pull cord on the blinds and bounce my leg against the floor. I apologize for avoiding eye contact, and Brooks shakes her head, waves a tan hand in my direction, and pulls her camel-colored, knit cardigan tighter around her lithe frame as she assures me it's "absolutely fine." I wonder how long she's spent cultivating this space, pairing tea green books and white furniture and succulents in pink pots, and if she's kept the room in pastels for a reason. That may be why her chair and my couch are such rich, vibrant colors. So that once you walk in, your eyes are drawn to the places you will both sit for the next hour, chatting about nothing or everything.   

I pick at a piece of lint on the arm of the couch, rolling the pilled fabric between my fingers. I imagine this couch was also a shade of pale green at some point, pea or chartreuse. Maybe so much sadness has spilled onto this couch that it eventually began to absorb it all and turn blue in solidarity. Perhaps every person that has sat where I'm sitting, snotting into a crumpled-up tissue, staring out at the purple mountain range beyond the window, has left their own cerulean mark on this couch until it began to overflow. 

I accidentally kick my metal water bottle as I cross one leg over the other. It clatters to the floor, the sound not unlike the ring of a gong, and I flinch. Possibly more than a person should flinch at a toppled water bottle, which I would surmise is "not at all." Brooks watches me, slender fingers knotted together in her lap. I wonder if I will have stained the couch blue-black with my troubles by the time I leave today. 

[a-court-of-ink-and-fire]

…you can’t “call someone out” for beliefs they no longer hold. that is called digging up irrelevant dirt as an excuse to harass and ostracize someone. i can think of literally nothing more transparently malicious

[a-court-of-ink-and-fire]

All That Glitters

It feels good to be the King. Or, at least, it should.  

The sun, orange and ripe with the heat of summer, char the crumbling remains of the forgotten castle garden. The stone pathway beneath my feet is rife with sprawling yellow weeds crisp with dehydration. I run a gloved hand across the wilted blooms of my mother’s beloved hydrangea bush, the lilac blossoms cracking and fluttering beneath my fingertips. When I was a child, I grabbed a greedy fistful of her flowers without my gloves. I still remember how her face drooped with misery as I presented her with the gilded clusters and the tears that welled in her eyes once she realized I’d poisoned the entire bush with my carelessness.  

The golden pram toppled over on its side at the back of the garden glitters in the sunlight; a baby blanket spills out of its gaping mouth, a flaxen puddle bordered by dead grass and wispy dandelions. A gift from my wife, knitted in the pastel hues of spring to commemorate the birth of our son. I remember the blue she used matched his eyes almost perfectly. If I focus on the pram, I don’t have to focus on the twisted, heinous expressions on the faces of the golden statues surrounding me. I can feel their eyes, unmoving and dingy with patina, burning into my back as I slink past them.  

It doesn’t matter how fiercely I avert my eyes. Their faces, the anguished expressions etched enduringly on their tawny faces, are seared into my memory. They haunt even my waking hours, and they swallow even the sweetest of dreams in the night. Sometimes I swear I can hear their despondent moans through my bedroom window.  

Friends. Family. Loyal members of my court. Inconvenient reminders of my mistakes. Irradiant homages to a foolish King.  

Beyond the pram, my wife kneels. Her once auburn hair falls in golden sheets around her beautiful face; fat teardrops linger on her supple cheeks. I pause just behind her. In her lap, our son cries. His face is scrunched, pinched with discomfort, and his toothless mouth is open in a scream of discontent. His tiny, golden hand curls around my wife’s pointer finger. Eyes the color of a spring sky, shuttered behind golden eyelids. 

[a-court-of-ink-and-fire]

beetle shells

As black as the shells of beetles glimmering in the sunlight, his eyes stare through me. I am glass, transparent and breakable beneath his gaze, and he knows this. He seems determined to shatter me completely. I cannot break away from him; his insectile glare pins me to the spot; his fingers, like talons sharpened against stone, cut into my vitreous flesh.  

He bares his teeth. Snarling, wild, and dripping with foamy white drool, he is a feral and dangerous animal. There is no recognition in his eyes, no remorse for the cracks spiderwebbing across my fragile skin. He admires the prismatic fissures with a sneer. A predator drinking in the sight of his weakened prey. Not a beetle, but a spider, and I am a squeaking, thrashing fly caught in the sticky tendrils of his web.  

He hovers closer, his nose twitching toward my hair, wet lips peeled back across his fanged maw. He inhales my smell, my fear, and savors it; I watch his eyes flutter in ecstasy like beetle wings eagerly attempting flight. My skin splinters. It shivers into pieces that drip delicately onto the floor and collect in iridescent pools around our feet. I scream like silvery bells, and he howls with amusement.  

The malicious glee has drained from his eyes. They are even blacker than before, starless skies hanging above a gaping, hungry mouth. Listless, bored of the liquid glass pouring like opaline fountains from my body. I am not interesting anymore; I did not suffer in a way he deems acceptable enough – I am dinner, simple nourishment. He will devour me and lick the pearlescent blood from his lips before moving on to the next hyaline body; he will not even pluck lustrous sinews from his teeth before he smiles at someone else.