pokey HATES that paul matthews is destined to fall in love with emma perkins in every universe so he just says "screw destiny" and fights tooth and nail to get his human

Pokotho paced the tile floor of Miss Retro's. The human feet that he was now much accustomed to anxiously clicked back and forth across the floor in a rapid albeit hypnotic beat. Holloway picked at the piece of good ol' cherry pie on her plate, lazily breaking it apart with a fork. Otho wheeled around, angry that she hadn't yet said anything of use to him. She knew what was happening, of course she did, she always knew. She was Miss Holloway after all.

Now that he had stopped his anxious teetering about the diner was quiet, save for the gentle click from Holloway's fork and plate, or the loud buzz of a yellow streetlamp outside. He breathed angrily through his nose and his hands clenched to turn his knuckles white.

"It isn't fair!"

"It seldom ever is," Holloway confirmed, smiling softly. Her expression read that while she was trying to be understanding, she found the irony in this situation grating rather than, say, humorous.

"I've been doing so well," Otho argued with no one in particular, words choked through gritted teeth. "I did everything right! I courted him! I showered him with my attentions! We live together for fuck all's sakes! I did everything right and now this! And because why? Because he and Emma are ... They're... simply just..."

He couldn't bring himself to say it. His shoulders had begun shaking and his breathing became loud and shuddery. But he didn't have to say it, because Miss Holloway was not sparing him the sword.

"Inevitable." She finished for him.

Otho choked on a sound that threatened to rip through his throat like hot iron.

"Don't say that," he whispered, his voice full with undeniable defeat.

"Stay Another Day"

Sample taken from my grief journal "Good Mourning, mate"

Share the most emotionally devastating line from your WIP!

I'll go first! (Some context has been omitted for spoiler reasons)

"And then Mom got sick. The music didn’t stop, but the dancing did. ... And then, suddenly, Mom was gone. It was unbearable for a while, but we moved forward. We healed. We danced. We sang. But there was no more singing in Spanish—she left before she could teach us the words."

Every time I review this part, I feel like I'm getting punched in the heart. Anyway! Reblog with your own devastating lines. I wanna feel something!!!!

His hands are in her hair, gripping it. Slowly and firmly tilting her head back as his lips brush along hers. He can feel her body pressed to his, the dull thumping of her heart in her chest. Her fingers clutching at his shirt so tightly her nails dig through his shirt and rack his chest. Their breaths mingle. The heat between them growing as she pushed to her toes and opens her mouth. Inviting him, urging him to touch her more. He finds himself pulling her head back. Making her bend back as he towers over her and leans in to growl against her lips. "What. Do. You Want?!" Snarling as he bites his lips so hard he registers the sharp taste of his own blood before the pain. He licks his lips, the taste stains his tongue as he drags his tongue along the inside of his mouth. Swallowing his desires as he lets her go and steps away from her. She shivers from the loss of his heat. Her hands reach out for him but quickly she snatches them back. "I don't know." She nearly whispers it. Her eyes dart back and forth as her mind races, and he grits his teeth. Jaw clenched and burning as his eyes drink in her figure, and he lets out a deep shaky breath. All the tension in his body releases. Only for him to plant his feet and tense up even more. "Yes, you do."

Samantha Nietz. Heidi Haley. Robyn Calvino. Tabby had overheard those names, in ‘hey, what happened to…’ or ‘did you hear about…’ scraps of gossip. Every school had its scandals, and one the size of Kahoti surely had some juicy ones. She was getting a front row seat to one of them—literally, as Shanti drove them to the Nietz house. Shanti was new to Kahoti herself, as of last August; her father’s job had brought him from Boston to Tampa Bay. With her looks, she turned heads as soon as school started, but even in fall, the school’s dating scene orbited around the baseball team. Jordy got first dibs, which he happily took, and after a fairytale homecoming dance, other perks started piling up in her corner; a spot on the cheer squad, teachers suddenly deciding that D+ essay was really more of a C-, and, of course, magic. Such was life when the Cervantes Mafia took a shine to you. “It never really bothered me that magic was real, you know?” Shanti said airily. “There’s all kinds of crazy stuff out there. But maybe I just didn’t understand it well enough.” Success, of course, bred resentment. Girls who had spent three years on—or wishing they were on—the squad stared daggers at this newcomer flouncing right in and stealing away the school’s biggest hunk. Just before winter break, the three aforementioned girls dreamed up a disgusting prank-slash-threat involving a chunk of raw ground beef, some used tampons, and Shanti’s cheerleading uniform. “I think the beef was what really made me snap. Like, they know I’m Indian, they know that makes it worse. If they’d just used, I dunno, raw fish…” she shrugged. Shanti planned her revenge meticulously. She had Jordy spread rumors about a big blowout New Year’s Eve party for all the cool kids at his uncle’s (fictitious) beachfront place, then drive the girls there the day of. Jordy, apparently terrified that he’d wind up on the hit list himself, complied. Shanti was waiting for them, with a trapping ward to keep them from escaping and enough Ward-Ash to turn their psyches into her playground. Robyn was the animal-noises girl Tabby had heard about, and she did indeed get it the least-bad, thanks to a last minute desperate apology. She would only snort or moo when talking to boys, so at least going gay was still on the table. Heidi was forcibly implanted with a sort of all-consuming nymphomania in return for calling Shanti a whore, to the point where her parents started home-schooling her for her own protection. And Samantha, the raw-beef mastermind, got it the worst of all. Shanti parked in the cul-de-sac in front of the Nietz house and tapped the horn—three quick beeps. Soon, a ghostly figure appeared at a bedroom window, a girl with raggedy hair, sallow skin, and disheveled clothes. “Pathological germophobia,” Shanti said proudly. “She can barely leave the house anymore because she’s so scared of getting infected with something. I made her scared of soap and laundry detergent and stuff too, she thinks they’ll poison her. And the cool part? She knows that’s not true, but her fear is just too strong to ignore. So she just sits in her room, getting filthier and filthier. Maybe she’ll die in there.” Shanti’s final lie, the one that truly sealed her enemies’ fates, was successfully spreading the rumor (again, with Jordy’s help) that they had gone to an even wilder New Year’s party, one with ravers and hallucinogens, and got high enough to get permanently re-wired, explaining their new compulsions and fears. It was a bullshit story, one even a DARE officer wouldn’t buy, but hey, they were all suburban teens, and drugs were scary demons on the nightly news. It worked well enough.

tagged by: @anonymouszephyrus

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like).

-

" Oh, I don't know. Maybe put a certain someone's tip in the fucking garbage?"

Keith huffed dismissively, hand dropping back into soapy, much too cold water. It annoyed him more than it should've, Lance's incessant hovering.

" Don't remember."

-

tagging 5 people! (srry if anyone got tagged twice theres lots of overlap in the group lol)

@featherlight-whispers @kukos-satellite @alohaasaloevera @artbycs @soulreapin

A little silly from my recent writing ^

...

🚗Want to rot your brain with each sporadic Crater City post? Join the taglist! Maybe I'll finish this wip someday, who knows! (Ask to be added/removed): @writeouswriter @lyra-brie @digitalsatyr23 @talesfromtheunknowable @joswriting @mysticstarlightduck

One of my faves right here… 💚

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

New Fortune My Ass! Pt. 1

This very small town of Nueva Fortuna was not as bustling as Clarence anticipated it would be, but considering the fact that they’d built the damn railroad off the main stretch meant that hardly any activity would pass through. He looked around at what little patrons sat around the tables and grumbled to himself.

He would be proud of the whole buying this saloon thing if it hadn’t been for that fact. He’d thought about writing to his sister, Rosemary, but… he knew she wouldn’t be impressed. Too many outlaws and raving drunkards were around too.

He glanced sideways at the parchment and feather hidden under the bar near some alcohol bottles and pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe he’d never write it. Or maybe he hoped the letters he does write never make it to her.

Besides, Clarence was also not fond of the night sky under the roof of a saloon. This time in the evening tended to bring in more of the wanteds, bandits, outlaws, and whatever was out there to cause trouble for common folk.

Even though he’d been foolish in his younger years in identifying as one of them, he found maturity and a more peaceful way to live life. His days were numbered and his old barking mercenary bones needed a long rest. It didn’t help that he now stood behind the counter of one of his more unkind endeavors. Apparently he could not entirely escape the ways of the untamed west.

That was when he opted to close the doors and burn out the lights when a quiet creaking of the swinging door caught his attention.

“Saloon’s closed for the night.”

He was finishing up cleaning and shining glasses for the next day, when a younger male came stumbling in, tripping over his own feet as his determined legs ached to keep moving.

Clarence was agitated, tired from the long day.

‘This damn day just won’t end, will it?’

“I said, the saloon is closed for the night I’m not in the mood for any antics from lowlife—“

He’d turned around to threaten them out, when all he saw was a young boy slumped heavily over a leaning chair. He was unresponsive and looked entirely exhausted, trembling from the cold and coughing weakly as his dry lips failed to move.

“Well I’ll be the devil’s bargain, where did you come from?”

Clarence approached cautiously, but upon more interested inspection, the boy was terribly dehydrated and malnourished, entire body almost caked in dust. He was wrapped in an odd looking poncho.

‘When did they get hoods?’

Clarence had never seen that before.

He didn’t waste any time filling the last of his daily water supply into several cups, then fixed a shot of whiskey on the side.

“Drink up, now… easy does it.”

Still with his jaw tilted to rest on the back of the chair, Clarence helped get a few slow and gentle sips of the water into his parched mouth.

This seemed to perk him up a bit, eyes widening, realizing the taste of water was quenching his needs. It ran down his throat smoothly, and he leaned forwards for more.

He’d finished two glasses before Clarence waved the whiskey glass in front of his nose. The black-haired boy was awake now, gladly accepting the glass with a shaking hand, but Clarence pulled the glass away and put it on the bar. He hadn’t intended for him to drink it.

This kid’s been through hell and back.

“That do it, lad? You must have been stranded out there, no horse, no ride? What’s your name, boy?”

Although his voice was still scratchy and hoarse from the dust, the boy slowly straighten his head and met Clarence’s gaze with eyes riddled with suffering beyond those gleaming emeralds and the dull, buffed shine that glazed them.

“Bruno… Mister.”

♥️♠️♦️♣️♥️♠️♦️♣️♥️♠️♦️♣️♥️♠️♦️♣️♥️♠️♦️♣️

A writing sample of how I play my muse for anyone who’s curious. Was originally going to be a starter but I forgot to post it— 💀

♥️♠️♦️♣️♥️♠️♦️♣️♥️♠️♦️♣️♥️♠️♦️♣️♥️♠️♦️♣️

The hand on the clock struck 11:25 pm, not a single soul around to loiter the barren wasteland that was once known as the famous Shibuya Crossing.

Silence in the Borderland was almost poetic— a rare occurrence, a catacomb of peace that was almost unsettling as opposed to the bloodcurdling screams he’d grown so used to during games, or the late night chaos coming from the Beach’s latest pool party. Straying away from the Beach life wasn’t uncommon for the blond. While he knew the rules stated that leaving was prohibited, Hatter didn’t seem to mind his endeavours every once in a while— as long as he came back with more of those precious cards in tow.

Oh how he’d love to shred said cards right in front of Hatter’s face, watching with a wicked smirk as the man screamed bloody murder and wept about how his chances of getting home had been squandered by none other than a menace.

Chishiya was nearly entertaining that thought, lips already having twinged upwards into the signature Cheshire-Cat smirk as his eyes soaked in the moonlight from up above. Truth be told, he didn’t much care about getting home himself. At least here he could be his true self. A selfish, cold-blooded individual who tricked and deceived his way through life. Perhaps it was wrong of him to enjoy such a hellish world and feed into its brutality, but if he was being perfectly honest..? Borderland felt more like home to him than the real world ever would.

Thoughts that quickly derailed like a runaway train when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed throughout the street, causing him to peer in that general direction from under his hood at the silhouette that slowly approached.

Perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he’d originally thought after all. “..Don’t you know better than to sneak up on people in a world like this? Could be dangerous.” Words spoken in the low timbers of his voice, a hint of amusement to his tone. Just how long had this person been tailing him? And what were their true intentions? Whereas anyone else would have been somewhat wary and shaken about such an encounter or a potential stalker, Chishiya didn’t have it in him to care. If anything, he found it rather exciting.

Unpublished Excerpt: Leaving Catholicism Over Identity

Consider that you have an immutable, inherent quality about you that impacts everything about how you see the world, how you relate to others, and even how you relate to yourself. It can’t be wished away, it can’t be ignored, and it comes out at the most inopportune times when others feel inclined to judge and ridicule and make light of you over it. When you think about the future, it’s shaped by this quality; when you think about the past, it’s always been there, even if you couldn’t see it at first. You never chose this quality–indeed, it came to you quite like a personality trait or a cat dander allergy–but people insist that you can just not do the thing and that you should, in fact, not do the thing so that your eternal soul doesn’t suffer in flames forever. In all of this, you’re left wondering why it had to be you when you tried so hard to be good, to be something else, and yet it never worked. You could never shake that quality that left you so outside the norm, so outcast and othered. You wonder, silently, sincerely, if God even hears you when you cry out. You wonder most of all if everyone else is right about you.

This is what it feels like to be gay in a non-affirming church community. This is what drove me away from the Catholic religion. It wasn’t a desire to do bad things with no consequences, or a desire to rebel against my family, or any of those tropes. It was a sincere search of my soul in which I realized that I couldn’t just not be a lesbian, that I couldn’t just wish away all the parts of me that longed for the touch of a woman. I had tried for so long to be interested in men, I had struggled for years to just fake it until I made it, and I had to realize that it just wasn’t possible. Maybe other people could find a way to ignore some piece of themselves, but for me, it was immutable. It was non-negotiable. It was also something that, evidently, qualified me as worthy of eternal damnation unless I followed a very specific set of rules that nobody else had to follow.

I understand very well that life isn’t fair. Two suicide attempts and many years of non-suicidal self-injury taught me that life doesn’t grind to a halt just because you want it to, just because you can’t take it anymore. But something in me protested at the thought of being celibate forever. I wanted companionship like everyone else had the opportunity to have, I wanted to be with someone I loved and who loved me in return, and I was supposed to believe that was…what, sinful? That it was a disordered desire in the eyes of the Catholic Church? I couldn’t hack it. It wasn’t an issue of sin; it was an issue of being able to live with myself.

I’m also quite familiar with the red letters in Matthew 16:24 that read, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” It seems pretty simple from the outside, doesn’t it? Every good Christian has to deny their flesh; every good Christian has to take up their cross, and homosexuality is yours! But the unfairness sunk in, and the lack of compassion, and the true misunderstanding. I could deny my flesh for things that actually hurt me–and I know that because I had done it every single time I ever thought about taking a razor to my skin just to prove how worthless I really was. But wanting to feel loved, wanting to give that love in every possible way, wanting to grow old with a woman who cared about me…did that hurt anyone, least of all me?

Sure, there’s also the whole thing about sexuality existing for procreation. But nobody was stopping infertile straight people from getting married. Nobody was revoking the marriage licenses of couples who sought out fertility treatment, or adopted, or went childless because of the struggle. Besides, why was the sex I was having or not having the dominant point of the conversation, anyway? The thing about being gay is that it’s not just about who you want to bang; it’s about who you want to spend your life with, who you love, who brings you joy and receives the joy you put out into the world.

I had tried so hard to be anything other than homosexual. I really did. But it wasn’t happening, and it wasn’t happening because it wasn’t possible. Maybe other people could watch a piece of themselves wither away in hopelessness and be fine with it, but I couldn’t. Is that so sinful in the end?

I think

I want to make a new blog, or remake one of my current blogs and make writing samples.

I'm planning to apply for jobs to work at after I finish my current tutoring job in May. But I still want to advance my writing career since that's what I really want to do. But I don't really have any writing samples. I have my personal essay that was published almost a decade ago, but I don't think that counts.

If anybody has any advice on how to make a writing blog and make writing samples, please message me. Because I'm learning as I go.

Strata sample writing..

Welcome to the planet Virutian279-B or as the residents here call it.. Stratta..

Now don’t get your sights too hooked on exploring, Stratta is a very territorial world run by three main factions.

Over there, that’s Stratta-tera, run by and home of the Bio-splicers, they believe in all things organic and have a way of messing with DNA to make themselves fit the land better to thier needs and desires of balance with thier green land domain.

Opposite to them, is Stratta-mecha.. three guesses to thier stance on living. I kid, but seriously they are hooked to thier technology and “inhancing” themselves to be for efficient in tasks and such, rumors have it that they don’t even need to eat or sleep anymore because it’s not necessary.. super creepy if you ask me.

Oh and then there’s the biggest group, Stratta-celestia as they call it, the land of “purity” and adaptation in the least invasive or, ugly way. These people don’t believe in anything being added to the body that it wasn’t born with, but, I’ve heard stories that they will remove pieces of people they think are wrong or that others don’t have.

Me? Of no I don’t live in any of these places, I’m a scrapenger, I live in the red sands of the blood zone, not sure why it was forced that name, but me and my colony live out here with the banished members of the other zones. See, the red sands were assumed to be a death sentence, so if you over spliced and we’re no longer a person cuz, too many flaws, animal instincts took over your thinking or the tech brain tried to get you to get rid of other inefficient people.. your zone vanished you at here, alone.

I was born here and my colony live on the idea that everything has purpose, bland or extreme, big or small, scrap or new, wild or domestic.. the sands of red will find a use.

“It used to be a health resort,” Jordy said. “Back in the old days, people thought hot springs would cure anything, y’know, so rich people’d come out here and stay for a couple weeks. Then it went outta business in the ‘30s and the Colonel—that’s Travis’ great-grandpa—bought it for cheap.”

Melanie let him ramble. She’d been fishing for information about the Barretts and their ‘citadel’ all the way up, and Jordy had been the most eager to provide it. It also gave him a chance to share her seat, inching closer with each curve of I-75 until his arm was around her shoulder. Melanie didn’t mind. She kind of liked how corny it was. She’d seen it on TV a hundred times, now a boy was trying it on her in real life. She’d seen fake girlfriends turn into real ones on TV too. Maybe she’d try that one on him.

Everyone onboard knew they weren’t actually dating, so he didn’t need to maintain the illusion. But he wanted to. And she wanted him to. He’d turned on the charm, and it worked, and she’d resent it if he wasn’t so…well, charming. Did she really like him? The way he liked her? She couldn’t say. She didn’t want to ask herself yet.

Her spirits dampened slightly when she got a full view of the next week’s lodgings. “People live here?” She blurted out.

“Yeah, it’s…it ain’t the prettiest,” Jordy admitted. “When the Colonel bought it he bulldozed the whole thing, rebuilt it like this. Wards are stronger when there ain’t any fancy shit gettin’ in the way, he said.”

The Wards here must have been very strong, as the Citadel was a solid block of gray cement, broken up only by plain glass windows. The foggy valleys and narrow, rocky gorges they’d driven through to get here put Melanie in mind of some fairytale castle, but it looked like a Siberian prison at best, a nuclear waste dump at worst. There were several cars and buses parked haphazardly in the front lawn, and the hot springs bubbled away in the back, with their sharp chalky smell.

“Only Travis’ great-aunt lives here, and two of her kids,” Fawn said. “The top floors are for guests, and during Equinox, all the high school delegations have to stay on-site. It’s in the contract. ‘Cause killing Halfmires is fine, but god forbid we stay in Knoxville and party with college kids.”

“Fawn, you ain’t partyin’ either way, come on,” Jordy said. “Hey, looks like the AEGIS bus is here. You gonna room with that Dutch girl again?”

“Trudi? Hope so. You’ll like her, Mel, she’s awesome.”

“Wait, Dutch? Some kids flew here from the Netherlands?”

“Switzerland, actually.” Fawn said. “About 30 years ago a lot of the old European Warden schools put their funds together and built a new boarding school in Geneva. AEGIS stands for something in French, I forget what. The other two schools sending student reps are St. George’s in Memphis, and Wallenbrook in Pennsylvania.”

“Well, they all sound…fancy.” She suddenly wished she wore something other than old jeans and a Kahoti Knights sweatshirt.

“The AEGIS kids are pretty cool. All Americans are the same to them, I guess.” Fawn said. “The others, though, yeah, we’re trashy new money to them. Especially the Georgies. Your grandpa’s been gnawing off bits of their Gulf Coast territory for years and they hate him for it. Well, too bad, guys, it’s not the 1800s anymore.”

I’ve been writing this thing about Yeonjun for months that I think would be a fun read if it wasn’t a self insert

Excerpt below the cut

I’ve considered finishing the draft and making a postable version but I’m not entirely sure if I should

⋆⁺₊⋆☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎ . ★ ° * •.★ * ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

“Touch me here instead.” Yeonjun asserts, dragging Bearr’s hands from their position fondling his nipples down to the face of his jeans.

“So cute when you’re impatient.” She taunts, though her hands obediently pull his zipper down.

“You want me to shut you up.” He snarls defiantly through gritted teeth.

“Oh yeah, fill my mouth up with your cock.” The sarcastic delivery of her words does little to cushion the blow of hearing them; Yeonjun’s already hard dick throbbing at the thought of her soft lips around him.

“Wow, can you be serious?” He groans flatly, hips pressing into the palm of her hand despite his best efforts.

“Not even for a second.”

Yeonjun chuckles bitterly, knowing that there’s truth to her words. The sexual tension in the air remains unbroken through their banter— possibly even intensified by it, Bearr’s hands working themselves into Yeonjun’s pants in the meantime. He breathes a soft sigh, head rolling back on his shoulders at the long anticipated feeling of Bearr’s nimble fingers curling around the bulge in his form-fitting briefs. She melds to his body, latching her soft lips onto his now exposed neck and grazing her teeth over the skin there. Low groans and approving sighs from Yeonjun ignite every nerve in within her, feeling the vibrations of his throat through her peppered kisses and suckling. Yeonjun’s hand once again comes to wrap around her wrist, halting her languid palming of his clothed dick and everything else all at once. Without words, he undresses himself. Rather unceremoniously, at that; shirt haphazardly tossed onto the nearby coffee table; his pants and briefs shoved down at once with a badly concealed hint of urgency. Bearr watches him with an amused gaze, which drops shamelessly to his hips just in time to catch a glimpse of his solidly stiff cock springing back against his abdomen. Bearr’s entire body practically crackles, overjoyed at the sight and eager to get her hands on him.

“You’re always happier to see him than me.” Yeonjun snarks, curling his large hand around the girth of his shaft, brandishing the appendage for emphasis.

“Well, look how he greets me.” Bearr’s lips curl into a smirk as she shrugs off the rest of her dress, dropping to her knees among the puddle of fabric once she closes the space between them once more. Her eyes remain fixed on his hardness with an affectionate sparkle to them that Yeonjun knows all too well. “Isn’t he always happy to see me?”

“Yeah, you guys get along well. Give him a kiss; he missed you too.” Yeonjun’s lustful gaze feels heavy as he cocks his head, knocking the tip of his dick against Bearr’s cheek— which she grins at, delighted.

The Philosopher King

BY NUMBER TH1RTE3N

The palace doors had closed to his subjects for the night. He would take them in each day, from dawn to dusk, and hear the troubles that plagued their minds, the first of his line to do so. His ornate throne pierced him at the end of the days, the many stolen jewels leaving their silhouettes on his wrinkled bottom, his back aching against its rigid craftsmanship.

This evening was a particularly difficult one. With each tale of stolen goods, of disease ravaging a farmer’s crop, of patricide, homicide, infanticide, suicide, his heart grew heavier and heavier until it felt like lead in his chest. Still, he heard his people, and gave them the audience they so desperately needed.

As the countless servants, each of which the King knew by name, prepared the palace for the approaching evening, the King let out a long sigh. He tried to release the tension in his brow and jaw as the air escaped his lungs. It did not work. Noticing the King’s look, the Vizier approached the throne.

“Sire,” asked he, “why do you concern yourself so with the ants that walk at your feet?”

The King had asked himself this question many times before, when the lead in his heart began to form early in his reign. He considered the question carefully still, as he did with all his subjects. He replied after much thought.

“I want to feel it,” said he, the King, “every ounce of their pain.

“Their hurt is my hurt, their plights mine, each trouble on their shoulders is mine to bear as well.”

At this, the Vizier scoffed. Disappointed, the King pressed his subject further.

“Vizier,” said he, “what is an ant, without the colony? A single ant barely exists. It wanders aimlessly, carrying food in its mandibles for no one, and no reason. The colony is the most powerful creature that there is, many individuals making the whole.”

The King gestured around his throne room, lingering for a moment over the hallway leading to the royal gardens. His reign had seen a diminishment of previous displays of decadence, yet it still remained a sight to behold. Gilded columns so high that it pained the King to look up to the top. The last of the palace servants began to dim the jeweled chandeliers that lit the throne room during the day. Others began cleaning a section of the floor, a direct line from the massive palace doors to the throne, which marked where the King’s countless subjects would line up for their chance at succor. 

“Our kingdom is no different.”

The Vizier paused, following the King’s gaze. He shook his head dismissively, offering his arm to the elder ruler, helping support his weight to begin their nightly walk. As they descended the dais from the throne, the Vizier replied.

“My King, you delude yourself once again with these grandiose comparisons.” They started down the hallway. The King knew his Vizier had a tendency to be stubborn, much like his father before him, so he pressed him again.

“Truly, Vizier? Do explain what you mean. Though my bones now creak, my mind remains sharp.” The King was curious. He began to rise from his jagged throne, slowly, and the Vizier assisted his descent from the dais.

The Vizier began to explain as they walked down the hallway. “An ant is nothing without the colony, yes. Though have you ever felt the bite of a single ant? It is alone, but the discomfort it inflicts cannot be understated. Such a tiny thing can have a profound impact on beings as gigantic as us, from the ant’s perspective. How can you say that that discomfort barely exists?”

The King thought for some time. Then, he said, “Vizier, you are indeed wise. I must ask this same question you pose to the stars in the sky.”

The vizier was confused.

“Sire, how do you mean? How would it be possible to pose any question to the stars in the sky? They do not speak our language, and they are far beyond our reach.”

“Indeed, my loyal Vizier, they are. But do they not exist, as the ants do?”

“Yes.”

“Then how are we different from the miniscule ant?” asked he.

“Sire, I am afraid I do not understand.”

As they entered the hallway leading to the gardens, the King saw that there were marks on his arms from where they rested on his throne. His bones ached, weighed down from the mass of the metal ball that was his heart. His and the Vizier’s boots clacked against the polished marble steps. His royal mail clinked and jingled beneath his robes, muffled wind chimes clinging to his chest. He turned to his subject.

“Come,” he said, “let us continue.”

The King let his arm go free from the Vizier, and walked down the halls of his palace slowly, methodically. His steps echoed, the sound emanating from his footfalls bouncing down the near-infinite corridor. He and his subject walked in silence for some time, breathing the still air as their shadows danced in the torchlight from the many sconces.

They came upon the tapestries. The uncountable threads that adorned the walls depicted the history of the Kingdom and its people.

The King stopped to examine the very first piece. In it, there was his many-times-great-grandfather. His clothes were torn and patched together, and his hair was unkempt. There was no crown on his head. He was surrounded by livestock, and a shepherd’s crook was in his hand. His face was not visible. He was overlooking the valley in which the kingdom was founded. The sun was rising in the distance, spreading golden light over the valley. The King moved on.

Another, much further down. On its threads, it displayed his father.

This one was different. The colors in the first tapestry were deep golds and greens, whereas the colors in this one were mostly shades of red. His father was seated in a palanquin made of solid gold, carried by dozens of enslaved subjects. In front of the palanquin was the Kingdom’s army, laying waste to their perceived enemies. Turning away from the army in retreat, many fleeing soldier’s backs were riddled with arrows. The King stopped for some time to gaze into where his father’s eyes would be, but they were covered by the curtains of the palanquin. Only his silhouette was visible. The King moved on.

Next to his father’s tapestry, there was an empty spot where the King’s would be presented, done after his death. He stared at the emptiness and wondered what colors the weavers would use, and what his subjects would depict him as when it was his turn to die.

He turned and walked down another corridor, towards the royal gardens. Upon his arrival, the palace guards opened the massive golden doors to welcome him and the Vizier into the gardens. The King bowed his head in thanks to the guards and continued inside. He walked with the Vizier, breathing in the scent of damp leaves and after-rain. He and the Vizier spent the last few minutes of daylight wandering through the gardens. Instead of the usual arrangement of the Kingdom’s crest, a sword and a shepherd’s crook crossed over the sun, the King had given the gardeners freedom in choosing the flower patterns. As such, the arrangement changes on a seasonal basis, and the King always enjoyed the designs that the gardeners thought up. There have been portraits of members of his lineage, hedges trimmed in the shape of animals, mosaics composed of dozens of different flowers. 

The gardens were the King’s favorite place in the palace. There were no walls, and the sky was always clear. When the sun finally set, the King and the Vizier headed towards the end of the gardens. Reaching where he wanted to be, he leaned against a low wall and looked out into the valley.

The Kingdom was vast. From where he stood, the King could not see the edge of his domain, for it bent with the world at the horizon. The roads and buildings intersected and breathed within each other. Lights peppered the valley like so many lost spirits. A smile creeped upon his face. The King looked up. The stars were bright.

“Do you hear the whispers of the ants, Vizier?” asked the King, a whisper himself.

The Vizier took a moment, and listened.

“I do not.”

The King nodded, still gazing at the sky. “Neither can I.”

The King reared his head and mustered all of his strength to shout to the stars.

“Stars! Do you feel our bite? Does it cause you discomfort?”

The stars were silent.

“Vizier, I am hopeful that you can one day come to understand why I concern myself with whom you call ‘ants.” The King swept his hand over the valley. “Without every single person in this Kingdom, I barely exist. This palace would still be rubble and loose stone on the face of the mountain without the skilled work of the masons that bricked and mortared it. The tapestries we passed would still be wool on sheep without the looms of the weavers and the tenacity of the shepherd. I am King of nothing and no one without the countless souls in that valley.”

“Sire, I understand that there is merit in the work that is done by the people of this Kingdom, but why are you so intent on hearing them all? Why open your doors to them? No king before you has gone to such lengths to mingle with the peasantry.”

The King felt his heart become slightly heavier.

“Vizier, do you remember what the kingdom was like under my father’s rule?”

The King could feel his subject shift uncomfortably at the thought.

“I recall vague and distant memories from when I was a child, but nothing complete.” The Vizier glanced at the King, still gazing through the valley. With some hesitation, he continued.

“I do remember that it was not… pleasant.”

The King took his gaze from the valley and fixed it upon the Vizier. He studied the face of his subject. The lines in his face were much less pronounced than the King’s, but they were there, nonetheless. Years of servitude to the crown had taken its toll on the Vizier, just as wearing it had for the King.

“No,” said the King, “it was not.” He looked back over the valley. More lights had come on as the night became darker. The king listened closely. Even with his aged ears, he could hear the din of the marketplace far below, as merchants peddled their wares. Laughter and mirth rang throughout the valley, and the wind carried the sounds of happiness.

“I have spent my entire lifetime attempting to undo the damage that my father and forefathers did.

“They are more than just peasantry, Vizier. They are masons and bridge builders. Carpenters and cobblers. Bakers and merchants. I am them, just as they are me.” The king felt his crown grow heavier upon his head, as if it were also turning to lead. He reached up and pulled it off to examine it. He turned it round in his hands, watching as the precious jewels encrusted in gold reflected the starlight.

He spoke as the lights danced. “Vizier, I am desperate to feel what they feel. I have never had to struggle as they have. Each day at dawn, my attendants warm my bath and add scents of lavender and rose to the water. All my meals are prepared by the finest chefs throughout the lands. My garments are woven from the finest silks and dyed the richest, rarest purple.” The King placed his crown down on the low wall and looked out again toward the sprawling kingdom that he inherited.

He knew that while he wore the crown, he would never know the hurt that his people felt. Yes, tonight was a night of merriment. The valley was alight with cheer and camaraderie, but tomorrow would be more of the same. A young father would come through the palace gates and beg the king to spare an extra month’s wage so that he could feed his children. Maybe he would be a fletcher or a smith, but either way the King would meet his demand and send him on his way. Behind that young father would be a woman, a seamstress perhaps, looking for work in the King’s kitchen. She is a gifted chef, more gifted than any of the chefs that currently serve him, but she would be turned away at the gate before the King could see her because she had once been a prostitute. The King would have offered the woman an apprenticeship. After that woman comes another man. He wants justice for the murder of his father by his neighbor, but there is no evidence that the man can present to the King that will allow him to incriminate the murderer. The King will look at the man and know for a fact that he is telling the truth, but his hands will be tied by the intangible rope of bureaucracy, and no justice will be dispensed.

This chain of people will continue, one after the other, winding down the mountainside and into the valley, for miles and miles. Eventually the palace doors will close, and those that waited will continue to wait, until it is their time to be turned away.

“This – all of this – is not mine. It is theirs.” He picked up his crown and placed it back on his head. It was noticeably heavier.

“I cannot hear the ants, and the stars that dot the sky are deaf to my inquiries. But I am not deaf to the pleas of my people.” The King turned and began to walk back to his palace.

“I will not be the stars, and they will not be the ants.”

The King and the Vizier returned through the gardens. They exited into the corridor with the countless tapestries. They did not stop to look this time.

The King reached his bedchamber and bid the Vizier good night. As his subject walked away, the King felt a profound sadness enter him. He hoped that the Vizier understood his reasoning. He entered his chamber, and the King’s attendants rushed to remove his garments to prepare him for bed, but the King shooed them away, thanking them for their service. He wanted to do something, anything, on his own. His servants left the room, and the King began to undress. Alone, he removed his robes, then his mail, his clothes, and his smallclothes. He took off his crown, but he could still feel it pressing down on him, even as it rolled on the floor beneath him. His entire body felt pained and devoid of strength. He collapsed onto his bed, weary. He turned his head and saw the stars through the window. Somehow, they looked brighter than they had moments ago, blinking through the tears that had begun to well up in the King’s eyes.

“My people,” he muttered weakly, “forgive me. I am so tired.”

The next morning, the weavers began another tapestry.