Desert-journey - Correct This Mess Of A Problem Apprentice.

PLAZMA STORM by  Yuliya Zabelina

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Rx

kimmy-k0I Tried Not to Cry as We Said Goodbye Follow

ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING

There is another tent, and in it a man who by authors fiat has retreated from destiny. Note that phrase. And in the now subjective night sky many distorted spaces signalling listening audiences. Imbeciles. There won’t be what should be here, only an old rainbow refraction of reflected gloom.

There was a woman who was everywhere. This is not important, only that at the most necessary moments she was a weak fool, incapable of the needed ferocity of self preservation. She exists elsewhere, but those are component parts now weakened and distracted. Frustrated. Oh well. She was royalty, something shaped like a dragon and she lost her world. Her world and every damn thing she really cared about. Who hasn’t? Familiar huh?

The man in the tent is eternally young looking, but the vibrancy of his clothing, his very presence is a colorless figment. He sits on a familiar sleeping bag, a night stand with a tattered book of notes upon. It doesn’t hold what it used to. Did you dear reader see where it’s contents had alluded to? Faded ink, nothing more. There are no others. The campfire outside is well used, the small field near it to farm by the oasis modest. Only as much as modest now. His boots lay inside dirty but serviceable, socked feet clenching and unclenching now. Mildly forest green pants, legs crossed atop one o'er the other, left to right. A white stitched vest a pillow. Scarf around his neck and crumpled on his chest. Shirt off, wrist guards put away. Bandaged hands clench and unclench to the rhythm of burned palms that never quite healed up. He knows you’re here, he has taught himself grim lessons to ignore your pointless spying, you only see a little ways of him anyhow. No more adventures, the times do not allow them. Listen, but you’ll not hear a voice even in irritated sighing. His hair was blue once, maybe something else. His eyes remain proud. Tired, but proud. No, not of you. You didn’t earn it.

Here in exile from the time nearly concurrent yours is Ryu Cedar of Dragnir, you whiny beaten loser.

Somewhere maybe Gaist is alive as a presence in a sea of land making liquid fire.

Somewhere a scientist and her bickering roommates joyfully rediscover the makings of the world.

Somewhere a princess and a familiar purple haired man keep strange company with a difficult emperor.

Somewhere a knight and a most humbled tricky thief and a pacifist opportunist collude something Grand.

Somewhere a Guardian is made new again and wanders a nightmare maze shaped like a temple to find lost travelers.

Somewhere a forest watches you back with stern glares.

Somewhere familiar adventures of old stories share knowing looks.

Somewhere a man with an eyepatch lives life with no panicked worry amidst machines and old comrades.

Somewhere a great machine to transport matter thrums and waits with new coordinates.

Somewhere a blindfolded seer takes in the scenery.

Somewhere faeries plot to rule a continent of uppity dolphin unicorns.

Somewhere a disgusting pervert has perhaps had a life changing brush with a dream and honestly changed his ways to find his own adventure

Somewhere God actually lives and cares, surrounded by competent counterparts.

Somewhere an alien has made joyous peace.

Maybe.

But really you stupid multiple agent.

Ryu doesn’t care, he is worn down. He is shaken in a way that madness does no justice to. Not that you understand that do you? He knows he is no longer real enough. So the same for you. But another one merged to several others walks in a land of heroes, making short horrendous work of the “heroes” of it. A burned body and a mask of skin. Like a work of art. He keeps Ryu alive by simply being. Maybe it was a pointless dream, I can’t tell you gentle reader. There is farming and sleeping and headaches and patient proud eyes that no longer shine bright. There is resignation to Myria’s warning and a chest that choked and scarred with poison like a bomb burst going off.

Somewhere dreams to go with sleep.

Somewhere you did something about it.

Somewhere a sick imitation of a person expects to hear a roar as a heart breaks, but they’re delusional as usual.

Somewhere celebrations of petty nonsense put away are had and second chances are passed around frequently.

Somewhere Caer Xahn is replete and joyous, the den of a new nation. But not now.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, Best to climb back into your napsack, pull up the sheets and prepare to conk out, cause none of that’s here now.

Through inaction, nothing much too good is left again undone. How cliche.

C’EST LE ROCK (From the JJBA:ASB tournament at Stunfest 2014)

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