The Republic of Heaven

I haven't written anything in... probably years. This was written in sheer "must pour words" mode, and hasn't been particularly proofread or anything. But maybe that's better for now. I'm just super satisfied with the feeling of having WRITTEN something. Anyway, enjoy.

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I've charted a course for our travels. We are going to move in a six pointed star. Each line is an imaginary road; we're moving straight through mountains and lakes and the largest meadows ever seen as if we're tireless ghosts. Our destinations are at each of the points, of course, but also where they intersect. It's important to see where the lines cross, I think. There's a sort of magic to this kind of symmetry and I suspect some kind of perfect design to the places and their connections.

We won't pack much. Some clothes and some books, of course. We probably could travel around the whole world with nothing in our bags but books. We'll take old stories to meet new ones, and write our autobiographies in the margins of novels.

You'll want to pack that scarf too. The one I knitted you two winters ago. I hope by now you believe me when I say I have no idea how to knit. I also have no idea why you love that thing so much. It's more a pile of knots than anything. You love the yarn of course. Your favourite shade of perfect blue, the colour of summer skies the morning after a storm. And that one little block of red, where I ran out of that perfect blue. There isn't ever enough of the perfect ones.

I'm writing our story premptively. It's good to get ideas out, of course, and I suspect that you will love when you see our grand adventures drawn out in permanent marker. You always love to point out that permanent marker isn't really permanent.

They don't like it, you know. I know. Some of them don't mind; they pretend they can't see the words, like I've written it in invisible ink instead. Some try to erase it, but I think they've given up. They know that somehow I'll always put it back. This is your story. This is your passion. This is our great adventure, and you need to know how it goes.

Oh, I can hear those footsteps outside. There's a careful softness to them. Each foot knows it must carry its burden without daring to let anyone know how tired it has become.

You and I, we weren't made for this kind of place. We're made for adventures on six pointed stars, not machines and needles. We're made for darkness, silent and still, lit only by the Milky Way, not this constant light and beeps and bustle.

Those soft steps are here now, and there is that face, looking at your skin, your perfect canvas, and there is no exchange, no conversation, just a look of disapproval at the way I've filled that perfect canvas with our story. Permanent marker on perfect skin, so our story will always remain.

Those hands, skilled and quick and cold, fixing the needles in your skin, meddling with the grotesque tubes that run your life in and out of your body. Each movement is precise and robotic. I hold my marker and your hand and wait and watch until the adjustments on your life are complete, and those soft steps drift back out.

I'll let my eyes take in your face, just for a moment, a count of ten. One. Two. Once in every day, I let myself see you this way, but only once, because this is not truly you. Four. Five. You are waiting for me, waiting for our great adventure, just waiting for me to finish this plan. Seven. Eight.

This isn't right. Your eyes, that stunning green that no one could ever escape, are caught on mine, a fish on a line with nowhere to go. There's something wrong. Those eyes. Your eyes. They aren't here, they shouldn't be here. They can't be real because you aren't here.

Ten. Eleven? One blink, one heartbeat, one breath, and the moment shatters. Your eyes are gone, and there is noise everywhere. The footsteps aren't soft, but panicked. The machines are screaming. Everything is chaos and one of those cold hands knocks away the permanent pen and the adventure is lost somewhere in this mess of feet and shouts and electric shocks.

It's silent. The footsteps are gone, but so are the machines. So are the tubes and the needles. And so are you.

I stare at the floor, and there, on the perfect shining polish, a blemish. Proof that I did not imagine our moments, only the way we lived them. My marker, our marker, under the bed you graced.

I'm on my knees, head banging the chair I've been stuck in. In the corner, where no mop will ever check, I draw our names in tiny letters.

We were here.

i'm sat in the garden, a little bit in the sunshine and a little bit in the shade and my laptop is bleeping at me, telling me i need to save my work and plug it in, so i have to be quick, quick, before my battery dies and it hibernates or flies south or whatever.

so quickly, quickly:

it makes me a little bit sad that no-one has responded to your words here, but i don't think this forum has an enormous amount of traffic. i love the way you write.

it ends with a whimper, almost, but a bellow wouldn't work so this is so fitting. i guess the bellow is the journey, what happens up to this point. and i love the journey. i love how something only eight hundred words long, a three-minute-read, can evoke so much; and more than this, that it can contain a lifetime.

favourite lines:

We'll take old stories to meet new ones, and write our autobiographies in the margins of novels.

because it's so true, we do. we're never too old.

And that one little block of red, where I ran out of that perfect blue. There isn't ever enough of the perfect ones.

just because.

hope and dispair have to go hand-in-hand. (or maybe they don't have to, but perhaps they ought to.) and while it's not a "we ARE here", were is enough. we've left the footprints of our imagination in a star on the world. maybe one day we can traverse the star-lines for real. (because those that can't would want that, surely?)

and i know that super-satisfied feeling of having written something. it's a wonderful sense of achievement. i've been away from writing for a fair while. reading this and some of peter's stories have inspired me to write again, so thank you. :)

and your words deserve more than quickly, quickly; so i apologise for that.

...

and as it happened, i didn't make it in time. my laptop hibernated (or flew south for winter, or whatever) and i'm writing this bit nearly an hour later, on the kitchen table. (in fact, i guess it's rather fitting, not getting to do the things you wanted in the time you have left.)

i've read back what i wrote this morning, and, however hurried it was, it says exactly how i feel, so i won't bother changing it.

i want to read more of your words, so please write more.

-- darren

I really like this! I know absolutely nothing about actual writing; it's never been something I've been able to do, outside of songwriting. Everything I write is quite matter-of-fact, so I'm always impressed by this kind of style and artistry.

So really I have nothing of substance to add, or knowledgable to say, just that I liked it! Please write more!

I very much appreciate the feedback. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

This was my first attempt at writing after a many year break. I'm still trying to break back into writing naturally. I'll post more as it comes.

A friend has convinced me to possibly try doing NaNoWriMo this year, which is a terrifying concept, but we'll see. For now I'm sticking to short pieces like this.

A friend has convinced me to possibly try doing NaNoWriMo this year, which is a terrifying concept, but we'll see.

i gave it a go about two or three novembers back and i let myself down after only a week or so... i have no self-discipline.

good luck if you do go ahead with it!