This is an edit of a story I wrote back in 2010/2011. The original is posted here.

***

         A forest, permeated by a soft mist. Soft rays of light shine through a mixed canopy of conifers and deciduous trees. Ferns grow quietly on the floor, capturing moisture that wipes off on any creature that passes, while beneath the ferns moss is seen slowly crawling up trunks and across logs and stones. A small brook splashes gently through the grass and ferns, in which is concealed a wealth of life. The forest is a canvas of greens, browns, and ever so light shades of blue. The air is still, allowing for the mist to settle in stasis. The only sounds heard are those of the little one, flittering playfully through the peaceful woods. It flies alone, but not in heart. It is keeping company to a quiet being who finds delicate paths through the pristine landscape. Naked in spirit and body, little matters in its life. There are only its senses, fluidly feeding the surroundings to a limitless power, desperately at work.
         While the being follows the little one it is not a chase. An infatuation attracts one to the other, one born of dreams and fantasy, of an idealization that is only entirely real in the confines of the beings brow. While the being is enthralled in this ethereal power, its magic and its beauty are not all consuming; curiosity and yearning drive the being forward as well. It is a desire for a soft touch, a sweet song, a fleeting glance, and because of this the being follows the little one. But the little one is youthful and never ceases to move, so the little one is trailed loosely through the woods.
         How many moons and how many suns these two must have witnessed. They both seem secure in their footing, their shared knowledge of these woods seemingly infinite. But for all they have in common, the little one is painfully distant to the being. The quiet sadness that emanates from the beings breast quickly makes its way to every limb, seeping into every pore, although the being is too controlled to allow such pain to elicit more than a desiring sigh, no matter how tumultuous the storm within may brew. What holds this storm back is an insurmountable obstacle, a mountain of confusion and circumstance. The being can only wish for an answer or a response, some telltale behavior that will let the rains and winds free.
         There is a moment within the calm of the woods where the being stops, gazes quietly as a soft wind wrestles a few leaves loose from their majestic perches, watching them gently glide down towards the moist earth, swaying back and forth through the now dissipating mist. The being then shifts its gaze skyward, its eyes following the rays of light projected through the mist. On high a figure circles patiently, observing, calling. All of the sudden its expanse closes, forming a bullet that begins to plummet, faster and faster. The being freezes, a pounding sensation swelling in its firm cavity. Then with a great swiftness the being takes flight, racing through the forest and silently calling for the little one.
         The once serene woods spring to life, lashing out at the being as if to slow it down, as if calling to the being and saying, such is life, take no haste, it will only cause you harm. The slender limbs of the trees whip forward into the being’s path, lashing at its tender flesh. New hues are seen: shades of purple and black, dots and streams of red. But the being pays no attention. It has only one focus, though no amount of racing seems to close the gap. And then there suddenly is a deathly silence. The being stops crisply as the muted air begins to suffocate its senses. Standing tall, the being is no longer aware of anything. There is no straining of senses, simply a dazed state of helplessness.
         The being is brought back as the air begins to thin and the soft breeze once again awakens. Before the being can be seen a clearing, its entrance framed by the trunks of two great oaks and around which life begins to stir, picking at the tender soil and playing on the branches. In the field a steady stream of light washes the tall grasses as they sway in the wind. Specks of pollen shower down on the stems and alight on fine razors.
         The playing creatures part to form a path as the being slowly steps forward. Stopping at the rim of the field, the wind takes haste and the grasses murmur in protest, their swaying turning to a dance, calm at first, but progressively more frantic. Arms outstretched, they fling themselves in every which direction, then pulse forward, as if beckoning to the being, pleading for salvation. The wind in turn begins to twirl more violently and the stems yell in frustration. The dance, now more chaotic, continues to beckon to the being, still standing firm at the edge of the clearing. So it moves forward, stretching out to caress the hopeless dancers in their now mangled fury.
         The wind, sensing its presence, shifts to a mad path of confrontations and racing, tearing the dancers from the earth and flinging them on high. The air is now full of screaming and begging, the lifeless stems catapulted into the obscurity of the surrounding woods. The being knows not what to do, frozen as it is in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the confusion and carnage. Finally, as if frustrated by the beings inaction, the wind in its mighty fury, gathers its strength and plunges headlong into the beings chest, sending its mass straight back to earth.
         Then there is only silence.

         The warm rays have now dissipated beyond the horizon. The being, still lying, listens as the sounds of the dark work their way through the landscape, not knowing what to do. A memory full of yearning and dreams flashes before its eyes, the little one flittering back and forth, yet there are no tears to shed, though its body begs that they be released. The pain feels insurmountable and the being has no desire to move because of it. But after some time it is no longer possible to simply lie in a state of abjection. It must plant its feet firmly on the ground, hold its brow high. The being arises, carefully dusting its weary limbs and taking the first few steps forward, quietly enveloping its pain in the deepest recesses of its psyche. And with that, its shadow slowly melds into the darkness of the forest.

This is a short story I wrote back in 2010/2011. It was conceived as a love story, in the manner that a poet conceives of a love poem, but it morphed into an experiment where I attempted to avoid gender and proper nouns. I posted an edit here, incorporating what I’ve learned as an MFA student.

***

         A forest, permeated by a soft mist. Soft rays of light shine through a mixed canopy of conifers and deciduous trees. Ferns grow quietly on the floor, capturing moister that is then wiped off on any passing creature, while moss is seen crawling slowly up trunks and across logs and stones. A small brook splashes gently through the grass and ferns, in which is concealed a wealth of life. The forest is a canvas of greens, browns, and ever so light shades of blue. The air is still, allowing for the mist to settle in stasis. The only sounds heard are those of the little one, flittering playfully through the peaceful woods. It flies alone, but not in heart. It is keeping company to a quiet being who carefully finds delicate paths through the pristine landscape. Naked in spirit and body, little matters in this reality. There are only the senses fluidly feeding the surroundings to a limitless power, desperately at work.
         While the being follows the little one, it is not a chase. An infatuation attracts one to the other. This is an infatuation born of dreams and fantasy, of an idealization that is only entirely real in the limitless confines of the beings brow. A love born on natures back, but moved forward on the winds of change, the being is enthralled in this ethereal power. Its magic and its beauty are not all consuming; curiosity and yearning drive the being forward. It is a desire for a soft touch, a sweet song, a fleeting glance. The being follows the little one. But the little one is youthful and never ceases to move. So in a calm quiet the little one is trailed loosely through the woods.
         How many moons and how many suns these two must have witnessed. They both seem secure in their footing, their shared knowledge of these woods seemingly infinite. But as much as they might have in common, the little one is painfully distant to the being. The quiet sadness that emanates from the beings breast quickly makes its way to every limb, seeping into every pore and resting on its shoulders. The being is too controlled to allow such pain to elicit more than a desiring sigh, yet internally the storm seems to brew. This storm is neither violent or unpredictable but lovely and peaceful. It is a storm full of dreams and passion. Yet that storm seems to be held at bay by an insurmountable obstacle, a mountain of confusion and circumstance. If only there were an answer or a response, some telltale behavior that would let the rains and the winds free. There is no such revelation.
         There is a moment within the calm of the woods where the being stops. Looking forward, then back, and then to the sides, the being gazes quietly as a soft wind wrestles a few leaves loose from their majestic perches. They gently glide down towards the moist earth, swaying back and forth through the mist that is now dissipating in the warming air. The being’s gaze shifts skyward as the leaves sway to the earth, its eyes following the rays of light projected through the mist. On high a figure circles patiently, observing and calling. All of the sudden its expanse quickly closes, forming a bullet that begins to plummet, faster and faster. The being freezes, a pounding sensation swelling in its firm cavity. Then with a great swiftness the being takes flight, racing through the forest silently calling for the little one. Where has the little one flown too? Why had the being stopped to gaze, to feel? Now a grave danger sped towards the earth and the little one was desperately vulnerable.
         The once serene woods spring to life, lashing out at the being as if to slow it down, as if calling to the being and saying, “such is life, take no haste. It will only cause you harm.” The slender limbs of the trees whip forward into the beings path, lashing at the tender flesh. New hues are seen; shades of purple and black, dots and streams of red. But the being pays no attention to the clawing of the woods or the birth of new colors. There is only one focus, yet no amount of racing seems to close the gap. And then there is a deathly silence. The being crisply stops as the muted air begins to suffocate its senses. Standing tall, the being is not aware of anything. There is no straining of senses, simply a dazed state of helplessness. As the air begins to thin and the soft breeze awakens once again, the being is brought back. Looking forward there can be seen a clearing framed by the trunks of two great oaks. Around the feet of these two oaks life begins to stir again, picking at the tender soil and playing on the branches. In the field a steady stream of light washes the tall grasses as they sway in the wind. Specks of pollen shower down on the stems and alight on fine razors. It is as if nothing occurred.
         As the being slowly steps forward the playing creatures part to form a path. Stopping at the rim of the field, the wind takes haste and the grasses murmur in protest. Their swaying turns to a dance, calm at first but progressively more frantic. Arms outstretched they fling themselves in every which direction, then pulsing forward, beckoning the being towards them as if pleading for salvation. The wind begins to twirl in consent and the stems yell in frustration. The dance, ever more chaotic, continues to beckon to the being, still standing firm at the edge of the clearing. So the being moves forward, stretching out to caress the hopeless dancers in their now mangled fury. The wind, sensing its presence, shifts to a mad path of confrontations and racing, tearing the dancers from the earth and flinging them on high. The air is now full of screaming and begging, the lifeless stems catapulted into the obscurity of the surrounding woods. The being knows not what to do, frozen as it is in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the confusion and carnage of life. Finally, as if frustrated by the beings inaction, the wind in its mighty fury gathers its strength and plunges headlong into the beings chest, sending its mass straight back to earth. And like that, silence.
         The warm rays have now dissipated beyond a firm horizon. The being, still laying, listens as the sounds of the dark work their way through the landscape. Lying catatonic, it again knows not what to do. A memory full of yearning and dreams flashes before its eyes, the little one flittering back and forth. There are no tears to shed, yet its entire body begs that they be released. The pain feels insurmountable and the being has no desire to move because of it. But after some time, it is no longer possible to simply lie in a state of abjection. Feet must be planted firmly on the ground, brows must be held high and facing forward, bodies must move. And so the being arises, carefully dusting its weary limbs and taking the first few steps forward. Life is not new, nor is it the same anymore. It simply is. The being, knowing this, takes its pain and quietly envelopes it in the deepest recesses of its psyche. And with that, its shadow slowly melds into the darkness of the forest.

This is an edit of the original Estranged Mrs. Pollock, incorporating some of the lessons I’ve learned during my first year as an MFA student.

***

         The knife never left her hand as she traced with it through the air. It was her tool of choice when creating what was, admittedly, an odd sort of art. While she had understood art as being a means of starting a dialogue on the world between the creator and the witnesser, she found that hers was mostly a private matter, and its expression was not meant to create discourse but to create a life force. She wanted more than just the spectacle of the exhibition, the sort of contrivance that tapped into the “decency” of like-minded people. She wanted fear, for only through its use as an ink, and by splattering it across the great canvas of the world, did she truly feel capable of expressing what it was she that felt.
         This “paint” was of course difficult to come by unless one had an unwilling—and unknowing—subject. For her, this meant luring men with the promise of a quick and intimate liaison. Her current guest, whom she had acquired in this manner, had allowed himself to be tied to the vertical board beside her easel under the assumption that he was sating an obscure, personal fetish of hers. But now he was quite scared, as the knife she held had little purpose in normal sexual encounters, or at least that was generally the understanding. He tried to object to her knifed presence but was unable to release more than a muffled croak from his gagged mouth. She smiled in response, but never said a word.
         Striding forward she began by swishing the knife before her, like a serpent dancing to a piper. She watched his eyes intently as they bulged to enormous proportions, jabbing quickly when the blade was close enough to just caress his body. As he squirmed against the ties she pulled back and with one, grand movement of her body slashed violently and elegantly through the air around him, careful not to actually cut him. It was in this moment that she could first feel her art coming to fruition, the fear being tangible enough for her to plunge head first into.
         If she were to be asked, she might say she could see the fear. She believed that the trademark of a good artist was the ability to feel beyond the senses, to see what others could not see, and thereby translate the foreign, and perhaps incomprehensible, into something consumable as a human being. While she did not have an audience, per se, she knew that she was releasing something unique into the world, adding to a vast worldly experience that was only perceptible in small bits. This was how she wished to express herself. It was not for her, or for him, or for anyone else. It was for the world.
         Her guest, shaking violently in his ties, continued to stare at her with wide eyes. How grotesque this all must have appeared to him, this constant toying and prodding. He must have concluded that she had some deep perversion, a base desire to exert control over a man in his last moments. Of course she had no desire to see his blood. Her art was born of fear, and a dead man, no matter how fearful he once was, was useless to her. She could not help but smile at the thought of his naïveté, and of how men were all the same in their understanding of emotions and women. They were superficial creatures, easy to manipulate and to entertain, this perhaps being why she always chose them over women.
         She stood back momentarily, attempting to envelop herself in his fear and, mentally retracing the movements of her arms and the knife, trying to feel the invisible wake those movements left in the air. She pictured how her movements painted invisible lines and arcs, each one displacing her subject’s fear like blood bursting from an artery. It was this unseen ripping and splattering that she imagined truly breathed life into the world and added to its richness.
         A quiet sob brought her attention back to the man. Once again she thrust herself into her steady cadence, lifting her arms and the knife skywards, then slowly snaking them through the air in a downward motion. She began to weave a figure eight but quickly changed to a less structured movement. What she needed, what she wanted, was something newer, something more naturalistic in occurrence, and so what followed was more haphazard. The knife, rising once again, moved freely, making grand arcs and sharp turns, tearing through the fear-riddled air. It sashayed and pirouetted, twisting along its longitudinal axis and flying lazily too and fro. The man squirmed and squealed through it all, his only focus being the knife and its cutting properties rather than the movements.
         The confluence of her sublime gestures and the man’s emotions excited her. She imagined that without her movements her art was lacking in existential merit. Indeed, it was through her displacement of the fear that she saw her truth conveyed to the world. Otherwise the fear would stagnate, as would her art, making her as central to the process as her muse. Feeling her chest swell with pride, she once again strode forth and resumed her work.
         This time she stood on her toes, and letting her arms—and the knife—dangle loosely at her side, she twirled about herself gleefully, becoming a vortex that caught his fear and spiraled it to the heavens. Her hands rose gradually until they were finally at their apex, and then with a brisk hop she landed firmly in a powerful half-squat. She followed this by heaving forward with a yell, one met with a muffled yelp from her guest. Needling the air with her knife she thrust her arms out behind herself and, with one final gasp, allowed her entire body to fall backwards to the ground. There she remained, feeling her art swirl about her with each breath she took.
         It was done, and she knew that from there she could take her leave. She sat up and looked at the terrified man before her, studying his forcibly arrayed body as it quivered helplessly. She would leave him as he was, to be found by someone else and with the hope that he might do her work justice once he was free, conveying to the world the great masterpiece that she had created. She would not truly know what her art would effect, but she knew that in some small way it would live on.