roundabout.

flowers on her deathbed

I found her in the water, a small lake in the huge garden I owned with my mother. She walked out as if rising out of a warm bath, elegant but uncomfortable, droplets of water still clinging to her hair and her clothes and her skin. She turned and looked at me with the curious face of a child, her eyes the strange green tint of celery, her face a delicate porcelain, her flowing hair a light shade of brown, and her plain white dress falling down to her ankles. At most, she looked ten. She was a doll that had come to life.

When she set her eyes on me I had the strangest urge to run; it felt like I was intruding upon something…sacred, something holy?...it felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I stepped back, but she walked out towards me, bare feet treading the soft green beneath, and stood there staring. A moment passed, then two, and she opened her mouth to speak.

Who are you?

Her voice rang like windchimes, and for a moment I almost mistook her for a hummingbird, the little critter that often stopped by the west patches…

I’m Rui, I answered, putting one foot back again. Why are you in my garden?

Rui…Rui. She rolled my name off her tongue as if exploring each syllable, and smiled at me on the fifth attempt.

Rui, what is a garden? She asked me.

I looked at her, confused. This is a garden, I told her.

Her eyes shone with curiosity. Show me, she said, and took my hand. Her skin felt like cold water in a stream. I took a few tentative steps forward and, after seeing she was following me well, took her to my flower bed. Though the garden was huge there were few places with actual flowers, and most of it was green bush and trees and benches and swings. There were small lakes too, like the one she had come out in, and in some places stone fountains and sculptures. I hated the stone things. They jutted out from the harmonious colors of nature like a sore thumb, and I had kept their part of the garden locked up, with the help of iron fences. My mother disapproved of this, but she was so rarely home she couldn’t mind.

I could not help but once again notice the garden’s magnificence as we arrived at a flower bed. I had planted the few specimens I had in hand in rows according to kind and color and arranged them so that from above, they formed the shape of twin koi circling, one behind the other’s tail. Without school to keep me busy in the summer, I had found a new interest in refurbishing the abandoned gardens of the inherited property. Each day I would wake up early in the morning so as to not disturb my mother, head down to a patch of unfixed garden, and get to work. In the afternoons we usually drive to town, whether it was to shop for groceries, to mail a letter, or simply to take a walk in the local park. Though we have acres of nature around our house, it’s not the same as a park filled with people. As my mother told me, being alone and isolated for too long can harm you, a lot.

As my mind wandered, the girl before me sprinted about the place, stopping once every few steps to tiptoe around the plants. She stopped by one flower, got down on both knees and gently flicked the petal with one finger. It was a summer snowflake, leucojum aestivum; I have a collection of its sisters, leucojum vernum, on another bed, though the spring snowflakes have long since bloomed. They both look similar to lilies of the valley, and I had confused them during my early planting days, but I have grown—perhaps—to be a better amateur botanist.

Does everything have names?

I thought about it, taken aback by the abrupt question. Yes, she was right. I have a name, and so does my mother. The flower had a name. The garden—“garden” itself was the name for the large patch of controlled nature.

Yes, I replied.

Then what’s mine?

I explained to her that names are given, by oneself or by others, and that they don’t just exist.

So…I can give myself a name?

I nod. I guess so.

She straightened her back, thinking fiercely. I don’t know any words yet.

You do. You can talk to me.

She shook her head. No. I don’t know how I came here…but I’m learning the words of conversation…She looked at me and thought. But I don’t know the words for things. She pointed at the plant she was stoking earlier. I don’t know the name of this.

That, I said, walking over, is a summer snowflake.

She thought hard, then shook her head. She stood up, once more taking my hand — the gesture came more naturally than before — and pointed to my house. Can I look inside?

In hindsight it was a silly thought, but I soon embraced the possibility that she was some fairy from the forest — truthfully, I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but the idea had always hidden itself in the secret compartments of my beliefs since I was a child. Since I practically live in nature, I thought, showing hospitality to one of its children should be my responsibility. So thinking to myself, I agreed.

We walked slowly, with the girl still adjusting to her feet like a mermaid who had just switched tail for legs. She stumbled a few times, but was a quick learner; soon she was ahead of me in a sprint.

…Was it my imagination or did she grow taller? She was still childlike, her face and demeanor, but somehow the top of her head measured near my shoulders, and she laughed now with a new and fuller melody; her steps came naturally, and without the previous little struggles she had while stepping out of the pond. She looked back at me to grin, and I was startled at the subtle change I noticed in her.

I shook myself out of it and continued on. It was simply impossible. On the slim chance that she was indeed some fairy it would only be natural she could change her appearance. Or something like that. I was too tired, I reasoned, from having virtually not slept the night before, kept away by a pestering nightmare that always ended with a gravestone.

. . .

When we reached the door she had to stop to marvel at its size. It seemed almost hard for her to comprehend, judging from her right-left motions and the small hops she made to make herself taller for a second each time.

Does everyone live in places like this?

…No, it’s just me.

Before us was my grandfather’s mansion, standing tall and proud in all its glory and glamor. Ever since the first time I laid my eyes on the luxurious monstrosity I had had the feeling that the house was staring at me; it was tall, too tall, and had much too many windows. I hesitate to admit it, but I was afraid of my own home. It was almost a palace to me, and one from a foreign country at that. It could be however intricate or bare as it liked, and I would still think of it as a place I just happened to reside in. I couldn’t take the thought of the whole thing belonging to me. Thinking that only my room was mine and the hallways were borrowed made it much easier to bear.

She pulled at the latch and the door opened. We slipped inside, tip-toeing on the marble floor, unanimously trying to make no sound though no one was home. We made our way up long stairs and down winding hallways. I almost lost her once or twice to some random painting on the wall or the occasional knight’s armor. To be truthful, me and my mother haven’t bothered bringing the mansion to order; a large portion of the place was untouched and unexplored. I pulled at her sleeve gently each time to remind her of the right way, and thought about how if I hadn't been terrified of people knowing I live in a place like this, I would invite my friends over to explore.

The straw I clung to in this labyrinth was a rectangular cradle of off-white walls, indoor plants, smooth wood and soft pillows. It was nothing special; excluding the excessively large bay window, it might as well have been an apartment room. Sometimes I wonder what my room used to be, considering the sheer size of the house. Maybe a royal storage closet.

I settled into the cushions piled against the bay window while she skipped around.

What’s life like for you?

She was by the bookshelf scouring the spines; I expected her to be less than half the shelf’s height, but she was more than that, and her hair seemed darker than before. Maybe it was just the light and the height from which I was looking. Her speech was improving. I couldn’t guess how.

Normal…I guess. I look outside; the garden almost stretches the entire expanse of my view. I could make out the gates, and then the roads beyond. Three hills’ distance to the nearest town.

I go to school like everyone else. I pick at a corner of a pillow. Ah, it’s like a place where you learn things with other people. We get groceries every week. When mom’s home we cook together. Sometimes.

She slid something off the shelf and stumbled slightly under its weight. The large hardcover volume that had been collecting dust at the bottom shelf now sat in her arms, and she flipped it open with great solemnity. It was something like a cookbook, or otherwise some kind of instruction manual, that had belonged to my mother. It was either that she mistakenly placed it in one of my boxes when we moved or she meant to give it to me but just forgot to tell me. Either way it was something the both of us paid minimal attention to.

Now that the volume was unearthed from the catacombs of the shelves, I could see the age reflected in its color.

A tap on my shoulder. I blinked, shaken out of my internal monologue once again, and turned my head to look directly into her eyes, mere inches from mine.

I resisted the urge to shrink back and waited for her to return to a normal standing position. Yes?

She scrambled to flip the old book and stopped on a page, nodding to herself contentedly, and held it up to my face, beaming. Cookies!

Yes, I look over at the page. It was a cookbook, indeed, and one arranged with great aesthetic professionalism. Small black letters were lined neatly on one page, and the other was filled with a picture of cookies neatly stacked on a plate. These are cookies.

She looked at me expectantly.

…You want to make these?

Mhm! A pause. If you agree of course. I can read books here too, if you dislike baking.

No, no, I enjoy it. I laugh. There was something about her that sparked adoration. Of course we can make them. Can’t promise I won’t mess them up though.

She folded up a corner of the page and gently closed the book, then stood hugging it to her chest. Anything you make would be good — I’m sure of it.

If you think so.

. . .

The kitchen was modern and unimpressive compared to the rest of the house, with a glossy floor and wood-textured cabinets. Aside from its spaciousness, the only thing that would set it apart from a kitchen in a normal house would be the excessive number of ovens, some old and useless, some modern-looking and shiny. When we first moved in it was a pain to wrestle modern technology into whatever gaps we could find in the ancient walls of the place, but it worked in the end, and that was that.

She laid the book open on a clean part of the counter, and we laid things out and mixed them in bowls, checking the page from time to time. Time flew. Baking was never my strong suit, but every action came easily somehow. Either I learned from all the times my mother dragged me down here, or…well…there really was no other possibility.

Ah!

I scurry over. What is it?

We don’t have flowers.

I looked at the recipe again. It did indeed call for petals, and the kitchen cabinet had none.

But we do though. We can-

Pick them in your garden!

Exactly.

Do you have a basket? Or a container that’s clean? And…maybe we need to wash and dry the petals? I don’t know, I’ve never baked before…

No, no…that’s…you do know a lot for someone who doesn’t know what names are.

I realized I had started staring. I look away.

Really? Then that probably means I’m learning then, haha. I had to learn as much as I can! After all…

She didn’t finish, but started moving out of the room. Come on! I think I kind of remember where the front door is.

. . .

When I came back she wasn’t there. Even though my eyes told me she seemed my age or more now, I still thought her a child, and silently cursed myself for having suggested we split up. This was a huge garden, after all, and the variety of colors and shapes would’ve dazed her.

The midday sun looked me in the eye, and whispered to me in deep tones, vocalizing one by one the worries that had started to brew in my head. The words made me sprint, and soon enough I found her, within a minute of panicked calling. She never responded, of course; I just happened to stumble upon her once more, kneeling in front of a cyclamen patch and caressing the petals of a wilting flower. I had almost forgotten how some of them weren’t doing well.

Um– I remembered I didn’t know her name, or if she had chosen one.

Have you heard of mayflies?

I have.

I thought about where I had heard the term. My mother remarked to me one day that people really should learn to enjoy living more instead of chasing money and materialistic ideals, passing me her phone with a Wikipedia article on the screen, paying half attention to her driving while she poured out ideas. Mayflies were aquatic insects known for their short lifespan and mass emergence in summer months — that was what I remembered. While we go through a day, they went through their whole life, she had said. She told me sometimes she questions longevity, and maybe living longer wouldn’t be plainly good. These words she uttered with a distant look in her eyes, not really to me or herself, as if a stray thought just happened to slip out of her mouth.

I walked closer. What about them?

I like them. She stood and smiled at me, but there was something different about it. Something odd, and deep, and heavy, like the swirling bits of leaf at the bottom of a cup of tea. I think it would make for a great name.

Mayfly?

Yes.

I like it. It sounds pretty.

Pretty — but strangely specific. Perhaps, some part of me told myself, it would be better to stop thinking of her as nature’s child.

…Let’s go back inside. We have all the flowers already.

Can I put them in the cookies?

Sure.

. . .

She fell into a long nap that evening. She looked tired on our way upstairs, with eyes cast down and a weary step. She made a beeline for the bay window and curled up in the cushions, and I moved to my desk, not wanting to disturb her. The two batches we baked were stacked neatly on a little plate set down at a corner of the desk. A third were golden, the rest were brown. It was clear that the brown ones were burnt, and neither of us touched that batch, though she assured me they probably tasted as good as hers, or even better.

It got late, and I went downstairs to make myself soup; when I returned she was standing at the doorway asking me to go outside.

Now she was kneeling beside that patch of cyclamens again. The color of the petals started to fade in the evening light, as the eye can perceive less and less color with the sun’s daily departure. There were light wrinkles on her face, and the color of her hair was fading away.

I walk over and sit down beside her.

Thank you for coming out here with me.

Something in my heart drops.

The sunset’s pretty, isn’t it? She chuckled. I read about it earlier. All these different people describe the same thing. Each time I imagined something different. But now…

There were no clouds. The sky was a perfect gradient of bright orange and blue. The tips of trees line the horizon, far, far away.

Now I think maybe everyone has their own sunset.

But if two people were watching the same sunset at the same time, I muse, would their sunsets be different still?

The question floated gently in the air. A soft wind blows.

Yes, because the person in the frame is different. Everything in the picture would influence how it feels.

You would make a good photographer, I piped up. Or an artist.

I’m flattered.

I could teach you, maybe, I offered. I have the equipment needed. I’m not a professional…but I could get you started. It would be better than the cookies.

She sighed. If I had more time, maybe I would take that advice. Photography sounds like an interesting idea.

Why wouldn’t you try that now? We’re not busy…

I hear the nervous edge in my voice and swallow.

Soon, she only said. Soon.

I look at her and I see the colors of the sky envelop her being. She was staring off into the distance. Her eyes were two windows from which sunlight shone into a dark room; she was the glass bells hanging from the roof, swaying and jingling with the wind; she flowed with the morning light washing off the porch. She still had that smile, bright and pretty, but weary now, and had a certain aura of silence to it.

Do you know of mayflies, Rui?

Yes, and you have asked that before.

Have I? For a moment she looked confused, but seemed to brush it off. I must be forgetting. Look at me, being distracted by the sunset here.

It’s okay. It’s your sunset after all.

You’re right, you’re right.

I couldn’t see the sun; the walls and hills beyond blocked my view. But the sky darkened a drop more, and I could see a faint tinge of purple.

Tomorrow, she began, with a new kind of energy. Tomorrow you may forget me. Maybe you will wake up and find this all a dream, Rui; perhaps you misremembered a story on your shelf, and walked into it yourself instead when your mind was wandering in your sleep. Maybe you will wake up to a concerned mother checking you for a fever. Maybe you will go to that pond again the next morning, and find nothing there but a little mayfly, standing on the water’s surface. This all may have never happened, but promise me one thing for sure.

What do you mean? I ask in a small voice.

You may forget me, Rui, but promise me something.

She turned her head to me smiling. Her voice was hoarse now, as if mere hours had reduced her throat to sandpaper. I could only make out some of her words as the wind eroded her speech.

Rui, promise me, don’t be sad.

She clasped my hands in hers and smiled, and she looked so old, so old like she’d been through a thousand long years and now she was nothing but fatigue. And her body went limp and light, like a dream, like a feather, like a flitting memory. She crumbled to dust, like how old volumes would under the pressure of time. She melted into the soil where the cyclamens bloomed, and I could still almost see that glint in her eyes.

Stars were starting to show their light. Somewhere up there, three align. Maybe tomorrow I will wake up and forget her; maybe this was the rest of that nightmarish dream. But something in the fabric of the universe’s storybook had lined our paths to cross, and at that point of convergence, I had the strangest day of my life.

I was left there, staring at the ashes of what was once a beautiful being.

But I have never felt less alone.

LABYRINTHIA

I
LABYRINTHIA

The child let down the ladder and walked up to the attic, where a little shadow was kept in a cage. It stuck its face in-between the little iron bars, gripping two with small talon-tipped hands. The child carried a dim lantern, the candle-flame inside flickering and casting shapes upon the walls. It was light outside, but dark here. With the hatch closed, the newborn fire held all responsibility of sight.

The child sat down, cross-legged, and flipped open a leather-bound notebook before putting it on the floor. When they spoke, it was with an innocent tune, but washed many times with eventful wisdom, though credibility unknown.

"Tell me your story, little one."

“Child! You have come! You have come, child!” The shadow danced in its confines, glee penetrating its every move. “Very well, very well. That same old one again? That same old?”

“Tell me of the world’s creation.”

The shadow nods, coughing once, as if to get the attic's dust out of its nonexistent lungs. Its voice stayed raspy despite.

“In the beginning — the very, very beginning — there was nothing. Not an ounce of air, or earth, or water, or anything. There was only the void. And in it — one day — in it rose a spark of light. A star, as you now call it. From the crevices and gaps in the nothingness, it grew, and gathered mass. The void, being what it was, could not stand this, and so the pressure on the star grew ever stronger as it grew in size. And there came a day when the pressure was so great, the star broke apart in an explosion — but its core was solid enough to give rise to a being: the Creator. And to keep this new being in check, the void grew a Voice.

“The Creator looked around hir, confused, and asked the nothingness before hir what it was all for. The Voice whispered back an answer, one that was enough to set the Creator’s heart in stone. As they talked and talked, their bond grew ever stronger; but one day the Creator grew lonely, and ze gathered up the pieces of the fallen star, putting them back together like one would a puzzle, and spoke to them in ancient poetry.

“From the shards of light emerged a plane so vast the excess made creatures to step inside it. Words permeated the warm glow and gave shape and individuality to each creature. Some were thin, some thick; some floated, some walked, and some flew. The Voice was not jealous, but worried; for now that it saw life, it was upset by eternity. It whispered to the Creator that all things must be balanced, and so introduced death. With every piece of light, there came a shadow accompanying it, as they had decreed in unison.

“But the Creator was not satisfied. ‘The world is beautiful,’ said ze. ‘But it has no order; no shape; no artistry — the creations of chaos are pretty, but in this state, they cannot work together.’

“The Voice thought for a while, and waved a formless hand of darkness. With it, the suspended matter in the vast voided space began to move and flow, and tendrils of shadow fused themselves with the plane of light. Light and shadow formed stone. The Creator traced lines with hir fingers over the soft melted rocks, and the grounds of what was forever known as Labyrinthia rose from the earth, forming structures all by itself, hard and soft, round and square, until there was a city, the greatest city that has ever been.”

“Why was it named that way?” the child questioned.

“Ah, you will see,” the shadow smiled sagely. “The denizens were content with their new great city, but cried that they had no food or water; for as the shadow of death attached itself to each piece of broken star, organic structures formed inside them, ones that need constant maintenance. And so arose the need for nourishment. The Creator, wanting to make hir people content, called upon light to make a river, and dark to form soil. Organisms twisted themselves out of the ground; creatures were lured to them; and so nourishment was satisfied. But the Creator was generous, and with every new cry called upon the cosmos to conjure new things. Ze gave them all they needed so that they would not need to fight every day to survive any longer. But then creatures started hurting each other, and violence developed outside of the need for survival. The Creator was horrified, and returned to the void, helpless, to ask the Voice to help.

“‘Young one, what is it that troubles you so?’ The Voice, seeing the Creator distressed, asked hir. And ze told the Voice of the conflicts that rose, and the Voice replied, ‘That is the horror of freedom, I’m afraid.’ But the Creator was bent on making hir creations happy, and so for a long time, the two minds worked to form a solution, but to no avail.

“In this time, the outer edges of Labyrinthia combined with leftover stardust and hollow pieces of void, and it expanded evermore, fading more and more into darkness the further it is from the center. Finally, the Creator announced, ‘I cannot take this anymore; the city is fading into darkness. We must separate the excess from the core, and while this may only be a temporary solution, it is the only way.’ And the Voice complied.

“The Voice created a large labyrinth, one so convoluted and complex, one so filled with treacherous terrain and gentle-looking traps that no one could ever get out. And the Voice placed a comforting hand on hir shoulder, and the Creator appeared before the little beings of the earth, and announced that all grounds outside of Labyrinthia are henceforth taboo. The Creator was gentle and compassionate, and the denizens believed hir when ze told of the dangers outside. Ze promised all fruitful lives inside Labyrinthia, but warned, sadly, of unknown consequences if one were to head out. ‘If you manage to exit the Labyrinth,’ ze told them, ‘I cannot help you. Though I want to, it is outside of my power.’”

“And has anyone ever exited?”

“Ah, yes, little one. One started; others followed suit. You see, there was knowledge carved into the labyrinth’s walls. Inexplicable knowledge, untamed, rogue, amoral knowledge. And it drove them mad, some say. There were evils of the earth. Ones you would not want to know about.

“But the last of them — the one whom we call the Straggler — made it out, touched the raw rays of light at the exit, bright enough to burn his eyes. He placed his hands upon the stones, and the light went through him, used him as a conductor. Labyrinthia fell, and order and chaos combined. What was left were shards of metal and random lines of code. From the ashes of a great creation — so we sprung. Our world wrapped around the red-hot core of the explosion; the ruins of Labyrinthia followed behind. Twisted organic creatures found their way inside. Nothing will ever be the same again.”

The child nodded thoughtfully, finishing the last stroke of the last word. They closed the heavy notebook, and stood.

“It’s a shame Labyrinthia never survived.”

“Yes, yes, it is,” replied the shadow, shrinking into a corner. “Nothing good ever does.”

II
THE STORYTELLER AND THE ANALOGIST

The child let down the ladder and walked up to the attic, where a little shadow was kept in a cage. It stuck its face in-between the little iron bars, gripping two with small talon-tipped hands. The child carried a dim lantern, the candle-flame inside flickering and casting shapes upon the walls. It was light outside, but dark here. With the hatch closed, the newborn fire held all responsibility of sight.

The child sat down, cross-legged, and flipped open a leather-bound notebook before putting it on the floor. When they spoke, it was with an innocent tune, but washed many times with eventful wisdom, though credibility unknown.

“Tell me your story, little one.”

“Child! You have come! You have come, child!” The shadow danced in its confines, glee penetrating its every move. “Very well, very well. That same old one again? That same old?”

“Tell me of the world’s creation.”

The shadow nods, coughing once, as if to get the attic's dust out of its nonexistent lungs. Its voice stayed raspy despite.

“In the beginning — the very, very beginning — there was nothing. Not an ounce of air, or earth, or water, or anything. There was only the void. And in it — one day — in it rose a spark of light. A star, as you now call it. From the crevices and gaps in the nothingness, it grew, and gathered mass. The void, being what it was, could not stand this, and so the pressure on the star grew ever stronger as it grew in size. And there came a day when the pressure was so great, the star broke apart in an explosion — but its core was solid enough to give rise to a being: the Creator. And to keep this new being in check, the void grew a Voice.”

“Why would there be a creator — and why would there only be a single one?” The child pipes up, pausing from their writing.

“Well, you see,” the shadow scratched its chin before pointing a sharp finger, “if there were many, wouldn’t they be the same as their creations — separate individuals fueled by their own wants? A true creator’s intention should not be wavered by mere emotions or desires; the creator has hir purpose, and ze shall fulfill it to hir greatest extent.”

“Yes, but you are not answering my first and more important question — why is there a creator in the first place, one who controls and oversees? Why is the creator the one who makes all the decisions?”

“How else?” The little black thing waved a hand dismissively. “As I was saying. The Creator looked around hir, confused, and asked the nothingness before hir what it was all for. The Voice whispered back an answer, one that was enough to set the Creator’s heart in stone.”

“What answer?”

“The wisdom of the universe. The knowledge is too great for us to ever know.”

The child nodded. “Continue.”

The shadow gave a little sigh, as it resumed its storytelling: “As they talked and talked, their bond grew ever stronger; but one day the Creator grew lonely, and ze gathered up the pieces of the fallen star, putting them back together like one would a puzzle, and spoke to them in ancient poetry.

“From the shards of light emerged a plane so vast the excess made creatures to step inside it. Words permeated the warm glow and gave shape and individuality to each creature. Some were thin, some thick; some floated, some walked, and some flew. The Voice was not jealous, but worried; for now that it saw life, it was upset by eternity. It whispered to the Creator that all things must be balanced, and so introduced death. With every piece of light, there came a shadow accompanying it, as they had decreed in unison.

“But the Creator was not satisfied. ‘The world is beautiful,’ said ze —”

“But the Voice heard the strange wistful tone in hir voice, and asked why ze was upset.”

There was a pause as the shadow stared at the child, the little thing scribbling on that big leatherbound book, not looking up. It cleared its throat — if it even had one. It didn’t know. It was a thing humans did. “Ze answered,‘But it has no order; no shape; no artistry — the creations of chaos are pretty, but in this state, they cannot work together.’

“The Voice thought for a while, and waved a formless hand of darkness. With it, the suspended matter in the vast voided space began to move and flow, and tendrils of shadow fused themselves with the plane of light. Light and shadow formed stone. The Creator traced lines with hir fingers over the soft melted rocks, and the grounds of what was forever known as Labyrinthia rose from the earth, forming structures all by itself, hard and soft, round and square, until there was a city, the greatest city that has ever been.

“The denizens were content with their new great city, but cried that they had no food or water; for as the shadow of death attached itself to each piece of broken star, organic structures formed inside them, ones that need constant maintenance. And so arose the need for nourishment. The Creator, wanting to make hir people content, called upon light to make a river, and dark to form soil. Organisms twisted themselves out of the ground; creatures were lured to them; and so nourishment was satisfied. But the Creator was generous, and with every new cry called upon the cosmos to conjure new things. Ze gave them all they needed so that they would not need to fight every day to survive any longer. But then creatures started hurting each other, and violence developed outside of the need for survival. The Creator was horrified, and returned to the void, helpless, to ask the Voice to help.

“‘Young one, what is it that troubles you so?’ The Voice, seeing the Creator distressed, asked hir. And ze told the Voice of the conflicts that rose, and the Voice replied, ‘That is the horror of freedom, I’m afraid.’ But the Creator was bent on making hir creations happy, and so for a long time, the two minds worked to form a solution, but to no avail.

“In this time, the outer edges of Labyrinthia combined with leftover stardust and hollow pieces of void, and it expanded evermore, fading more and more into darkness the further it is from the center. Finally, the Creator announced, ‘I cannot take this anymore; the city is fading into darkness. We must separate the excess from the core, and while this may only be a temporary solution, it is the only way.’ And the Voice complied —”

“Because it knew the plan won’t work forever,” the child interjected, “but it cherished the Creator’s presence, and feared hir discomfort, for it foresaw that an upsetment now might lead to conflict later.”

“I have told you before!” The shadow threw up its hands in annoyance. “The Creator is impartial, and has no mortal attachments; and the same shall be said for the Voice. Perish the thought! You cannot record falsehoods in your book of truth.”

Book of truth? “What does that mean?”

They got no reply, only some seconds of stretched silence.

Something was different. Light rose up through the cracks in the floorboards. The walls were breaking up, slowly but surely turning into dust. Outside, it was pitch black, but if one looked hard enough, there were eyes in the void. The shadow continued on.

“The Voice created a large labyrinth, one so convoluted and complex, one so filled with treacherous terrain and gentle-looking traps that no one could ever get out. And the Voice placed a comforting hand on hir shoulder, and the Creator appeared before the little beings of the earth, and announced that all grounds outside of Labyrinthia are henceforth taboo. The Creator was gentle and compassionate, and the denizens believed hir when ze told of the dangers outside. Ze promised all fruitful lives inside Labyrinthia, but warned, sadly, of unknown consequences if one were to head out. ‘If you manage to exit the Labyrinth,’ ze told them, ‘I cannot help you. Though I want to, it is outside of my power.’”

“But how is it that they decided? Why is it that all the grounds outside of Labyrinthia are permeated by evil — if we were all born from chaos, wouldn’t us all be a mix of both?” The child paused in their writing, looking up with a doubting glance. “What is Labyrinthia — and what are you?”

The shadow stuttered. The child advanced, unrelenting. It raised both its hands, form becoming more erratic than ever before.

“It's a sign, a symbol! A message — an omen! Oh! Oh! You must not ignore this! In here, if you only have the patience to unravel the words within, is a message —”

“Are you a believer, little shadow?” The child interrupted once more, a hand reaching towards something behind their back.

“Why?” Its head tilted, its nonexistent eye narrowing. “Oh, it is the truth, the very truth! The words of the wise and merciful Creator —”

“I am not a believer. We are not the same.”

The hatch snapped shut. The little shadow writhed in its cage, an iron bar running through its chest.

III
THE APOCALYPSE’S HORSEMAN

The child let down the ladder and walked up to the attic, where a little shadow was kept in a cage. It stuck its face in-between the little steel bars, gripping two with small talon-tipped hands. The child carried a dim lantern, the candle-flame inside flickering and casting shapes upon the walls. It was light outside, but dark here. With the hatch closed, the newborn fire held all responsibility of sight.

The child sat down, cross-legged, and flipped open a leather-bound notebook before putting it on the floor. When they spoke, it was with an innocent tune, but washed many times with eventful wisdom, though credibility unknown.

"Tell me your story, little one."

“Child! You have come! You have come, child!” The shadow danced in its confines, excited as if electrified. “Very well, very well. That same old one again? That same old?”

“Tell me of the world’s destruction.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” It exclaimed with enraged fervor. “But that is a taboo! Interdiction! Blasphemy! You two-toed donkey—”

“Say it; or say no more,” the child warned it, raising a dagger of burning lead.

“There will be a dead bird,” it screeched and reared up as if to threaten, “A dead bird will be involved. A dead bird! A dead dead bird!”

"Continue."

The shadow shrunk back, as if afraid. “There is a time,” it started shakily, “there will be a time when all respect for death is lost…corpses regarded as trash…life becomes uncherished for how prominent it is…too much of something, no matter how good it is, always spoils its essence.

“There will come a time when the dead bird’s silent body is casually tossed in the same pile as what you call plastic, in the metal boxes on the streets. There will come a time when blood no longer runs through our veins. We are reduced to figures, numbers, dots. A few lines on a diagram. We grow bored — as humans often do — and we grow cruel. And when we forget we all came from the same star —”

“Yes.” The child leaned back to lie on the floor. The little flame kept flickering. They turned to their side as if to sleep, but held out two hands in front of the light. A barking dog appeared on the wall, then a snarling wolf; with a few turns of light and shadow, it became a human’s melting smile. “We will kill ourselves.”

“We will.” The shadow’s voice has lost its raspiness. It now stares at the wall, head sticking outside from the gap in the bars. “The end will be as uninteresting as the start was fascinating. We will end in the worst way possible — the boring way. Many believe in going out in explosions and fireworks, but there are only so many kinds of pain.”

The child silently agreed.

IV
CREATION STARTS AGAIN

The child let down the ladder and walked up to the attic, where a little shadow was kept in a cage. It stuck its face in-between the little golden bars, gripping two with small talon-tipped hands. The child carried a bright lantern, the candle-flame inside flickering and casting frightening shapes upon the walls. It was dark outside, but light here. With the hatch closed, the newborn fire seemed hell-flame incarnate.

The child stood and stared at the cage, a leather-bound notebook under their arm. When they spoke, their tone held a dangerous edge, something emotional, something impulsive, something maniacal. A caprice fueled by a realization, a freakish whimsy backed by rationality.

"You lied to me, didn't you? But even you don't know you did. You can't see past all the murky facades, after all —"

“Oh no — oh never! Oh never, never, never!” The shadow’s screeches almost pierced the darkness. “I wouldn’t — not true — why would I tell a blasted lie?!”

“Oh, you’re telling lies alright. The stories you spin? The supposed truth you tell? They don’t make an inch of sense.” The child stood, the tattered cloak around their shoulders, the edge of it catching flame from the open lantern. Their voice grew louder. “You know to give vague words that you call advice, and yet you know nothing. There is no integrity in your truths, no purpose in your lies. Isn't it so easy? Not having to think, because the job of deciding is your god's?”

“The medium may be hasty, but —”

A golden light blinded the shadow’s eye, and for a second, it felt its edges burn and erode; the child’s rage, red-hot as iron, laps at its own dark tendrils, entering through the gaps between golden bars.

For a second it continued, this light show of brilliance and pain and feverish frights. For a second, it thought this was going to go on forever, a continuous state of sunlit hell.

It ended just as quickly. The shadow finally opened its eyes to look outside its cage, but all it saw was blackness, and a single burning spark. The acrid smell of burning flesh lingered in the air. The child was nowhere to be found.

“But there is truth in it, child,” the shadow muttered. “There is at least a little bit of truth.”

V
MEANINGLESS SIN

The child let down the ladder and walked up to the attic, where a little shadow was kept in a broken cage. A small talon-tipped hand stuck out of the broken gap. The child carried a bright lantern, the candle-flame inside flickering and casting shapes upon the walls. It was dark outside, but light here. With the hatch closed, the fire burnt brighter than ever.

The child sat down, cross-legged, and flipped open a leather-bound notebook before putting it on the floor. When they spoke, it was with the voice of God.

“Tell me, little one, why did you listen to the serpent?”

The shadow did not respond, for the shadow was dead.

VI
FLOATING WORDS ARE THE PRETTIEST THINGS IN THE UNIVERSE

The child let down the ladder and
walked up to the attic, where
a little shadow was kept
in a little iron cage.
It stuck its face in-between
the little iron bars, gripping
two of them, with
small talon-tipped hands.
A dim lantern swayed from the child's hand
the candle-flame flickering
to cast shapes upon the walls
It was light outside
but dark here. The newborn fire
had its first share of responsibility
and danced around gently
spreading the warmth, fuzzy around the edges
of light

Cross-legged, the child sat
and flipped open a leather-bound book
setting it upon the floor. A plume of dust rose.
And the child spoke with an innocent tune
one washed many times with eventful wisdom
credibility unknown

"Tell me of the world's creation"
the child commanded with hesitant determination
with eyes fixed on the shadow's plumes

And the shadow complied gleefully
boasting silently of its story, preparing
the most spectacular performance
for its solitary audience.

It started on a place of darkness
and a newborn light that came from it
A star, once destroyed, birthing life
with hir friend of the void — a Voice

It spoke of creation, of light and darkness
of loneliness and randomness
How everything is bright and null combined
and how we are all born from a broken star

But soon, like any other, there rose the notion
that there shall be much fun in hurting each other
and the voice and the creator watched on

it ended abruptly, as
the book of true tales was long burnt, with
the many other scrolls of alexandria
and the child could only sigh
‘ shame, really
for
i really wanted to see the stars ’

and they lay there, waiting for the earth to reclaim them, twelve stories above the ground, dreaming, dreaming on, waiting, inactive, but with mind running, searching, traveling, waiting for, waiting for something, something to happen

VII
REVELATION

"There is no God," the child said.

"They say that God is dead and we have killed him. I don't think so. I don't believe. I will never believe." the child said.

"The world gave me wings and an all-seeing eye. In a past life I broke my back and punched out both my eyes. I am mortal, but I am not of this reality." the child said.

"I don't believe you, but I won't contradict. The idea is too permeated now. You, you little egotistical bastard, have ruined everything." the child said.

"Does this mean anything? You may ask. The answer is no. But if you wish to believe otherwise, I will let you. Art in its first form is dead as soon as it reaches the eyes of another, after all. It still lives, but not as it once was." the child said.

The shadow did not respond, for the shadow was dead.

VIII
IF ONLY YOU HAD LISTENED, KNOWN, OR UNDERSTOOD

The shadow did not respond, for the child was dead.