Poems and psychosis.
In the present moment, she awaited the inevitable. She strayed from Oktavia even more so—to the point the human noticed her odd looks and disappointment; their hands had bumped into each other when trying to reach for the artificial sweetener jar—and Mischa flinched like a fish waiting to be gutted by their captor.
In retrospect, however–
“…I am not even flattering you, she probably just glanced at you and decided what she would feel, like clockwork,” he snapped his fingers. “You need to end this.”
“And how do you expect me to do that?” Mischa didn’t dare break away eye contact. Respect was the only thing she had left, if it wasn’t love.
“You do it carefully, Koch. Very carefully.”
His voice croaked. “If there is no escape, then there is no length of survival.”
“Then Artemis was right. We have to murder this whole regime.”
I have recently composed an intro soundtrack to the Identify podcast project I’ve been working on. For those that do not know, Identify is an ongoing novel collaboration project that delves into a mysterious island that has different uses for people.
“But, you’re neglecting to tell me everything. I know that, Mischa. What have you been hiding from me?”
She looked almost sad as she put their dishes in the sink. ‘Your memories, Oktavia. That’s what I’m hiding.’
“Mischa? Where are you going? Don’t walk away from me.”
Darcy knew better than to play with time—it wasn’t cheap after all.
Shall forever be well,
Like Julian said
Centuries ago
She could barely remember the former king, but she knew enough modern history that the colonies dispersed before killing each other in a series of small wars. It was knowledge that felt natural to her. She was in enough battles, recalling in distant psychological experience, to warrant the existential solipsistic dread that when she held the sword, she was the only one that mattered in anyone’s eyes.
Including her father’s.
“Mischa, have I done something to upset you?”
Oktavia’s terrifying presence made her flit for the knife, before dropping it back down on the cutting board. “What?”
“There is some… type of vomit on the vegetable cutting board.”
“What are you—No, no, I just chopped up the carrots—over and over again.”
At her feet, she found something joyful. The horizon cleared and she too sat on the ground. Her gaze locked with Mischa.
“I didn’t think we’d see each other again.”
“Given what you do? It was likely,” Mischa was hoarse, hesitating to move from the ground. The glow suppressed Oktavia’s features, in which the illusion was consolable that she was safe. Her head rolled to the side, almost touching the robot’s knee.
“Did you think I’d forget you, my Mischa?” Somehow, her voice didn’t falter into emotion, yet her chest sunk as she looked into the human’s eyes. She swallowed. Focus. Oktavia, in her dark moment, squeezed tightly before dropping Mischa to the ground.
At her feet, she found something joyful. The horizon cleared and she too sat on the ground. Her gaze locked with Mischa.
“I didn’t think we’d see each other again.”
My main character, Oktavia, had an arc of redemption but losing her pet dragon, Lincoln, was the original idea for me to have her descent into the pith and despair of madness (we all love a good anti-hero).
Anastasia was stirred to the sound of heavy breathing. “You are surely to die.”
“Then perhaps you will too.”
seeking the death of my cynicism (it’s like cyanide), to the trill in my chest
“Why do you feel connected to this devastation? It took many lives from the world, including ours. You feel, what, pity for a world that’s been long gone? Face it, it never existed.”
Stealthily pacing away from the grassland and forestry was only to no avail. She would be yet another cause of death and havoc, as she marched on. Sideway flames were engulfing her vision, blood started to drip out from her wrists as she trembled—gripping vices like onto a tree limb; she struggled to catch her breath.
I am your father lost and lonely
The world and all its feathers phoney
I picture you smiling, making happy face
When I was seventeen I had a dream
Of what my life would be like
And it was nothing like this, no not at all
darkness embraces
the dead man
waiting in his tomb
ashes on his grave
“Almost there!” said the facetiousness of the grinning face. “Let’s start over again…” almost as if spoken from the true puppet master, Merlin. “And Tom? You are owned. Don’t forget.”
“I know you saw something in the light, Tom. We all did. You can’t trust the words of a fucking maniac that tried to kill us—you have to trust what you saw.”
“Think, Lauren. Really think. Why would she tell me this otherwise?”
“To not remember!” Lauren inched closer to him, eyes blazing. He couldn’t look away from her if he tried. “If I remember Clarence at least, then she’s real to me.”
Pseudopsychosis. 