To have your challenge entry recorded, please write your piece as a reply to this thread.
As a central theme of Consistency is the existence of time — ensuring that you are writing on a timely and daily basis — the theme of this month’s prompts will also be about time.
Today's prompt: [Age]
Definition: the length of time that a person has lived or a thing has existed.
╰┈➤ Write a piece that explores this concept.
Word Count: Minimum 200 words, no maximum.
I have lived to see a million lives unfold. I once stood on grounds of lifted swords, then firing cannons, now blazing pistols, on ballrooms and royal promenades. I used to shine like the light of a full moon, serene, unbothered, but the years have tattered my graceful aura.
Many powerful people called me beautiful when I was still whole. I was the centerpiece of every wall they hung me on, and the star of every night sky they brought me out to see. I used to flutter in the wind and see if it carried me to the heavens, free from the greed of every living species on the ground.
From banners to gowns then lines wrapped around spools, I watched each piece be ripped away from me, one by one. They said it was a repurposing, something new for something as outdated as me, modernizing me with scissors and rulers.
I was cut down, inch by inch, my arms and legs unwoven into threads of azure gold. An heirloom stolen from its greedy owners, sold until I am worth nothing but a few copper coins and a sack of rice.
I used to be priceless, now I am worthless.
Everyone made sure of that.
[WC: 206]
[CW: Depressing Thoughts]
So I have walked on this earth for twenty-four summers, and each year I wonder where all the time has gone, what my youth had been. At first it was all that I had, and then it slipped away through my grasp, and I have to live with the knowledge that I wasted my spring, and that there is nothing stopping me from continuing to waste my days away.
When I was five I was told to hold hands with an adult and look both ways before crossing the street. Now I walk without looking and there’s no one to hold hands with, anyways. People used to care if I wandered off on my own, but now I could fall on top of subway tracks and only be seen as an inconvenience.
People told me that when I became an adult, I could go do whatever I wanted. But how many seasons have passed, and I no longer know what I want. There is only work, work until death.
I have lived for almost a quarter of a century, and what have I been given? Only summers that grow sadder every year, and winters that make me want to sleep away the time. Every night I say, “Tomorrow I will try again and become a better man.” But tomorrow comes and I break my promise once again.
People tell me I’m still young, and I should be enjoying my life, but I’ve been told that for all my life, and I know that soon I will not be young anymore. When I was a child I was led to places I didn’t want to go, and now I continue down paths that I have no choice but to go. If I could start over I would know exactly what to do, but I am sure that is why no one has been given the chance to, because I would forget everything again and become too successful. I thought that when I was older I would know everything, but I realize now that I know nothing, nothing at all, and there is no one out there who can tell me what I’m supposed to be doing.
I suppose the only thing to look forward to on birthdays is cake. This year’s is good, I must admit. But I don’t know why I’m crying over it.
Cerylia stared at Rivan through the crackling fire between them, chewing slowly. He looked like he could be her age, but she knew that humans had much shorter life spans than the Fae did. It was entirely possible that her entire childhood had preceded his existence, maybe even longer. Not like she cared; he was only here because the Old Magic couldn’t be broken, or, at least, she hadn’t figured out a way yet.
She looked away, back out over Stonespire Lake, before he could catch her, though even if he had it didn’t matter. She was just curious—despite how much she hated humans for what they’d done to her people, she knew almost nothing about them. That was a disadvantage. Warfare, she’d been taught, wasn’t about the strongest or largest forces. It was about knowing what drove those forces, and how best to break them down. She would need to find what made Rivan tick, and perhaps then he would break the Bond between them that she so desperately wanted to sever. She got the feeling that he also didn’t like being dragged into the mess that she’d found herself thrown into, but the Old Magic was more powerful than she’d ever thought.
Rivan finally broke the heavy silence. “So where are you from?”
“Ostet,” she replied, looking away from the black water lapping the edges of the firelight.
His brow furrowed. “What’s that, a village?” “It’s the capital of the forest fae,” she spat, incensed at his ignorance. “The proudest city in the Faewood.”
“How should I know, if we aren’t allowed in there?” Cerylia scowled. “That was your own people's doing. It’s for the best, anyway. All you humans like to do is cut down our trees and hunt our animals.”
Rivan looked down at the piece of meat he pulled off the fire. “You don’t eat them too?” “Not usually. Only on special occasions, and even then we’re respectful about it.”
“Funny to talk about respect of life to a seasoned warrior,” he mused, taking a bite. “Or so you say.”
“I’m not even answering that, human.” She popped a berry in her mouth, chewing furiously.
“How old are you anyway? You don’t look old enough to be a Captain.”
“I’ve seen 56 annals,” she frowned.
“You don’t look a day over twenty,” he said, leaning forward to scrutinize her. Now was the perfect time to garner some information. “I don’t think we age the same. How long do your people live?”
“I don’t know, about seventy years if you’re lucky. Yours?” “My mother is nearing her 400th annal.”
Rivan sucked in a breath. “Damn, that’s a long time.”
“For you, yes, but she will live a great many more.” Cerylia paused, realization sinking in. How could she have forgotten so quickly? “Or, would have, had she not been murdered,” she added, eating more berries to combat the tears rising in the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t about to let this human see her cry.
[500 words]
“I'm so scared of getting old.” The statement takes Victor aback. He looks in Darby's general direction with concern. “What brought this on all of a sudden?” “Even ...” Darby sighs, taking an uncomfortably long time to collect their thoughts in a way that makes sense. They rarely coherently express themselves at all, so whenever he has the chance to, he either doesn't take it at all or completely freezes up. But if ... if Darby doesn't open up to somebody soon, then he's going to really regret it in the long run. You can only hold in emotions for so long. He decides to just get on with it, stumbling through his words with every second. “Even *if,* by some miracle, I do get out of here alive, I don't know what I'm going to do at all. I don't have direction in my life, I don't have a plan for what I want anymore, I don't ... “.. it's like- it's like my entire life has been a *lie.* It's all fabricated! It's this- this made up backstory and I'm this made up person and I don't know what to do with that information! “How have I aged up to this point? Can I even age at all? Do I *want* to? If there's a way to just bring me back every time, am I capable of truly dying? Is that a good thing? Does it even matter to try at anything at all if I get constant opportunities to redo all of it ...? “Did any of this -- this entire series of things just happening and only getting worse -- did it even mean anything? Are we all just doomed anyway? “I don't want to live to see myself get older because I'm so afraid of the inevitable, but I don't want to just die here, either. I wish I could .. I wish we could stay here, like this, in the eye of the storm and not have to worry about anything ever again, I ...” ... They take a deep breath in. “Forgive me, that was .. a lot. You don't have to- try to help, it's just ... it's good. To get that out.”
“Darby, I ...” Victor thinks about trying to offer advice for a moment, but just shakes his head. He has no idea how to remedy this kind of situation, but God, he wishes he did. “I don't know what to say, I'm ... I'm really sorry.” Victor's voice always sounded like a deep, but faded purple. Like a rich color that you're only looking at in darkness. Here, it's almost giving out to gray. Almost. “It's fine,” Darby says, “it'll ... it'll be fine.” The breath out that was supposed to calm his nerves a bit came out as more of a heave than anything. They look down at their hands, palms open and facing them. Shaking. They ... they can't stop. A spike of cold energy shoots up his spine, and an icy, pale blue zaps across his field of vision. “It'll be ... okay ...” It'll be okay. It will. It has to be.
"Villy, The Mannequin"
426 words
Felis carves eyes into the blank face of the wooden mannequin, careful hands drawing the shape of hooded eyelids with a carving knife, its blade flashing under the morning sun as rolls of thin wood fall into the mannequin's lap. Its pupils stare down at Felis' feet while she carves the eyelids and lashes with quick precision, brushing away the dust left behind her drawing with her tattered leather gloves then smooths the wood with a short piece of sandpaper kept in between her fingers. Its skin is smooth and fair, no wrinkles or imperfections. Hands rest idly on its lap, gloved fingers intertwined, reminiscent of an inventor's hands whose ideas never seemed to run out once upon a time.
The mannequin wears a vest on top of its dress and resembles a woman whose hair, brown and unkept, parts in the middle of its eyebrows, revealing its eyes. Its leather gloves and the tool bag that hangs from its belt, torn and outdated, is that of an engineer or mechanic. It gives life to a person who invents machines, creates and tinkers with technology—someone who Felis once knew.
Villy was not only an engineer (and she refused to be only an engineer), but she was an innovator and a performer everyone grew to love. The front row seats of her shows filled with anticipation and excitement was the place Felis loved to go—loved to stay. She was life, experience, and memory all at once, and Felis, who loved her so much, lived, experienced, and remembered everything for her.
Fate is never kind nor cruel to lovers. It's rather unpredictable and frightening, and frightened Felis was when she held Villy under an orange sky so long ago and lost the love of her life.
Villy, the mannequin, remains as she was in Felis' memories—young, brilliant, and curious. Felis aged but Villy didn't and the heart that has once felt love for her passed away with time. As weak and disheartened as she was, she continues to carve her sculptures and masterpiece despite the persistent ache that lingers in her chest. She continues to live, experience, and remember—just as she had vowed to her.
Every ache on her limbs reminded her only of how a bright woman's hands that once held her used to comfort her, but now those hands are only wood and cold to touch. Eventually, it'll lose its strength overtime and perhaps one day when its surface begins to crack, Villy may finally grow old and fall in love with Felis once more.
WordCount: 384 :)
I suffer from trying to keep myself whole, when you pour your disdain on me, overlooking the scars, and I begin to disappear in front of you.
I cry out in pain when you walk away from me, although you always return, with anger, impatience, violence. I try to defend myself, still it hurts, listening to you placing on others the blame, the responsibility for our precarious relationship long gone to waste.
Tears escape my eyes when I realize that I can never get rid of you, and that thought terrifies me, yet at the same time, gives me strength to breath for another day, for there is a possibility, a slim hope that you will acknowledge your thorny hands around my throat, beholding the damage you have done to me.
I fight for you, for us, for the love that existed, the tenderness I can see buried in your gaze, when you console me with sweet words that you forget the next day.
Nevertheless, sometimes I can't stand it, and then I rise up, I grow up enough to defend myself after so much hurt, and when I manage to produce fear in you towards me, I realize that hurts me even more. I don't understand, I get more and more confused, until I get doubts whether I love you or just despise you. After all this time, after all those years, what are you to me?
It's more the fear of you hurting me again, that I choose to lose you. But you don't fight to come back, I let you go and watch you drift further and further away. Why do I have to be the one to look for a reason to stop you? Why must I be the one to love you so much that I hate to let you go?
Like a broken record, I repeat it over and over inside my head, still the love inside me persist. Maybe when you come back I will be gone, that time and neglect will turn me to dust and oblivion, but I will always wait for you, because I don't need to look for a reason for that. I don't need a reason to love you, yet there blooms in me the wish that you can do the same.
WC: 275
He lay there in the silent dark, a bearer of twin souls. One withered, frail; the other bursting with vibrance and youth. His hands clenched the sheets below him. No movements stirred the air around him, save for the steady, slow rising and falling of his chest.
Was this how he would live? On a night spent alone, exhaled breath causing misty tendrils to curl up into the air? Nothing he had hoped for, longed for, dreamed for ever came close to this.
On the outside, his lips were slightly parted, eyes open, staring at nothing. He looked as if he were already dead. Inside, a battle waged. The decrepit soul residing within him begged him to give up, to finally close his eyes and succumb to death. The soul who had barely lived—who, despite his past experiences, was still young yet—urged him to stay awake, to stand and rejoice in the beauty of life.
Neither soul conceded. As the faintest shimmer of dawn approached, he sighed. He no longer wished to remain in this constant state of denial.
As the first ray of light struck his body, he exhaled and gave in. Slowly, he unclenched his fists. Slowly, he let the soul who still desired to live take over his body, animating his movements in a way that reminded him of a young pageboy. And yet, as his body began to move, his mind began to fade. The old soul in him smiled, withered—died.
As he faded into unconsciousness for the very last time, he thought that if he could not live on as a boy, he would continue to exist as a dream.
Word Count: 435
It’s already midnight and I don’t know what to write for tomorrow’s assignment. I kick myself mentally for leaving it for the last second. But it’s not really my fault… It’s been haunting me all week and every time I sat down to do it, my mind went blank. And so I sit here and wonder, what am I supposed to write a letter about? My teacher had announced to the class:
“For your last assignment, I want you all to write a letter about anything you wish you could say to me or just something you want to get off your chests. This is supposed to be an easy assignment because they will be anonymous. Doesn’t mean you get out of doing it, because I’ll be tracking who puts their papers in the basket. I expect everyone to participate.”
As I am hitting my forehead on my desk, an idea sparks. One hour later, I have my letter done, printed and packed safely in my bag.
"A letter to the older generation,
Being a teenager is hard. They are all fake, trying to fit in on a made up society. Kindness mistaken for weakness, ruthlessness for respect. It is all twisted, a big red mess all around. They use each other to make themselves look better but they don’t understand that it doesn’t matter if you are popular, if you know a lot of people or even if you are good at gym class.
In reality, every friendship they have, are not guaranteed to last. Everything seems too big, overdramatic, that even the smallest things can bring tears to our eyes. Every fight is brought out of proportion, every struggle is a full on war. When in reality, while things are hard, they just don’t know how to deal with them.
I clearly remember in high school how easy my beliefs were to break, how I used to hurt so intensely and fall in and out of love with multiple people. Sometimes because they helped me out with a project or because they changed their hair.
Teenagers are so easy to mold or break. We are fragile, we put up vulnerable walls that come crumbling down when we’re alone or at night when we’re trying to sleep. And we sobb into our pillows, wishing for it all to end. Wishing for time to stand still just so that we could breathe.
So don’t judge us or say bad things about our generation, because you were one of us not too long ago. Remember the helplessness and offer guidance instead of criticism.
Signed,
A Teenager."
“Sisters! Brother! How… lovely it is to connect with you on this fine… well, it’s night for me, don’t know about y’all.” I put on an excited facade, screaming and crying inside. The downside of being seemingly immortal is being stuck with other immortals. “Yalini, Malini, Athi, long time no see!”
Although we were Sphinxes and hated mortal technology, we couldn’t talk to each other. Humans refer to us as the Sphinxes of the and add a cardinal direction. I’m the Sphinx of the East, the revered, feared and loved. Weird combination. Unlike my siblings, I wasn’t an oracle. I specialized in potions and charms. My mentor was a witch, who only knew of these things.
“You know, Athava, you should really brighten up that wretched cavern you’re in. I seriously can’t see your face. I don’t know if you're in your true form or if that mane-looking thing is your hair.” That’s my brother, Athi, Sphinx of the West. Unlike the rest of us, he lives in a large mansion in the heart of a city built for him. Humans think of him as a king, a god even. “Or you can move in with me. It’s not like anyone is going to miss you. Maybe your new lover will, hm?” He smirked, as if to say I know all your dirty little secrets, thambi.
“Also, it was my birthday yesterday! You all forgot to wish me!” Malini, Sphinx of the North, presumably the youngest of us chirps in. “Oh wait, all of us have it on the same day. Happy birthday to us! We turned 48,271! I think maybe I lost count.” She was the most beautiful of us, high cheekbones, hips and all. The digital laptop screen didn’t show her true beauty at all. And, the most naive. She specializes in the arts, all from dance to painting.
“We should seriously stop calling it that. It’s the earliest day we remember, and that doesn’t mean we were born that day, we were full fledged adults.” I finally speak up, unmuting myself. The four of us woke up in a grove far from the early humans. We had no memory of who we were, what we were or even where we were from. Soon we realized we only had each other and grew together, before separating ways to make a name for ourselves. And make a name we did.
“You know, if all you’re all going to do is bicker like idiots, I’m leaving.” The quietest and most powerful of us, Yalini, Sphinx of the South, spoke. She rarely even joined these calls. And it was rarer still that she had her camera on. Obviously, Athi and Malini still spoke over each other and fought over what was a mystery.
“No, you guys, shut up for once! I want to tell you something. Not about my new lover, I know you’re smirking behind the camera, Athi. I… wanted to ask if we could meet up sometime? I know you guys are too cool for that or whatever, but it’s been centuries. I miss our walks along the Kadal Beach, our hikes along mountains and sleepovers at Athi’s. I miss all of you, and call me emotional all you want. I know even you do, you just bury it deep. Just… please think about it. We could go to the Visumbi Bazaar. I heard there’s a new restaurant taking over social media.” I tried to make it sound as genuine as possible. Don’t get me wrong, it was an earnest moment but with them I had this habit of sounding fake.
“Fine” “Sure, anna!” “Whatever, just tell me when” Was all I got as a response but I knew this was going to be an amazing sibling get together.
A wilted lily stood at the centre of the room, staring me down like it had for 2 weeks. “MUM! Can we go already?” My daughter asked, prodding me with her finger. I looked at her and felt a warmth pulse through me. How did I manage to have a daughter?
”Sorry, honey, I was just in a daze. Let’s go.“ I scoop her up but take one last look at the lily, the twenty year old lily that started wilting two weeks ago. Daisy, my daughter, was telling me about how she had a big project at school today that she wanted to show me. I followed her into her classroom, her tiny footsteps like drops of rain on the ground, I wondered how I could be so lucky. If life was a lottery, I won the day I had my Daisy. She opened the door and there you were. Six years later. Rough beard, messy hair, tired eyes, aged. There you were. I look at my Daisy and then at her father, the one who gave me a lily that would as long as he loved me, who left me because he loved me, who stands here because he no longer loves me. No wonder the lily had died, he was finally moving on. “Prim, I’m back.“
I felt like replying “no shit Sherlock” but I held my tongue. I hated him.
“Leave.“ I replied. He had no place in my world, not after he had destroyed me six years ago. He was a monster. His love was poison. “You have no place in my world after that night. You will never have a place here.” I told him, he stared at me. “I’m here for my daught-“
”She is not your daughter. You signed away all rights remember? You left me, with no money and no one so that you could ‘control‘ me. You will never be her father, get out.“ His eyes were filled with pain but I knew the monster underneath that pain. I knew this would happen the day the lily began to age. However, I had also grown and aged, I will never let him bring down the world I had built without him.
note: coming in hot with another stinky entry
word count: 336
What is age? Is it a number? Or is it a gauge of maturity?
I’ve been asking myself this every night for the past three centuries. At each empire’s eventual fall, at every comment about how I look young for my age -- my mind returns to this question.
What is age?
If I think of it as a number, I guess my age would have to be about 5,000; taking a quick trip on the internet with all its various facets of information saved me the effort of trying to remember the years on my own. Armed with my new knowledge, I thought I was ready to face the world with my “true” age. However, all the confused stares from my colleagues at work tell me otherwise… So I shaved two zeros off the number to appear more normal, hence all the “you look young for your age”’s.
It’s always bothered me to have to lie or come up with some new fake number on the fly. So, I don’t think age can be a number.
I think “age” would be more accurate as a gauge of maturity. At least for me. I’ve seen too many horrors, lost so many friends, and forgotten so many memories. Maybe I’m starting to forget parts of myself too. I mean, I can’t even remember what agreement I made to get this kind of immortality!
I don’t think I’ve ever been the strongest or smartest person around, but I feel as if the tortures of the past have prepared me for anything the future could possibly throw at me. So, if age works better to measure maturity, then what would its units be? Still a number?
I sigh heavily, rolling onto my side in bed. I grab the other edge of my pillow, sandwiching my head in between the fluffy softness.
“But I don’t like numbers…” I grumble.
Seconds later, the room is filled with the blaring of an alarm, jolting me completely from my half-asleep contemplation.
It's so bad but I can't stop with the poetry :sob: To the mortal world,
there’s little that matters more than time.
No living creature that
roams the world can escape
its inevitable grasp.
It cares not for your woes,
nor does it care for your joys.
Time carries on,
even if you don’t.
For everything lives
and as such, everything must die.
All but one lonely soul
abandoned to the deserted abyss of existence.
Cursed to be forgotten
even by time itself.
‘How long?’ he had asked.
She didn’t know anymore.
Long enough for thousands of empires
to rise and to crumble.
Enough to see the world reborn more than once.
But age stops making sense
after a millennium of no change.
It had been so long.
Too long for a single life form
to ever need to exist.
And still, she did.
Wandering ageless
across a world oblivious
to her aberrant existence.
It didn’t matter anymore.
For long, it didn’t.
Until she met him.
And now,
mortal anguish
of life and death
plagues her mind.
All for him.
Though his youth hadn’t yet faltered,
the thought haunted her.
For once in her life,
she feared the passing of time;
knowing that once it caught up,
it would take him with it,
stripping her heart of another.
Another lost to the curse of time.
So she swore to herself
that no matter how long
the intervals between their encounters last.
She’d wait.
For what’s another hundred years
to a woman who cannot age? WC: 243
The jewelry box sat on the dresser, pristine, clear of dust. It was a family heirloom, passed down from mother to oldest daughter on her marriage. The edges showed its age, the original coloring having faded. Each woman that had owned it had taken great care of it.
Through the years, despite the great care taken, its hinges had been replaced, years of use causing them to break. The inner lining had been replaced too, soft blue velvet having replaced the original red. It was old and yet new, its mere existence telling small stories of different times. If only it could speak, the stories it would share, the secrets it would tell, some heart wrenching wails shared, some scandalous tales spared.
The family had a tradition revolving around it. When the box changed hands, the mother would add one piece of her own jewelry to the box before passing it to her daughter. And with each piece, a letter was also added, telling the story of its owner and her life.
Over the years, the box had passed through many generations, each one having left a piece of their own inside. Each piece of jewelry in the box was a symbol of how life had been during the time when it adorned its owner. Each carried with it its own lesson.
Today, it would be change hands again. Mother and daughter sat at in front of the dresser, words passing between them. Mother reassuring the daughter, sharing words of wisdom, and promising to always be her safe harbor. Daughter listening with rapt attention, her eyes glassy with tears tracing her mother’s face, happy to be getting married, yet sad to be leaving her mother. Before long, they both cease to talk, just basking in each others presence.
With a tremulous smile, the mother reaches forward, gently grabbing the jewelry box. Turning to her daughter, she places it in her hands, her own resting on top. With just the passing of a jewelry box from mother to daughter, the mother sets her daughter free to write her own stories, some shared, some spared. Both share a small smile before the mother leaves, telling her daughter to read her letter, and that her piece inside is her something old for the wedding.
The daughter, with shaking hands, opens the box. Inside, amongst the weathered letters is a pristine white letter addressed to her. Underneath is the necklace she has seen her mother wear at every special occasion, since the day her father got it for her. In the letter, she reads how it’s a symbol of the love her parents share and how her mother dearly wishes that her daughter too will have that kind of love in her life. Gently taking the necklace, she clasps it around her neck. Putting the letter back, she takes the jewelry box and puts it among her things, making sure its secure and wrapped so that it will stay safe.
Taking a deep breath, she turns and walks out the room. Just like the jewelry box has a new home, she too heads to what and who will be her new home. [WC: 528]
How long have I lived? Oh. That’s a difficult question to answer. I could say I’ve lived but eighty-two years, one month, twenty-seven days and two-and-a-half seconds exactly and no more, and that would not be a lie. Or I could say I’ve lived only nine months, but none outside my mother. That wouldn’t be a lie either. Or I could tell you that really, I’ve been around for forever. Sometimes I am living and always I am dead.
Of course, I can only tell you all this when I’m not rebirthed. Once I’m in a body, once I’m someone new, I don’t have my memories of past lives anymore.
This begs the question of, what exactly am I? Well, I’ve never had anyone to confirm that, but I believe that I’m a parasite of sorts. Or maybe a phoenix? But I don’t rise from ashes.
Once I read a short story about someone who has lived the lives of every person ever, or is in the process of living those lives. Once they’ve lived every life, then they become a God. Maybe I’m one of those people who are on their way to that.
I don’t need answers, though. The riddle is not for me to solve. I’m content with being whatever I am and however old I may be.
Ah, sorry stars, I’ve gotta go. I feel the pull of a life waiting to be lived. Hopefully I’ve answered the interview questions to your content. I’ll see you around after I die, okay?
Alone at Seventeen
Word Count: 205 (of 1.1k)
Summary:
Akira Kurusu is seventeen.
He remembers too much. But he can only focus on the blood around him.
AN: This is an excerpt of the full work, which can be read here! The full work involves minor injuries, self-aid, and a teenager bleeding out; as well as implied sensitive subject matter, so please be warned! Enjoy this excerpt from the complete story.
There was a sort of goodbye that came with being seventeen.
All his questions about what he wanted to be, turned into inquiries of who he was becoming. Suddenly everything straddled between what he wanted, and what he despised. Seventeen terrified him, because all it was to him was the constant fear of his being becoming another pawn to gods he can’t explain.
Akira finally had to say goodbye to his childhood when he received the notice he was being sued for violence, which he kept insisting that it never existed in court. However, he was one mere teen against a politician and his connections.
“Obstruction of justice, blackmail, defamation, possession of weapons... Manslaughter too, yeah? Talk about the works. To think that all those crimes were led by a punk like this..."
Akira rubbed the side of his head, releasing quiet whimpers as his fingers traced where the interrogator stepped on him. He could still feel the pressure on it, but he made no move to sit up on his bed. His other hand twitched, nails digging into the sheets.
"And you seemed to be enjoying every second of it... Huh?"
He wasn’t. But he could never find the courage to spit it out.
There had been discussion of the potential of an apocalypse, and you remember how you’d laughed the silly idea off as a mere myth. Oh, how wrong you were, and you know that now. You were a child then, barely starting kindergarten and learning to be your own little person when everything fell apart.
Sometimes you can still hear the sirens despite having lost your hearing long ago from a mixture of old age and the trauma this apocalypse had unleashed upon everyone. They echo in your mind as a constant reminder of when the world began to end. While there had been discussion, no one had expected it to be a man-made apocalypse that tore through cityscapes and fortresses alike with no mercy. There had been nowhere to go except underground, and you didn’t quite understand that at your age. You were little when you slipped into the tunnels and watched the last rays of sunshine disappear behind the metal doors. There were gates preventing access to these doors for nearly your entire life, stating that even getting near them could be potentially fatal but you were dumb kids. Of course, you’d tried to go near them.
One of those excursions was when you lost most of your hearing. You were one of the last ones left now, trapped in an underground city with no way out. No one expected it to end like this, for everyone to rot beneath the surface of the Earth they’d destroyed.
The lights above you flickered quickly and you cast your eyes to the doorway to see your nurse standing there. They waved a quick hello before getting to work checking your vitals and scribbling down information. You reached for a nearby notebook and scribbled the words, “How are they today?” before showing it to the nurse. They frowned and looked you in the eyes.
“Heart rate is low. Your blood pressure is still dropping, and we’re worried it will tank alongside your blood sugar within a few hours.” You were awfully good at reading lips by now, after decades of practice and followed the nurse’s delivery with ease.
“There’s no more time, is there?”
“We’re afraid not, sir.” Of course. You supposed it was inevitable, wasn’t it?
“I suspected as much… It has been coming for a long time.” You chuckled softly before continuing, “Would it sound callous of me that I am simply happy I hit the three digit marker when no one else did?”
“No, sir. I think that’s quite the accomplishment actually. One hundred years old, and ninety four of those spent beneath the surface of the Earth. I wonder, sometimes, how you did it. You knew what the Earth was before all of this but I never did and even I wish to break through the barricades to witness it now. It amazes me that you’ve been steadfast in keeping us all down here.”
“It was simply for your…” You wheezed and choked on your words, doubling over in pain as blood splattered across your sheets. “... protection. Keep the others… safe. Please.” You’d been here for so long, for one hundred years; it was time to go.
(The definitely not exaggerated mental toll of consistency you're welcome lol😭) Some will tell you that age is a physical thing, and this seems reasonable enough as with years of living wrinkles will form on your face, gray hairs will sprout from your head and your bones become frail and old. And although this is true, others will tell you that age is a mental thing, perhaps a kid has a maturity level much higher than any adult, making it seem as if they are mentally older.
But then off course both can happen simultaneously, physical aging happening as a result of mental anxiety and/or stress, your hair might fall out when you’re only in your mid-twenties or maybe you get the odd grey hair, your face lined from all that frowning, (excess amounts of back pain included).
But what if you experienced all these symptoms and in only the span of one month? It hardly seems possible, and I’d had thought so too, especially considering my young age. But oh how innocent I was, and it seemed so long ago when it all began on the 1st of august. But now as I sit at my desk near the end of August making steady progress through my 100 page thesis with half an hour left before 1am, I begin to rethink my life and that word always seems to come back. The word that haunts every child’s nightmares; though they will always forget when they wake, it still burns in the back of their brain.
Consistency.
I shiver. We all come to that word no matter how hard we run and we always think we can take it on, underestimating its power over the world.
I continue writing when after a while my laptop screen begins to swim before my eyes and the room is spinning. 31 days of no sleep and I am so close to finishing the thesis that Yue requires of us all in order to achieve maximum consistency. A thesis on the topic of the importance of that very thing and I was so close. I now had only 10 minutes remaining, but with only my summary to go.
I catch myself in my bedroom mirror just as I’m collapsing. my hair long and white, a large gray beard spread right across my bed (I like to think I’m as wise as Gandalf by now) my eyes sunken and heavy. And I fall, giving in to the need for sleep.
I lift my head, my eyes blurry and out of focus, noticing the time 12:58am; I reach a knobbly finger out towards my keyboard, moving it as quick as lightning over the keys (lucky for me, I’d only ever leaned to type with minimum fingers, so I was pretty fast.)
“Consistency is the critical driver for success. Being consistent means dedicating yourself to your goals and staying focused on the things and activities to achieve your goals. Consistency requires a long-term commitment from you and involves sustained effort in doing actions repeatedly until you achieve your goals.”
I saved the pdf for my thesis and uploaded it, attaching it to the consistency thread.
Send.
I let out a hollow cackle, coughing and spluttering.
YUE WAS RIGHT, Consistency IS key, and I’ve unlocked the door!
I was consistent!
WOOHOO.
Yue was right, yue was always right…
I was consistent…
I was consistent.
I collapsed, knocking my laptop off the bed, a smile spread across my face as I lay my bones down to rest. I’d achieved maximum consistency, so I shut my eyes, never to wake again.
Yesterday, I made a mistake. A big one. I was careless and I got myself muted. I replied in idea-box, which violated rule #5, no speaking outside general or clam-land. At the beginning, 24 hours didn't seem like so much. Of course, now I know better. It's horrible. When you're muted, you can see everything, everywhere. But you can't reply. You can't react, or make faces. See something funny you want to react to? No, you cannot. Want to reply to someone mentioning you? Good luck with that. Want to vote on a poll? Tough luck, my friend. All you are allowed to do is stay silent. I woke up today. After washing up, I went to check on WriterVana. It was a slap to the face when I was reminded of my 24-hour mute. No 'how are you's, no joining conversations, can't upvote things on starwall, or anywhere at all. I see something, and want to move, to say something, to show my existence and say 'here I am, hello!', because I feel like a ghost, a ghost that floats in and out of rooms, and tries touching and lifting objects out of habit, and realises the futility of their exertions only when their intangible hand goes right through a potted plant. Just like a plant, which is visible to those who glance at it, but ultimately, is still a plant, without the ability to speak, move, or write. Being invisible is really not that great, especially when you're only invisible, inaudible and intangible so that you do not do any more harm, or in this case, break more rules. In hindsight, I'm very disappointed in myself. That I've been careless for so long that I had to be muted. That I didn't spare those 2 seconds to think things through first. I have become so tired. My hair has become gray, turning into a snowy white. My hands and face have become a waterfall of wrinkles cascading down in steady ripples. My eyes became a dimmed green, my nose and ears longer, my movements fatigued and breaths laboured. I have grown old, so old, in just 24 hours. My shaking hand finds it harder to grip this pen too. If I was a plant, I would say I've withered, my colours fading to a brown, leaves falling, my plant body soon following to be one with the earth once more. To, hopefully, rise again in the spring, with new, young buds of flowers to bloom in the summer. My time has come. I have to go. And as age catches up to me, I fall asleep gently. ------- I've learned my lesson. See you all by the next prompt!
Word count: 230 😰
The memory started with her walking into the workshop as she had done every day. Maker Ambrose was on the floor, pulling at his hair and sobbing. She didn’t know why — he never explained why. She clattered over to him and sat down in front of him. He stopped pulling his hair to hold her face.
“Felicity… Felicity, Angel…”
His tears fell to her metal body. It made her tremble: tears scared her. Tears meant that Maker Ambrose was at his limit.
“We… We are impermanent, child. There’s nothing we can do… nothing we can change…”
Felicity blinked at him. There was never anything she could do. Nothing she ever showed him in times like these ever made a difference.
“When- When I am gone, Felicity… everything must come with me. You understand?”
She hadn’t at the time. In hindsight, it all made sense.
“But…” He held her to his chest. “You will be the exception, Angel. You will outlast us all.”
He gave her a hug, then wiped his eyes and walked out of the room.
Now she sat out in the field, staring up at the windmills he had built her, wondering where it went wrong. Would she have been able to save him and her homeland?
Perhaps she would never know. Perhaps it was lost to history.
After all, there was no way to turn back time.
Age can be a pretty brutal weakness these days.
With the Internet becoming more and more accessible to younger users and more online spaces being built, it almost feels as if there's an expected age range to a lot of online communities. I’ve always felt at least a little out of place in many Discord servers and other spaces related to the fandoms I follow because of my ripe age of 25. Although that has not stopped me from participating actively in servers such as Writervana, it’s always been nagging at me in the back of my head that there will be several situations in which I just won’t be able to fit in.
I’ve joked about not being able to follow "Gen Z trends" such as ending sentences with hyphens or question marks when they should end in full stops, but there is at least some truth to these kinds of remarks, and it’s kind of disappointing to think about. In spite of all of this, though, I have my duties as a Helper Knight and as a Worker Bee in general to attend to, and that’s not changing anytime soon.
With all this being said, here’s my Consistency entry for “Age”.
--
WC: 431
“...And remember to eat and sleep as well as you train. It’s important to master the art of peace as much as the art of war.”
“Sir, yes sir!” yelled the foot soldiers.
You could say my methods for training with my fellow squadron members are rather… unorthodox, to say the least. Even though I’m at best 25 years these knights’ senior, I’m still functionally in the same rank as them. Sometimes I find it hard to keep up with my fellow soldiers’ energy, so sometimes the Captain asks me to sit out physical training sessions for the sake of my health. Today was such a case.
“Sire, with all due respect, there’s been a growing concern among your fellow squad members that you’ve been overexerting yourself during physical training. It’s really affecting their morale, and I was hoping you’d be more mindful of your limitations next time.”
Something about how the Captain worded that thinly veiled order rubbed me the wrong way. I wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he referred to me as “Sire” even though he’s entirely within his right to call me by my name alone, or if it was his allusion to me having limitations that the other knights don’t have. It’s not as if I had a choice as to if I should follow it; the Captain’s orders are final unless proven otherwise by a higher-ranking officer.
One of the younger knights must have seen me moping in the corner shortly after, because she sat down next to me and offered to give me some of her water. “The Captain is just looking out for you the same way he looks after all of us,” she said. “I don’t want you thinking you’re the only one out there with limitations in one way or the other.”
“What do you mean?”
In front of everyone, she removed her armor and rolled up her sleeve, revealing a noticeably discolored burn scar covering her shoulder and extending down a good half of her forearm. “I shouldn’t be on the battlefield at all with an injury like this,” she said. “But you’ve motivated me to keep pushing forward in spite of my physical disabilities.”
“I did that?” I asked. “It warms my dusty old heart a lot to hear that.”
“So come on,” she said. The rations are going to spoil if we dilly-dally around any longer. We have to eat well and sleep well if we want to master the art of peace, don’t we?”
“Right,” I said. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”