A Request from Fiction

I want her to change my name and inform her friends. I exist; can’t she see? I am real and forever will be as long as she’s capable of experiencing. I am not a dream. Not a machine. It just hurts to be seen as mere print on a page rather than a mess on a white shirt. I may be dirty but that’s the thing–I’m alive. I have a past. I happen. I am always going to be. So please, change my name.

Fairytale’s a tale


After a tale

No more dreams
No more spells
Wishes have been granted

No more heroes
No more villains
The damsels have been saved

No more twists
No more turns
All circles have straightened

No more firsts
No more lasts
Moments have departed

Holding on
Letting go
Something has been told
Somewhere has been emptied
Some time has been lost
Someone has gone

And proclaimed

No idea is a theme
Nor a story a lesson
Unless purged of fantasy
And of hypocrisy

A Daughter’s Confession

It was something not everyone would understand. Or would they even dare to? It was a tale worth not telling the world forever for it was nothing but lies, a corruption of the soul, a defiance of every sacred truth.  A tale meant to be hidden for thousands of centuries and a thousand more.

It was ashamed of the sun, the sun that blessed the earth with its power of a conqueror, the sun that was frugal enough to show itself only during the first half of the day and then leave everything of the second half to its weak counterpart—the moon—pathetic  for all its scroungings of light from it.

It was the same sun that killed me and the one I loved; the same sun that hated our kind and whose flames scorched us to death. It put an end to everything but not to the heritage of our existence, because that heritage would continue to live on even if we were ended by this vilest conqueror.

Second to the sun was my father. He was a theft, a stealer. He managed to steal lives from people. Their innocence was what he loved to watch over. Their fear of him was what thrilled him the most. Their cry was music to his ears deaf to all the simple wishes of his victims to spare their lives. He would not hesitate to kill if he thirsted. He would kill. And that was what he did to me.

Yet, mine was not theft but a trade, for when he took away my life, I was given a present. This was ‘the gift of all gifts’ as my father would always say. This was the gift of a new life—a life so different from what my life was before he killed me when I was just turning nineteen. From then on I did not count years. I counted decades. I counted centuries. I counted until I got tired of watching ages go by from these unchanging eyes of eternal youth. I got tired of seeing people die of terrible sickness, or of old age, or of my father’s slaughter.

My hands were not clean of my father’s slaughter, for I too was committing the same murders. Backstage during the plays of this murderer was I, waiting to receive his rations for me, food freshly gotten from his actors that portrayed the slain animals. Whenever he killed, he would feed me through him; I would use what he had stolen. And this defeated my refusal to kill.

I always refused to kill, to do what he used to do to survive. I only fed on him all those years. So many times, besides all the things he taught me, he would try to teach me the art of murder and show me the pleasure of the hunt but I would always decline such lessons. And so I became too dependent on what he would give me. I never learned to kill for food, nor would I ever want to.

Sometimes, because I was tired of everything in this life of thieving, I just wanted to stop receiving from him and wait until my soulless body gives up in hunger. But he would not let his daughter die. Never would he let me die. He had always kept me. He had looked after me ever since he took me away from that mansion where my family used to live and celebrate life, and gave me his present.

Since he wanted me by his side for eternity, he demanded my company without commanding it. It was my nature now and his that left me no choice but to submit to his visibly concealed demand. Yes, it was our nature, the nature of our kind, the nature that dictated we must stay together for no other creature was meant to be with us but ones like us, thieves and murderers. So we travelled the world; we lived ages. Together we explored the vastness of humanity and thieved it. There was no certainty on where we were headed to or where we were from. For one, I did not know what the purpose of my existence was besides being a cold company to this vicious man I called father.