Creative Writing Competition

You never existed, did you?

You may see these words as ink on a page, or pixels on a screen, hear your breath plume in rehearsed life. Or your blood rushing in your ears, feel it pulse in your fingers. Feel your skin against fabric, your weight pressing into where you rest.

These things may make you think you do exist, in the present, in the now. You may think they exist, too. The present. The now.

But do you? Do you really?

You didn’t before, you believe you do now, you won’t again.

You won’t again.

If that is the case, did you really exist at all? If you—living, breathing you—is to dissipate into the earth to join the worms and the soil—much like the stars dissipated to form the blood in your veins and the cloth of your shirt—if that is an absolute certainty—do you exist now?

I’d like you to exist. I may not exist right now, but these words these words these words and their intent their meaning their intent right now in my now—my now as I write them now— still bring forth the same meaning and desire—even minutes, hours, months, years later. I still want you to exist.

I might not exist. You might not exist.

I’d like you to exist.

Your existence is a jarring unwarranted whisper in a break of time, a hushed secret between breaths once clear through a hazy voice now silenced and forgotten as a whisper is a hush a hush a hush—it is gone—a whisper is gone as goes another another another—they dissipate into silence we dissipate into the earth the grime the soil—as stars dissipate into the blood of our veins—we dissipate into the earth - silenced the whispers are silenced.

We are silenced we are forgotten we cease to exist in the memory of space.

Did we ever exist?

Humans are whispers and whispers are humanity; they are interchangeable, and neither exist. In the memory of time, we are forgotten lost never here.

Do you exist? You were never here.

Here here here is nowhere nowhere is here. Interchangeable.

We’re only the echos of stars, as is everything we see hear and touch. Only the echo of a dying star. All stars are dying. All humans are dying.

Both are only whispers. All are interchangeable.

Stars, whispers, humanity.

So, what will you do, if you do not exist?

Keep whispering, I suppose, as a ghost does.

We are whispers, we are stars. There are footprints in the sand where I walk. The ones I make and the ones that are already made.

I used to walk in the footprints in the sand, over the top of footprints that weren’t my own. Mine were too small to replace them, and also too small to fill them. I hid in them, as children do, too scared to declare our independence and make our own mark in the world in fear of being stamped out. Jumping between the shoes of others, unstuck in time, was more fun anyway.

The ones that interest me the most are those that appear to just disappear. They tread around in confused circles before taking off. Up they go, higher and higher, carried off by the wind to the undiscovered country from where no traveler returns. All that is left of them on this Earth are their footprints in the sand. But each of them carry their own story and leave people like me to wonder where their next step could have taken them.

As I have grown older, I have come to realise that each step I take leaves my own unique mark on this beach: I can go anywhere, do anything. I can tread lightly and live a simple life, or do so wearing boots capable of stamping on human faces. All these footprints in the sand, but those footprints are my footprints. I can make my own path through this labyrinth for others to follow. I can be the hero of my own life.

But then again, what is it worth? Every now and again, a cacophony of storm clouds docks itself in the bay. A tempest. Some storms are heavier than others. The winds howl and screech, chasing even Ozymandias and Alexander away. The ocean drowns in itself. The waves come crashing in, surging, cleansing. And just like that, no questions asked, there are no more footprints in the sand. No more shoes to fill or stories to be told. They are washed away—gone, like trifles light as air.

Just like that, we are lost to the hands of time, the hands of the tides, too, if you will.

Our footprints in the sand are lost to hands much more imprinting than ours.

Elusive and intangible as it may be, it is always there, within an arm’s reach. Taunting. But every time you reach out, it shies away from you, as if you’re diseased. Flawed. Poisoned. Or perhaps poisonous?

Regret is ever-present. But not remorse. Certainly not. Grief but not guilt. For was it you who committed all those wrongs? Did you chain your creator to a rock? Did you gift yourself with fire, flood your land and waters, send yourself disease in a gift box? Certainly not.

The son you sacrificed haunts you, but his death is a mere drop in Poseidon’s ocean to the massacres of the gods. They brought him back, as if it changed anything. That one life for the millions they took away. They antagonise you for the death of your son but you remain remorseless.

There’s a sour taste in your mouth, but taste isn’t something you’ve done in a long, long time. Your throat is parched but unable to swallow, your feet immovable in the cold, remorseless waters. A lot like you, in that regard.

They told you it was an honour, but in truth, it was a damnation. For you could not restrain the rage against those who humiliated you, wronged you. But you made your last stand one they could not forget, one that could not go unpunished.

Succumb to it all, they whisper. Succumb to the pain. But if you cannot swallow those fruits, nor will you your pride. You can survive on truth. It could take days, years, centuries, but you won’t give in to the gods’ mockery. Humanity is either bitter or blind, and you know which you would rather be. You set your jaw.

Musty air oppresses your lungs and the reek of death is intoxicating. Despite your best efforts, it is impossible to ignore the low-hanging branches dotted with succulent fruits luring you to yet another fruitless endeavour. Upon these fields are the eternal prisoners of the gods. A boulder rolls over Sisyphus, Tityus regenerates his liver, the Danaids pour water into a broken basin. The gods are fond of humanity’s fruitless endeavours.

A twig snaps above you. There he is. Nested like a bird in the branches, the boy takes a bite of the fruit, grinning. “Hello, Father,” your son says.

Compose me a poem Speak magic And take me places Of verses and phrases

Paint me a picture In a thousand words And in that time Worlds have emerged

Lost in the forest Somewhere far away Twenty-six flowers for my bouquet Blossoming in the trees Flowering letters Take your pick Collect them in a basket Letter by letter, weave them together

Succulent fruits For delicious concoctions Wait ‘til it’s ripe Or sour runs rife

Words can be poison Words can be sweet It’s all your making To create this feat Bake words into a cake As delightful as can be Craft it to perfection Be lost in a reverie

Rewriting reality Your heart keeps aching For worlds of your making Can’t help falling for this fallacy

Make it rhyme Rhythm and ring in time Abundant alliterations Metaphor iterations

Pretty whispers And pretty flavours Taste it on your tongue

An otherwordly forest Of glories behold Take some words on a page And watch wonders unfold

Growing up every little girl longs to be a princess. The gowns, immense wealth, timeless beauty. Except for the little girls in this world. For in this world, princesses have billowing gowns of silk and crystal jewels by day... but billowing wings and crystal scales by night.

She was a flaming ball of auburn fire amongst the dancing ferns, the epitome of beauty. Her startling green eyes stood out in contrast to her pearly white skin and her soft lips were bent in a luscious pink cupid’s bow. Her hair trailed behind her as she ran, a veil of fiery perfection as her childlike delight rang throughout the field. She was free to do whatever her heart desired.

For now.

If life was as spectacular as this girl looked then there would be no catch to this charming life. But if an eager observer watched her when the sun tucked itself into bed and allowed its silver friend to take the spotlight, they would quickly learn that there is more that lies beneath the surface.

Much, much more.

In every fairy tale, the princess is the successor. We all know that she gets everything and lives happily ever after. But, what if there was no princess, and therefore, no happy ever after?

She continues her glorious dance amongst the flowers almost as delicate as she, the feeble flower is oblivious to the sinking ball of fires descent that was darkening the sky around her. A shrill scream ruined the serenity of the darkened night. A gasp leaves her delicate lips. Her eyes of emerald green widen as the realization of night settles on her. The glowing ember of wings branch from the trembling woman, and her ears, now spiky point, as flames flicker like fireflies on the tips of her slender fingertips. Blackness conceals the ring of men who stalk their frightened prey.

One who is new to this world would say that this girl is still heart-achingly beautiful. But for the village that surrounds her, the village that watches her, she is a beast and all beasts must be slain.

The cloak of blackness is removed to reveal a stadium of humans eager to watch the slaying of this beast. The Winged Princess Hunting Arena is not for the faint-hearted.

Trembling bodies of Princesses are steadily stack up in piles and all who hunt the wings have their reasons. Some admire the scales, some the shimmer and some the colours. Whatever their reasons, the last thing every Princess sees is the brandished glimmer of weapons. Men leap for girls, determined to capture and kill one of these beastly beauties. The crowds scream with an eager desire for bloodshed.

Her ear twitches. Danger. A scream rips through the arena. Within seconds, she feels the metal slice through her milky white flesh and retracts itself with a sickening sound. The holder of the blade holds a sickening smirk as he looks up at the girl.

Faint-hearted.

No happy ever after here, dear readers. The beast has indeed been slain.