Wednesday, 20 March 2013

My Short Story Indulgence: Figment

Something incredible happens when an author gives them self total abandon. When you take the opportunity to write something that's very much akin to an extremely emotional piece of modern art. On that concept, I've written a fictional short story that takes a deeper look at the concept of fiction itself, of the power that it has and the way humans use it to escape from reality.

My short fiction story "Figment" puts that under a microscope. Exploring the potential of someone completely given to the lure of fiction and how they're treated in return for such a strong obsession.

Without borders, I've used an artistic style of language and illustrated for readers something that I feel is like a very decadent dessert. So enjoy this indulgence and let it inspire your mind to see what you're capable of when fences are down and you're completely free.

"Figment"

Author: M.K.R. Mossey

That day when the little girl tumbled down the rabbit hole; she was in stitches.
Crowing in merriment during her descent from humanity.
She didn't grapple as adults do, clawing desperately to hold onto the superficial surface.
She could do better.
She wanted to do better than any of them ever had.

The laws of life and death were the first to be thrown away and this utopia could be whatever she wanted.
Perfection was no longer subjective, it became as close to her as what her mind could create.
Unrecognisable to the naked eye, that little girl is me.
Was me.
Is still a part of me with my caustic behaviour burning up the threads that keep me anchored to reality.

It was amusing to hide in the interfernestration. Peeking between reality and fiction at my whim. Taking advantage of both while they mocked me in my ignorance.
Selfish little girl.
Foolish little brat.
Those are the things they said behind my back.
Wanting it all and letting go little by little the further I stepped.
Loping down the garden path with pleasantries on my lips.

Conjuring up chimeras at will, invisible companions that served me in my imaginary world. I was never alone, every second was peppered with a fascination towards what would happen next.
Every square in the chess board suddenly belonged to me and I was intoxicated with the sweet nectar of power and the sheer ambrosia of control.

The Queen; myself.

Given to the nature of my position and a sense of entitlement that grew increasingly detrimental with every spoken word. The crown on my head was cacoethes, so powerful a diving force that each judgement I made became increasingly ludicrous and fanciful. I assumed roles of Queen and Subject. Fulfilling the duties of Murderer and Martyr. So palpable in their essence were my creations, each one with tender words to pacify my fitful existence. But like the tyrant Queen, when I was finally bored with one of my subjects I would kill them. My hands dripping with golden rings created from the ichor of my imaginary casualties. The mourning of the victimised subject that followed was simple audacity, blaming them for having left me alone and claiming vengeance on the evil that let them perish in such unsavoury ways. The masks I would wear were all part of the masquerade, the game of tactics which stained my heart with inky words of every movement I made.


The King; my world.

Bonded to my every move by the consequence of an accidental union. I laid upon my King a mantel of affection which made him bend and conform to every absurd wish I could conceive. I was wilful child, spoiled by her beloved and indulged in every possible form. Every brick in the path, each building in my view, filling the spaces in empty fields and re-drawing every line my vision fell upon. He would colour them in unrealistic shades and trace over the physical with delightful renditions of fictitious muses. Everything was a gift, wrapped up in surrealism for my collection of fabricated memories where I could be whatever I wanted while hidden in the shadow of my King's robes. A sire
to my phantasmagorical children as they came forth from the fabric of oblivion.


The Bishop; my conscience.

Nagging, pulling, pleading, begging through pathetic excuses that filled my mouth with acrid words which I refused to swallow. Bitter medicine that was easily spat out and traded for sharp insults used as a blade to combat logic, dripping with the venom that had filled every pore in my body until it reeked with that intoxicating virulence. I silenced the Bishop so easily in my times of rest, disregarding his sage advice as a nothing more than incessant rubbish. But in moments of discontent when I had been forsaken by my own creation I would retreat to him for absolution. I would nag, pull, plead and beg for an invocation that would cleanse my guilt ridden soul. Each time my repentance would lead to unrepentant folly and the vicious cycle was permitted to continue...


The Knight; my love.

Enticing me with his innocence and ethereal beauty. He was purer than the King and fairer than the reality I had left behind. Our affair was so potent a poison that I became addicted. Each thought laced with the saccharine sweat of our effort to meet against the odds of my mortal existence and my Love's tenuous connection to the realm of physicality. Sight unseen, there was still no retreat from his ubiquitary presence, every voice downed out by his mute demand for my attention as a Queen brought to her knees by illusory power. Keeping himself constantly beyond my grasp, I was inches away from insanity but ultimately obsessed with something I could never have. A game so dangerous it turned my blood to adrenaline and left me begging for more behind the wailing tears, praying for an end to the unceasing cruelty.


The Rook; my guardian.

The gossamer veil that I had drawn to protect myself. To keep my world from others and from the taint of their judgements. The champion that I used to shield myself from the aggressors of sensibility. My self assassinations were few but in the days when my nameless world was threatened, the Rook would hold my hands, lacing our fingers together so that my tantrum wouldn't give into cataclysmic urges. The sweet air that belonged to The Rook was transferred to my lungs, a drug that not only protected the world but me along with it. Each time the corners of creation came free for mortal view, the Rook drew them back behind the curtain of my abode only leaving unsuspecting humans to wonder in it's wake.


The Pawns; my playthings.

People around me forced to be unwilling participants, unwitting enablers in a world where they never knew they existed. Each one dressed in garbs that suited my perception and daily capriciousness. In the front line of my army, I would concatenate each figure and assign them a role in my theatrics. Kind, wicked, pious, vicious, virtuous, apathetic, empathetic, sympathetic but never dominant. Fulfilling the final role required by my voracious appetite for variety and constant stimulation. I used them in their place, no matter their significance they would become a member of the troupe under the fathomless reign of my sceptre. My toys were so numerous that I knew not what to do with all of them but as each position fell in line I could see them clearly for who they were, exactly who I wanted them to be.

The day I descended I had been in stitches, but the stitches came undone when I couldn't climb back out.

The apocalypse approached and my instincts scattered away from the crumbling foundation of all that I had created. But my betrayal and abandon were vain exercises as the mire consumed me, throttling from my throat a caterwaul that would shake the core of my entire being.

Stripped of my title, I suffered a clandestine death, the dust of my destroyed realm stinging my eyes and pulling forward repentant tears that bore the stench of my sins. I created alone and perished without anyone to aid me, the people on the outside only able to see a contented smile.

...and as everything slowly slipped away into the arid silence of realisation, I was left with nothing more than the waning petrichor of nihil.

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