Fortis and Viola

Once upon a time, in a quiet village at the edge of the world, there stood a forgotten library. Its ancient, stained walls bore the weight of countless years, and at its center lay… a mysterious old book.

No one dared touch it. No one was allowed to open it.

One whispered rule hissed through the happy streets of the quiet village.

“Don’t open the book!” 

Legend had it that the book had always been there, and always would be, almost an eternal fixture of the silent village.

***

In the village lived a boy named Fortis.
Fortis, now, he was a curious boy.

His mind was a restless sea of questions.

Why did stars shimmer? What made dreams feel so real? Why did his pretty friend Viola always want to hold his hand? But most pressing of all was the forbidden question. What secrets lay within the untouched book?

His curiosity was a force that neither advice nor warnings could temper. If anything, words of caution only served to further inflame his devouring inquisitiveness.

***

One fateful evening, Fortis slipped out of bed, tiptoed across the sleeping streets, and made his way into the ancient library.

Dust swirled in the candlelight as he approached the book, the silence of the room deepening with each step. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the stained cover, before gently brushing its surface.

“Mr. Fortis, whatever are you doing?”

The voice startled him. It was Viola, his friend, who had quietly followed him to the library. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her gaze both stern and anxious.

Even in the tension of the moment, Fortis was for a moment overcome by the set of her lips. Her wide open eyes cut straight into his soul.

“Fortis,” she said, her voice carrying a note of urgency.

“What?”

“Don’t do it!”, she warned.

“Rules. So, many, rules!” Fortis grumbled.

His fingers paused upon the cover, caught between the pull of caution and the push of discovery.

“There’s just one rule: don’t open the book!” Viola’s voice sharpened.

But the fire of Fortis’ curiosity radiated warm and high.

Tearing himself away, he gripped the cover, and opened opened opened the book book book. 

The world around them shattered like a dream fading at dawn. The library walls dissolved into a swirling vortex of light and shadow. Before they could cry out, both were pulled into the book.

***

They landed softly on a vast, endless path. It stretched endlessly in both directions, curving like some ethereal serpent. It looked like an infinite ribbon, stamped across the surface of this magical middle-place.

“I told you not to open the book!” Viola groaned. She shot him a dirty look. 

Fortis grinned sheepishly.

“Well, at least now we know what’s inside.”

Viola snorted. She looked around. They moved a little closer as the strangeness of the path dawned ever greater upon them.

It shimmered underfoot, its texture shifting between smooth stone and soft moss with each step. A faint wind whispered forgotten stories over its surface. If the children could tell one thing about the path, it’s that the path was old. 

Ancient, even. 

It seemed like it came from infinity, and led right back.
Much like the book itself, as an astute observer might note. 

“Let’s keep walking,” said Fortis. “If we follow the path, who knows what we’ll find!!!” 

He picked a direction and began to move. Viola shrugged, and set off, her steps matching his at a light patter.

***

Hours later, the path had taken its toll. The sky above glimmered the same dawn hues it had when they arrived, greatly confusing their sense of time.

Both children were exhausted, tired, and hungry, and Fortis was struggling with the idea that his curiosity might never be sated.

Viola noticed Fortis’ downcast expression, and a sweet smile creased her face. 

“Oh Fortis, ” she said, stopping and taking his hand.

“Is it really such a bad thing that the path is just a path?”

Fortis looked at her, startled, dumbstruck. Of course it mattered! If one couldn’t understand things, what was even the point? 

But she was merciless in her attack. 

“It matters not that the path is twisted and dangerous and tricksy in the darkness. It matters not that the next bend is shrouded in cloud so deep. It matters not, that every fork in the road births a new ‘what if?’. It matters not that sometimes, the path seems to hate us.”

“We might never understand it, Fortis. And that’s okay, ” she continued.  “What matters… is that we walk it together.”

Fortis smiled, a weight easing off of his shoulders. His restless mind stilled. He nodded, his curiosity finally reaching some semblance of peace.

They continued hand in hand, their silhouettes illuminated by a golden, eternal glow. The path ahead wove and shimmered, promising both challenges and wonder. Yet, they knew that no matter where it led, they would face it together.

As they walked, the path seemed to gleam around them, taking on an additional layer of dreaminess. It wobbled, danced, shivered around them, before whirling down into a single dark point, rushing towards our intrepid adventurers, filling their whole world, and turning everything black.

***

Their eyes shot open in the musty library, the shouts of their parents clamouring in their ears.

Had they fallen asleep?? Had they shared a dream??

They glanced at each other. A sparkle in their eyes confirmed that they had, indeed, walked the eternal path together. 

Smiling, they brushed themselves off. They nestled their hands together and exited the library, comfortable in their newfound knowledge.

What knowledge, you ask?

The knowledge that while they might not know what would come next on the path, they at least knew how they would face it.  

Together.

Oh, Selene

He let out a wince of pain, his aching joints reminding him of the follies of the previous night. His fingers brushed over the scars, and his breath hitched. It had been years, but her absence still hit him like a body blow. 

It was times like now, when sentiment snuck up on him, that were the worst. The physical scars were very obvious, but nothing could compare to the gouges she left on his heart. 

His foot struck a bottle as he made his way painfully to the balcony, staring blindly at the beautiful savannah landscape. His mind was elsewhere as he leaned over the dizzying drop, thinking maybe, maybe, this would be the time. 

As always, he withdrew.

‘Too scared to live, and too scared to die,’ he exclaimed, laughing wildly as he clutched his hair. Oh Lord, what was wrong with him. This was not how normal people lived, was it?

His mind reeled, and he was dragged along helplessly by the torrential force of his traumatic past. 

***

They were arrayed loosely around the table, their conversation breaking and shifting like an eddying stream. All of them were well to do, the cream of the crop. Each had traveled separately from their home countries. 

In this strange land, they gained succor from each other’s company. 

He enjoyed being with them all, but tonight, he had eyes only for Selene. A girlfriend’s girlfriend, she looked succulent and sparkling in her white dress. 

She blushed, even though she wasn’t looking at him, and he grinned wolfishly. She was his, and she knew it. He grinned again, realizing she might be very well thinking the same. 

He rose during a lull in the conversation. 

His foot struck a bottle as he lithely made his way to the balcony, staring wide-eyed at the beautiful urban landscape. His mind was crystal-clear as he leaned over the dizzying drop, thinking maybe, maybe one day it would all be his. 

A scuffing sound alerted him to her presence.

She walked over to him, and he shifted to allow her into his personal space. She fit herself in snugly, then turned to him expectantly. He laughed as he looked at her, falling a little more in love as he took in her sparkling eyes, her slightly parted lips, her figure-hugging dress. Her eyes sparkled stronger as she smiled, looking up at him through her lashes. 

“Shall we?”, he asked through the broad grin on his face. 

She linked her arms with his in answer, and as he walked, he turned inwards.

He couldn’t remember the last time he was this happy.

***

The couple strolled out of the club, alcohol adding zest to their gaits and giggles to their conversation. 

He was drunker than planned, carried along by her spontaneity. 

“We’re having Jagerbombs!”, she squealed, and the next thing he knew, he was drinking the digestif neat, herbs and spices mingling on his palate to create the smoky sweet flavor unique to the drink. 

Now he regretted the extra alcohol, especially as he’d driven to the club. He didn’t look forward to returning,  tired and hungover, for his car. He pulled out his phone to call up an Uber, but she was already waiting for him by his car. 

Pride, that ancient tormentor of mankind, rose like a sharp-fanged serpent in his breast, and he put his phone away. 

***

Interlude: 

Engine roaring, wheels rumbling on the tarmac, music blaring from the car radio, wind whipping through their hair. They’re looking up, laughing, full of life and love and hope. 

An ancient drama plays out in the darkness of the Spanish countryside; a drama as cliche and unoriginal as it ever is, yet as unique and vivacious as it always is. 

Both harbor the desire for something more. Beneath the camaraderie and banter, both feel the ache in the other’s breast. 

Both know it’s not enough; both want more.

But for tonight? 

This will do. 

End of interlude.

***

It was dark, so dark, and he flailed, his mind reeling from all the stimuli. Discombobulated, he looked around him and noticed… an ambulance? 

Dread speared his heart with poisonous fingers. 

He couldn’t breathe.

 A pressure built up inside of him, and he felt he would burst. 

Something imperceptible popped, and memories whirled in through the crack in his subconscious shield. 

***

He was content, peaceful, and slightly drowsy. 

She was looking up at the stars, pointing out mythological figures striding across the firmament. 

He was half-listening, but on hearing the swell of excitement as she pointed out yet another one, he looked up. 

“That one?”, he queried, pointing up at the twinkling dot that went by the name Sirius. 

Something jerked his attention away from the star. 

Time slowed down, sickeningly syrupy before his eyes. 

Alarm bells blared in his mind, and he was reacting before he knew what he was reacting to. His hands on the steering wheel spun hard as he watched, disembodied, as if they belonged to someone other.

In the same slow motion, her focus shifted from the sky to him, sensitive to the alteration in his attention. Her mouth opened, her eyes flicked to where his faced, and she aborted her own question with a rising scream. 

The massive headlights were barreling closer and closer. In his disjointed mental state, he saw large, demonic eyes, heralding the approach of a monster that would inevitably consume him.

A massive horn bellowed once, twice, thrice, and he knew, he knew he could not escape this demon. He looked at her, disappointed in himself at the terror in her eyes, and mouthed the words ‘I love you’. 

Then, impact.

Motion. Violent, jerking, snapping motion that lasted forever before stopping abruptly.

The world spun in front of his eyes, and he closed them before vomiting out of the open window. His vomit fell past his head, and he realised he was upside down. 

He cataloged his bodily functions, relieved that everything appeared fine. The effects of the alcohol long forgotten, he replayed the events of the last three minutes, swiftly exculpating himself in an impromptu mental courtroom. 

The truck driver was driving on the wrong side, weaving erratically. He was drunk, which would complicate things, but he was sure the other guy was drunker. The car might have to be written off, but insurance would take care of that. 

Relief flooded through him. It was going to be alright.

He turned to his right, his eyes meeting her sightless ones. 

Something broke in his soul.

Everything went dark. 

Author’s Notes

  • This story is inspired by ‘Tender is the Night’ by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Some elements I borrow from the novel are:
    • An attractive, charming, and ultimately tragic protagonist
    • The use of flashback and in media res to create a nonlinear narrative
    • The descriptions of social interactions, although I do not claim to match Mr. Fitzgerald’s ability in this regard. 
    • An attractive female character who (arguably) leads the protagonist to his doom
  • To the Lady B, it had to happen. I’m still open to another collab. Hmu.
  • Last but not least, don’t drink and drive, people!

A Storm

Note: I recently came across this poem that I wrote in late 2016 or early 2017. Comparing it to my newer poems, I can’t help but notice how much my work has improved. This reads more like spoken word than poetry. Hopefully, you’ll still enjoy its innate message.

I have left it unedited, because it is a snapshot into a younger, less developed me. A version of me who was much less in touch with my emotions and values.

Enjoy!


She was a storm.

She was a tempest, her every word and deed lashing against me with all the power of an angry sea.
She was nature herself, the unbridled expression of every feminine divinity unleashed.
And she was in before I knew it.

Without any warning.

My walls crumbled before her onslaught, for no wall can stand against the wrath of a divinity.
My defenses shattered and I lay there, weak and helpless and in the grip of a horrifying and all-encompassing terror.
Every wall, every fence, every thought that I had wreathed myself in was thrust aside in an instant.
She thought she broke in front of me but, unknowingly, she broke me.

What was this? Me, vulnerable?
My vulnerability shocked me – so long had I been cocooned in the shell of my own numbness.
And then I realized.
She was light.

She was ambrosia in a world of bland bread. She was color in a greyscale world. She was a mountain in a featureless world.

And as she smote me into a thousand pieces, she gave me a gift.
One that I did not comprehend at first. One that scared me at first. One that broke me again.
She gifted me… feeling.

She gifted me pain and madness and imperfection. She gifted me excruciating pleasure and beautiful pain.
In a binary world composed of logic, she was a paradox.
For she was femininity made flesh.
Back and forth we fought, but neither could win.

It was madness. It was insanity. It was…

Beautiful.