THE CREATIVE
CABINET.
An Endling:
I am the end of myself.
I am the end of a species.
The end of nature’s first creation.
I am the last of Mater Naturae primo nata.
I am the last drop of rain: the distant echo of water on stone.
I am the last bloomed flower, the last fallen petal.
I am the distant echo of thunder across a distant plain.
I am the first and last of Her children.
Mater Naturae primo nata.
The last of Nature's first born.
The last beautiful thing.
THE WORLD COSMOS
The World Cosmos herself,
The Voices,
The Materials,
The Drifter, unbound by the dimensional netting that strings all possibilities together,
They may find comfort in those close to them (for they are loved).
And may let them act as a shield against these voices that aim to lead the Drifter astray.
The Voices of Insanity follow The Drifter through the World Cosmos,
Which may slowly corrupt the Drifter for they cannot rest,
Certain items that were held by those who loved the Drifter, may act as a shield against such Insanity.
Caught under the influence of Insanity, The Drifter may lose their mind,
Those who love The Drifter, may no longer be able to bring them back home,
And so The Drifter, becomes the Adrift,
For the netting of dimensions may be strong,
But beyond is a sweetness known as Knowledge.
And so The Drifter becomes the Adrift,
The Closest of Closeness becomes the Afar,
Another Dimension, I’m afraid, holds no key,
Down another rabbit hole, you will find nothing but dirt and roots.
WASTELAND SURVIVAL GUIDE: VOL. 1
If you're reading this, congratulations: you've survived. You should be proud of how far you've come in this new world, but the truth is: you've only just begun.
UP ON MARs.
The first time I met Oliver James, she was sitting at a noodle stall: long blue hair tied back in neat fishtail braids. I sat down beside her and ordered my own bowl, pulling down my hood and putting my oxygen mask to sit around my neck.
Oliver talked first.
“I was raised on Jupiter.” She had said, pulling the noodles out of the bowl with her fork and shoving them in her mouth. The soft green sprigs that had garnished the bowl fell back into the bowl and I couldn’t help but laugh at her disappointed face.
“No kidding?” I had said, sipping my tea - made from fresh Marrow Berries, which were only grown on Mars: or so I’d been told.
Oliver shrugged. “Yeah, up in one of the flying cities. My parent’s harvested the planet’s helium to sell.”
I considered it for a moment: Jupiter was known for its flying cities. They circled the planet and oftentimes the only way to get between them was to take the solar transport systems - these massive bullet trains that ran through the incredibly slow space railways.
“Oh?” I was curious as to why she was telling me this. “I heard Jupiter’s flying cities were beautiful.”
Oliver shrugged again. The rainwater had fallen down her face, running over the pale silvery lines in her skin - whether they were scars of birthmarks, I didn’t know.
“Depends on the city,” She tapped her fork against the side of her bowl. “Christchurch was okay - not too bad a place to grow up in.” She looked at me with her bright green eyes. “It’s the mining ships you have to watch.”
I nodded. “I worked on one, once.”
Oliver huffed. “How many times did you almost fall off those damn ladders?”
I laughed again. “Four times. I actually did fall off the fifth time, but I was close to the deck, so it was mostly okay.”
Oliver and I fell back into easy silence.
“What do you do for a living?” She asked me, and I considered lying. I considered telling her I worked in engineering, or in finance, but I didn’t, and I try not to lie as a principle.
“Space exploration.”
Oliver smiled at me: I hadn’t been expecting that. “I do too.”
I smiled at her. “My name’s Orion.”
She offered out her hand. “Oliver.”
I shook her hand, finished my noodles, and got out of my seat.
The Nature of Twins:
The nature of twins is that they share a soul,
Half each of a soul that belongs not entirely to either,
When a twin dies, it is said they give their half of the soul to the other,
So I wonder, did you get my kindness?
Or did I get your anger?
Did you get my relief?
Or did I get your anguish?
How much of me is you?
How much of you is me?
How much of me is ours?
How much of me is neither?
How much of you remains?
Oil and water; are we split? Still separate as one?
Water and water; Salt and clear? Entwined, never quite able to get away?
Oil and oil; are we sticking together? Do we become one in demise?
Does the sun and moon become one during an eclipse? Just for a moment before the nature of the cosmos pulls them apart once more?
How many years until I see you again?
Is it an eternity? A century? A decade? A year?
I want you home so bad,
This house is empty and dark, alone and cold.
The two beds have become one where I lay alone,
You used to lay beside me; pressed to my soul but not quite one with me,
I wanted you to stay one with me forever, then,
Now, I want you to pull yourself from me, to become you again,
Because this house is empty and dark, alone and cold,
I want you to take back your soul so this burden is not so heavy.
(And I want you home again.)
The Nature of a remaining Twin:
“Pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza.” Sam says calmly as he picks up a slice from my plate and takes a bite: the cheese drooping across his napkin.
I stare at him dumbfounded for a moment before my eyes drop to the pineapple sitting on his own slice. Then, I laugh.
I cannot remember what I said that day, what I had whispered to him under my breath while he kicked me under the red and grey checkered cloth that adorned our booth. A waitress nearby gave me a dirty look; she must’ve thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend - I would have laughed at that once.
The memory is old. If I could taste it, it would taste like mothballs and burnt cheese. I don’t laugh much about Sam anymore – it hurts too much. The wound was still fresh yet festering at the same time.
Sam always liked that Pizza place; in fact, I would go as far as to say he adored it. He loved that place more than me, I think. (Of course, not really, we shared a soul, it is very hard to love a pizza place as much as you love someone who shares the same soul as you… I think).
Sam.
I miss Sam.
He was part of me in a way I can’t explain. Like the sun to someone's sunflower.
What is a sunflower without sun? It is simply a flower.
There is simply nothing special about a flower.