I was a blank page once - simple, neat, full of potential, but I didn't stay that way for long.

For the next several years, I was folded. They were gentle folds - careful, intentional. I was different now. Those folds changed me. I had more depth. I was more interesting. But I was still sleek and clean, and still very full of potential.

Yet the folding didn't stop. Some folds were creased again and again until the edges started to crinkle. Some folds were flattened and refolded with an ever so slightly different angle. Some folds were still very careful and intentional, while others seemed pointless - undone so quickly there seemed to be no purpose to them at all.

I felt smaller and more cramped, forced into this new shape that I didn't recognize. I wanted to be something - something beautiful, something impressive - but could it truly be worth all of this?

The folds became rougher - forced and frustrated. My edges were beginning to tear, and I began to fear I would never amount to anything more than a crumpled mess tossed aside and forgotten. Who would want something ripped and torn? How could something so broken become anything worth making?

Still, the folds didn't stop. But they were more careful now. There was a shape - a shape I almost recognized. Each deliberate fold brought with it a new layer, a new depth to be explored. Could it be? Could these countless, endless folds still do their work? Could this old, beat-up piece of paper become something beautiful?

One last gentle fold and it was done. Gone was the simple, blank page that I once was. I could never be that way again, but I wouldn't want to be. Certainly, a new, clean sheet of paper has its own beauty, but without each fold, each crease, each change, that blank, clean sheet can never fulfill its potential as I have. I couldn't see where I was going. I didn't know what I would become, and though many changes were difficult - some seemed pointless, and some were painful - without each one of them, I never could have become the beautiful and impressive piece of origami that I am today.

Do you see it?

Through the thickness of the trees.

Through the darkness.

Do you feel it?

It’s the very existence of your soul

leaving your body.

Hard days,

Long nights.

Always afraid,

To turn out the lights.

Killed by life,

Damaged by blood.

Maybe you did,

What you thought,

You should.

I still miss you,

I still care,

That doesn't seem very fair.

You left me so young,

Before you were dead.

Why didn't you listen,

To the words that I said?

You scarred me so deep.

You hurt me so bad.

The saddest part of all,

You were my dad.

To you,

with the voice like branches,

crisp throat and bird-tongued:

isolation took you nowhere

except sprouted limbs in the roots of your scalp

and grew resentment to the big man in the sky.

I’ve always associated you with thunder,

with windowpanes, borrowed rain,

and the occasional telephone cracks

that carried our voices past Nevada and Kentucky.

I became fluent in silence years ago, but you still heard me

seas away, and we washed the night with dilated pupils.

I wanted to hold the moon,

milky rinds like my plastic bag flesh –

pliant and flimsy and at the edge of blooming wings.

We were only fourteen, with hairline cracks

seamed across china glass skin,

you were chipped in the most beautiful way

and I thought if I carefully engulfed you

between wrinkled palms

like the nestled warmth of a newborn bird,

you could be fixed.

It was the summer I grew a year

in three months,

you showed me sun-kissed wrists

and the art of shrinking

through whistle fingers and teacups.

We were skins of ocean water,

bodies woven from hurricanes and cherry-lipped horizons,

half empty with a belly full of stones.

You, with the stomach stuffed with graveyards,

churned oceans of crimson corpses from your esophagus.

You were always the one with the best stories,

the loudest laugh, the biggest smile,

you said you liked the feel of adrenaline

draped across your shoulders

at five in the morning,

you said you never felt more alive

bathed in a thousand shards and veins and blood.

What were you thinking

when you scraped a silver blade against your throat,

were you scared?

Did you forget how humans weren’t made

to be sliced, were never chiseled statues

or fistfuls of organs from gutted fish?

What was it like to forget yourself,

to not recognize the angles of your limbs, your ankles,

to watch your knuckles wither, curl like dying leaves?

Maybe this is what death tastes like,

squeezed between your irises like unwanted pearls,

polishing an artificial smile,

maybe this is where we first began to decay –

between visions and illusions,

medusa in the mirror and distorted appendages,

eyes grow old after a hundred days of interpretation.

It’s that time of year again –

when crows cease commentations

and clouds roast themselves until burnt,

I am still clasping onto one end

of this yellow diamond sky,

half bleached with your mayonnaise bones,

the moon screams hunger, hunger.

I can imagine your wild horse eyes

capturing every motion of wind.

We are breathing, we are alive

but our faces wilt under indigo light.

This is how we’ll grow –

sleep-deprived,

but forever dancing.

Well, well, well, would you look at that? It’s Friday again. Which means it’s time for what many tell us is their favourite thing that we do each week. That’s right, Feature Friday. So we venture out into the world and land in Australian to meet a popular Proser who you’ll know as @OnyxCity

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

O: My name is Runa Ahlstrom. I know this makes it seem like I might be Swedish or something but I'm not, just plain ol' American. My username is OnyxCity. As many of my fellow Prosers have no doubt already guessed, I chose the name because of a deep and abiding love of H.P. Lovecraft and his nightmarish dreamscapes. I keep hoping to take my own dreamquest to the Onyx City but so far it hasn’t happened.

I really hope everyone gets that reference. If not, well, that’s fine, too, I suppose I don’t mind if the first impression I give is of a crazy nut.

P: Where do you live?

P: I live in Melbourne, Victoria in Australia. I have lived here since 1998. Before I moved here, I lived in Launceston, Tasmania for five years. And before that, I lived in the United States, where I was born and raised until I was six years old. I suppose I could say where I was born but it seems so irrelevant after living in Australia for 24 years, like some fleeting image in a dream that flickers out within seconds of waking.

P: What is your occupation?

O: I am the managing editor of an academic journal. That is really just a fancy way of saying I read, write, and edit academic articles. And collect them in an online publication. I guess it sounds like maybe this is relevant to writing fiction but actually academic and creative writing are really different.

I taught music history in universities around Melbourne for several years so a lot of my more formal professional experience, so to speak, is in academia. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I like creative writing. It’s a nice change from the rules and regulations that go along with any kind of writing in higher education settings.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

O: Hmm, let’s see… I’ve been writing since I was ten years old. The first short story I ever wrote was for a fifth grade assignment. Though that dogeared piece of notebook paper, crammed with my sloppy, little-kid handwriting, has long since been lost to the ages, I can still remember the story, a nondescript piece about a woman who has to cancel her vacation when the weather turns bad. Nothing terribly interesting or special there but, in a funny way, that was like the beginning and the end of something for me, because I kept writing stories but never showed another one to a soul for, oh, let’s see, twenty years. Literally. I’m not even sure exactly why anymore. I suppose it was probably something small, a comment, or even a glance, from my teacher whose name I can’t even remember now, that killed me inside. I jest, of course, I’m sure I was dead inside long before that… 

But in any case, I kept writing stories fairly regularly, but then I suppose I let it fall by the wayside when I went to college. I studied violin performance and musicology, and performed professionally for many years, and there really was just no time for writing. I believe it was when I stopped performing, which was many years ago now, and moved into teaching and research, that I started writing fiction seriously again.

I think maybe the reason I really started writing again, i.e. not just for my own amusement but with the actual intention of letting others read my work, probably does have something to do with the fact that I ended up in academic research. The fact is, I really don’t feel like much of a school-type person, I never liked it, and yet I ended up getting more education than is probably strictly necessary – I have a Bachelor of Music with Honors and a PhD in musicology. On top of that, I ended up working as a teacher and researcher in higher education, and now as an editor. I guess maybe I wanted to do something that felt more creative, especially after leaving professional music performance behind, and writing is something that I really do love.

Just a little aside – to anyone who works in higher education, I’m not saying you aren’t creative, or that your work isn’t creative or worthwhile. Those are just subjective feelings I had about myself, and my situation at the time.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

O: Reading is so important to me. I mean, yes, professionally, as an editor, of course it is, but it’s much more than that. I guess it’s pretty cliched, but reading really is an escape for me. I read everything from Le Fanu to Stephen King because, to me, reading is about finding people and places and things that resonate within you. And then losing yourself in those people, places, and things. Those nouns, I guess, since I just described nouns…

I guess the punchline of this is that I love reading and I just think there’s nothing better than sitting down with a good book, even if only for a few minutes at a time, and escaping into a fantasy.

And here’s a little piece of trivia about me: I love books, that is, I love physical paper books that I can hold and turn the pages and savor that leathery, papery smell. The only time I read online is on Prose.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

O: I am working on a few things right now, I can never seem to work on one at a time. I can never seem to read just one book at a time either… Anyway, one of my main projects is a collection of short stories featuring death personified. It is tentatively titled, Ten Minutes to Two and Other Stories. Another is a humorous novel about a young woman and her (mis)adventures as a student of music, titled Symphony in Q; or Scenes From Someone’s Life. I know that sounds autobiographical now based on what I said earlier, but it’s not, it’s fiction, just incorporating a setting I happen to know about and that I figure might seem interesting or unusual to readers.

As for my future posts… You’re probably going to see lots and lots of limericks because, well, I love them and I’m going to inflict them on the Prose community whether anyone wants to read them or not. You know how traditional limericks are comical, and often comically obscene? I want to create the limerick (limerickal? limerickular?) sub-genre of the comical horror limerick. Okay, I’ve said “limerick” too much, it’s losing all meaning… 

My love of horror, the paranormal, and the bizarre is probably no secret to anyone. I have some more surreal horror stories in the works that I will be posting in the near future, too. I know, no surprises there…

P: What do you love about Prose?

O: It’s really such a supportive community. The mix of very experienced writers and those who are just starting out makes for such varied pieces of writing. It’s a place that makes it possible for all writers to participate and interact without worrying about being excluded or dismissed out of hand. It can be difficult to put yourself out there and bare your soul, so to speak, to readers. At least, I think so, it can be difficult for a lot of people anyway. Prose is also a place where it’s possible to read and write on your own terms and to explore really any ideas that might seem interesting at any given time, even if only because of a random thought or passing fancy. That means a lot, I think, to both new and established writers. And it’s great to be able to interact so easily with other writers all over the world. I’ve made friends with people I would have no way of meeting outside of an online forum in the short-ish time I’ve been a member. The community is generally just very considerate and open to the ideas of all members. Oh, and the challenges - the community challenges are really great. I think it's a good thing that Prosers have the opportunity to participate in challenges in a way that really has no consequences in terms of competing, but that allows for the sharing of different interpretations of ideas. And, of course, the Challenge of the Week is fun, too!

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

O: Gee, only one? Well… I would say Nineteen Eighty-Four. It’s a great book but it’s also a good life lesson. I don’t usually go in for issues and learning stuff (wow, that sounds terrible. I’ll leave it in though, if anyone gets mad, well, they can scold me later) when I’m just reading for fun, but Nineteen Eighty-Four is something of a manual of living for me. I’m always ready for the inevitable day when the thought police come to take me away to the Ministry of Love…

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

O: A hero? Yes, in a way. There are people I admire greatly. But I don’t usually think of people as my heroes exactly. A hero who got me into reading and writing? Well, no. I don’t think so. At least, to me this question seems to be asking about a person I know in real life. But I mean, if I can say Lovecraft, Poe, Kafka, Heine? Then yes, I have many heroes who got me into reading and writing. It was Charles Dexter Ward, Annabel Lee, Carmilla, poor K., and too many others to list, who made me want to read. And it was the looking-glass house, that painted ship’s painted ocean, Mr. Dark’s sinister carousel, and so many other eerie, fantastic, and wonderful places, that made me want to write my own twisted worlds into existence.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

O: Uh oh… okay… um, moody, cynical loner. Or was I supposed to sell myself here? Oh, well, I stand by it.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

O: And I say: “Look! I have no hands!” But the people all around me say: “What are hands?”

This is from Dune by Frank Herbert. It pretty much describes my feelings exactly as I stumble through life, always the one who sees something, just not the thing seen by every single other person in the room.

P: Favourite music to write and/or read to?

O: I pretty much only listen to classical music nowadays but I very rarely listen to music while I write. When I do, I just choose something out of my huge collection of classical records that fits with my mood at the time.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

O: No books? Would I have books though? Well, I’d still have my time machine, right? I wouldn’t tell the poor, unread masses anything. I’d get back in that time machine and hightail it out of there. I can’t, I won’t, live in a world without books!

I guess I could just write some though, right? I’d be the only author so I’d be the greatest writer the world had ever known by default, no matter what I threw together… Well, the question’s moot anyway. I would never use my time machine to go into the future. I would only go backward, to a time when mail came in paper form and I wouldn’t have to carry a phone around with me all the time.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

O: Ah, well, I’m not really a social media person, I guess it comes from pining for rotary phones and VCRs and such. I did finally get my website up and running, so if anyone wants to check it out, it’s www.alderstream.com. Because I only just set it up, there’s not much new stuff on there yet, but I will be adding to it fairly quickly in the coming days and weeks. I feel like I’m actually quite dull and I should probably go before everyone starts conceptually tapping their feet, glancing at their watches, and looking around hopefully for the nearest exit. So I think I’ll sign off for now.

Before I go, I would like to thank everyone at Prose for selecting me for this interview. I am really honored to have the chance to talk to you, and not just through my stories and poems, that is. Thank you all again - admins, readers, writers, everyone! I trulyappreciate your interest in me and my work.

Thanks to Runa for letting us into her world for a wee while. Please, if you don’t already do so, follow her, interact with her and send your love and support. If you want to be involved, or you’d like to nominate anyone to be interviewed; let us know at info@theprose.com