I’m not a doomsayer;

Not by any means!

Premonitions, always unseen,

We have seven days it seems...

In the Bible it’s called revelations,

Why is this In my dreams?

It’s the end of all the nations,

I don’t want this prophecy!

A vivid imagery of desolation,

Like a divine heresy,

Destruction of the failed creation,

An epiphany of catastrophe!

I know with complete certainty,

It’s no longer a mystery,

The apocalypse in a week!

No, I’m not a doomsayer;

Not by any means!

Let this be, just a dream.

Dear God, let me be asleep!

Let this be, just a dream.

Dear God, why reach out to me?

Now I have this secret, I must keep!

love is the feeling in your chest when that someone walks by.

love is the excitement of staying up with that someone until dawn just to talk.

love is holding someone when they cry just to see their smile.

love is being with them just to feel their presence.

love is being thankful for just the existence of them.

love is beautiful.

love is kind.

love is love.

Is to cast a dark shadow over all the beauty we see.

The sin of sunrise is to say goodbye to all the beauty we see in stark relief.

The sin of saying hello is we never think about the fun we’ll have together, merely;

How on God’s green earth can I get out of this.

The sin of saying goodbye is we only realise what we have when we lose it.

Therefore the sin of saying hello is the sin of taking something,

Whilst the sin of saying goodbye is throwing something away.

That is the sin of sunrise and that is...

The sin of sunset.

“Is he dead yet?” Death mocked.

Life sat on the porch, staring at a man and his daughter playing on the garden.

“You’re too early.” Life answered, though it knew why Death was there. “Far too early.”

“Am I?”

They stared at the man, who’s smile turned into a broken expression of pain, with every muscle of his red face hardening. His hand grabbing his chest.

“What’s the fellow’s name?” Death asked.

“Mike Dunford.”

“Dunford? I thought it was Done-for…”

The scream of the scared girl interrupted the wordplay. There was something more painful in children’s screams. To be wise enough to know something is wrong, but unprepared to deal with it in any way.

“He’s not going to die.” Life assured. “The girl is going to call an ambulance and they’ll save him.”

“Are you certain?”

The man expressed pain with each breath “Call your mother.”

“Wait” Said Death “that’s going to take more time than if she called the ambulance. He’ll be dead by then.”

“The mother can explain the heart attack much faster… it’s the- it is the right choice.”

The girl walked to the front door, but at 4 years-old she was still too short and weak to open the door.

“He’s dead.” Death stood up as if there was a clear winner in this battle.

“Mike!” Said the neighbour, looking at Mike's face down on the grass.

She instinctively called an ambulance and took the little girl inside. She called more neighbours too, each spouting random wrong and right decisions of what to do with Mike while they waited for help.

“You seem bored,” said Life. “Can I entertain you?”

Death looked around and locked eyes on a web. Zap movements from its victim.

“You know,” said Death. “There’s another Life and Death, just like us, fighting for the fate of that fly.” Death looked at the crowd putting and taking pillows from Mike’s feet and head. “The moment Life loses hope, Death will take that fly. Are you still hopeful?” Life gave no response. “I can feel every cell that dies within him, it’s so fast. Can you feel it, too?”

“I can feel something else.” The ambulance arrived.

***

“Too many cells died for him to ever have a normal life.” Said Death. “It’s sad, but more importantly, it’s true. It’s reality.”

The man was taken to a room in the hospital with doctors rapidly moving from several corners to treat him.

“Why can’t you?” Yelled life. “Why can’t you just leave this one? Why not others who take lives, why can’t you be fair?!”

“I am.” There was a pause. “I don’t pick others precisely because I am fair. I am the only being, the only thing that is completely indiscriminate. But for you, the fact that I'm not biased towards your view is what makes me ‘unfair’”.

Life had no answer.

The wife of the man came in with cheeks red of fear and black from eyeliner, trembling hands and a dead breath of cigarettes.

“I still have hope.” Said Life.

The wife approached a doctor who left the operation room, who seemed in a worry to be somewhere else. “Is he going to be ok?” The wife asked.

“I can’t say.” And he left.

“That’s never good,” said Death. “That one was just too scared to say the truth. Lost hope yet?”

“No,” Life said, but it wasn’t completely true. When Death is nearby, the desire for the best outcome is greater than the actual belief of it. Thoughts of the worst fate come to mind, in the hopes that we’ll be prepared when it happens. But we never are.

***

“Do you still have hope?” Death asked. They were all around Mike, his wife was looking down at the bed, hopeless. "Do you?"

Life was staring down on the floor, covering its ears. It shook its head.

“I need to hear you say it.” Death said.

“I’m not…” There was a long pause.

“’I’m not what?” Death insisted.

Life looked up at Death. “I’m not quitting yet!”

The hand of the man moved, soon after the eyes opened, and the ritual of crying began amongst them, with ‘I love yous’ being shared between them.

Life looked at Death. They sensed each other’s respectful dislike for each other.

“Goodbye.” Said Life. “I hope not to see you for a long time.”

“You won today.” Said Death with a simile hiding disappointment. “But remember, your victory, unlike mine, is only temporary.”

I couldn’t look away, couldn’t move no matter how many tripped over me on the sidewalk. My ten-year-old soul had been pierced by an invisible string, and I was tethered to this spot, only a thin pane of glass separating me from this wonderous creature.

She also stood motionless and silent, curves stained a dark cherry, neck long and black with four silver lines descending her front. She said nothing, but I heard her like chimes. She begged me to touch her. She promised she would sing if I did, me and no one else. All others ignored her.

But all I could do was stare.

Night draped a cold blanket on the world, and the shop owner locked up, chasing me off in the process. As I neared home, I heard shouting and entered through the broken window in the back rather than announce my presence by negotiating with the crooked front door.

Sweeping a meager handful of crumbs off the counter, I crouched behind the hole-ridden chair in the corner of our one-room shack, ate, and listened to the rhythm of the bellows. The words were different from those spoken in our town, their meaning lost to me, but the melody they wove warned me to stay hidden.

My father pleaded. The stranger wearing a soft suit demanded. Father was scared. The stranger possessed no mercy, teeth sharp like a dragon’s, mustache shaped like a bull’s horns, eyes round and dark in the shadow of a top hat’s brim.

Gentler voice gliding between the stranger’s, Father backed toward the counter. Was he aiming for our only knife in the drawer beneath the sink?

Is this the only way? I wondered, gut clenched so tight it was surely about to snap my spine. This scary man is so big. Father can’t fight him alone. Am I meant to help? Do I jump out now or wait until he has passed?

Fingers dug into my bicep and yanked me from behind the chair, my breadcrumbs flying. A hand on either shoulder, Father stood me in front of him, speaking more fervently. I tried to step back, to lean against my father, but he pushed me toward the stranger.

Arms crossed, the large man sounded dismissive and derisive, like the snap of a heron’s wing as it leaves you behind.

“Sing, my child,” Father whispered.

I couldn’t, not with my heart blocking my throat or my diaphragm hiding in my toes. I shook my head.

“You must sing,” Father hissed. “I would give you to this tycoon to pay my debt, to save my life and the lives of your siblings. He won’t take you if he thinks you’re worthless, and singing is your only skill.”

I gasped. Father was supposed to protect me, not hand me over to monsters. He told us that every night, that he would always protect us. But when danger drew near, he shoved me at the monster, both our knees shaking.

Father was a coward, and so was I.

I opened my mouth to do as I was told, but only a wheezy croak emerged, like a toad getting stepped on. The stranger scowled and hollered over my head.

Do not disappoint Father. Do not let this man hurt your family.

The words became a beat in my head, giving my heart something to follow. Slowly, it slid out of my throat, and my voice grew stronger, high and clear, like the song of a nightingale, the bird for which my mother named me: Kocho.

Father always thought it was a stupid name for a boy.

I sang of the freedom of the ocean and the wind. Of how the rain roamed but always came back again. Into the music poured borrowed emotions wrought from when my mother had sung the same song. I knew nothing of the sea beyond the stench of the harbor, yet I sang as if I had tiptoed along the crests of its waves. All I knew of freedom was running through crowded streets just fast enough to avoid being crushed by carriage wheels. That feeling, too, was knit into the music.

The song took all of me, and I didn’t notice when the shouting stopped. I fell back into reality only when the stranger’s hand clapped over my mouth. It smelled of foreign spices, skin as soft as a kitten’s fur.

He knelt, an odd glint in his gray eyes. “This shabby town is not worthy of such art. You could compete with any of the pet musicians back home.”

He threw me over his shoulder.

***

This room was thrice the size of our shack. I stood in the center, surrounded by cushioned divans and glittering lamps. The suit I wore was a miniature version of the master’s, with a short breast and long coattails, but I had grown considerably in the month since he first brought me here. The pant legs revealed my shins, and the coat restricted my breathing.

Based on the visit of a man with a measuring tape that morning, I hoped a new, larger outfit would arrive soon.

This evening, another stranger stood before me, holding a curious case. It called to me, a low hum, the purr of a cat, with the high-pitched jingle of a bell. It wanted me to open it, to set the contents free, but Master didn’t like when I opened things. When he was displeased, I received no food. When he was pleased, I had more than enough.

Even the dumbest of creatures could understand that.

So I held back, hands shaking as the call grew louder. I stared at the case, a harpoon shot through me, digging at my insides as I disobeyed its tug.

“Eyes like a starving man’s,” the newcomer chuckled, propping the case on a couch.

This must be a truly valued thing if it’s allowed to touch the cushions.

I wasn’t allowed to touch the cushions.

The man spoke more, words too fast for me to catch and squeeze the meaning out of. Master replied in kind, leaning forward on the largest of the divans, elbows on his knobby knees as the elongated case flipped open.

Breath left me.

Polished cherry wood gleamed in the flickering chandelier light, again crying for me to touch it. What started as the tinkle of a lone bell rolling across the floor grew into a cascade of chimes pouring off a balcony, each one landing on my head and ringing in my ears. I could no longer ignore the harpoon drawing me closer, my hand lifting, fingers stretched.

I stopped, frozen, the pull still loud and strong, but Master’s gaze was on me. With effort like pushing a boulder uphill, I turned my head to him, all my strength stuffed into staying still, waiting for permission.

He nodded, explaining something I couldn’t hear and wouldn’t have understood anyway.

The newcomer held the instrument out to me, telling me her name: Violin.

Tentatively, I ran my fingertips along her edges: the ridge where her faceplate met her sides, the c-shaped niches at her waist, the pins on her head, and lastly the strings. They were unique, arranged from thinnest to thickest.

The newcomer, a teacher, impatiently shoved Violin into my arms and grabbed a smooth stick lined with fine hair. Arranging Violin’s body at my chin, my left palm supporting her neck, he fit the bow into my right hand and glided it across her strings.

She hummed one note, a question: What did I want her to do?

Teacher turned me toward Master and let go. A grin tugged at my lips, and a song sizzled within my veins, smooth and quick like raindrops.

I pulled the bow back across the strings, but Violin was nervous of my touch, shy, and she sounded like a cat choking up a hairball.

Master threw a book at me, and I managed to turn, shielding my new partner.

Sing like I know you can, I begged her. Don’t bring shame to your family.

Another book hit my back, corner leaving a sting beneath my shoulder blade, and this time my pull on the bow was more insistent, more forceful. Violin cried, giving voice to the color blossoming across my back.

As my fingers flitted over the strings, she responded with new pitches, tones higher the closer my hands came to one another. The less my hands shook, the harder I gripped, the stronger her voice became, shyness vanishing, and I dared turn back to the master.

***

I stood tall, not as tall as Master, but as tall as I would ever be. In the largest room I had ever been in, floor and columns of marble, I only saw the beats in every movement. Master’s collection surrounded me, a menagerie he trusted me to master. Each of them was a part of me; their voices were woven into my blood, and my songs flowed through them.

It was said I could upstage any pet musician, but I didn’t see it as a competition like that. The more voices there were, the louder and longer we all poured everything we had into the blank, bored air, the more music won.

Silence constantly fought to crush me, and the members of my menagerie were my comrades, my armor, giving me the power to fight back.

Here in this grand hall, onlookers clapped a beat, drawing a path for the sound to follow. My fingers ran along the piano, and it giggled, voice wavering, spiraling three notes at a time, striking the bottom as a flute met my lips. With its astronomical, clear chortles, the melody returned, describing the movements of the dancers’ feet, the swing of their hips and arms.

They stopped, but the path didn’t end there, growing wider, golden and brilliant. I soaked in its radiance and channeled it through me, fingers buzzing as the flute slid back to its stand and I caught up Violin.

She sang one deep note, and someone grabbed my arm. As I stared at him, brows furrowed, someone else took Violin.

“You cannot be a pet musician anymore,” her captor said. I wanted to reach for her, but the first man’s grip on my arm was as unyielding as a statue’s. “You are free.”

I shook my head. “I just want to play music.”

“No. You must be free.” His eyes were a glittering crystal glass filled with insistence tinted dark with concern. “The new law says so. You must be something else.”

But I didn’t know how to be anything else.

***

Shoes were this factory’s business. Music was forbidden to me, stuffed and sealed inside because it would draw the wrong kind of attention. I was to let no one believe I had ever been anything but a cobbler.

Pet musicians were useless, lazy, dirty.

Yet, as my new comrades and I worked side by side, affixing soles to footwear, the beat of our hammers called to the music I tried so very hard to keep within and hidden. When I willed my toes not to tap, my leg shook, and if I leaned an elbow on it to force it still, I felt an explosion might take me at any moment.

“Boss,” a new worker said behind me as our employer led him around on his initial tour, “at your brother’s factory, a musician plays fast ditties to keep our hands moving.”

“As if I’d ever hire one of them filthy creatures,” Boss sneered.

My shoulders hitched closer to my ears.

If he knew…

“Just a suggestion,” the newbie waived, voice reedy like an oboe’s. “Maybe try it and see how production goes? Your brother’s factory does often beat you in productivity.”

I chewed on my lower lip, hammer fallen still as I strove to wear silence’s uniform. It didn’t fit me. Sometimes it was ripped to shreds when the brilliance in my veins seeped through my skin.

“You make it sound like it’d be so easy to find one. Most musicians are scam artists, and they’re harder to get rid of than fleas.”

They were almost to Boss’ office. Chance flowed through my frozen fingers.

Tell him! Tell him! the hammers whispered, and before I knew it, I stood, workload clattering on the table.

“Boss!” A rough blast from a trombone. I flinched at my own voice, shoulders trying to cover my ears again.

The boss turned. “Yes?” His eyes flitted over my name badge. “Kocho?”

My hands became wooden boards at my sides, stiffness crawling into every part of me as the hammers slowed and stopped, all eyes watching.

“I know how to play a little music.” My timbre was as soft as a harp’s, but I forced my chin level and looked at the boss. He knew I wasn’t lazy, I wasn’t filthy or a con artist, didn’t he? Would he throw me out because the blood that ran through me was tainted with sound? Because it burned within me? Because I was too weak to hold it in anymore?

It took over. I wasn’t aware of any response. Hammer back in hand, I pounded a beat as nails slid home and I sang. The inferno that had built, trapped for years with no outlet, poured into the factory. It massaged and scraped my throat, saturating the room and echoing back as ripples and waves, and I crashed through them, creating more, throwing everything I was and ever would be into the organized chaos.

One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and one-and-two-and-three-and-four.

Over and over the beat cycled, raging high and simmering low.

One-and-two-and-

Blankness took three, my arm swinging too far and clunking late on the table.

I blinked. The workload was done. There was nothing left to be hammered.

The sun had moved from its mid-morning slant to its late-afternoon blaze, highlighting fountains of dust as it streamed in the windows near the ceiling. Everyone’s piles were neatly boxed and stacked, their attention fixed firmly on me.

I dropped my hammer, its clatter giving me the beat on which to turn, a slow, tentative rotation toward Boss, who stood halfway out his fancy rolling chair. His gaze was like the stranger’s who had taken music away, spindly brows low over clear blue eyes dripping in concern.

No.

I couldn’t be a soldier for silence anymore. I didn’t believe in that fight, and it was killing me. My knees shook, and the scene blurred. Before I could fall, I ran.

All I could be was a musician. That was all the music would let me be, and if that was wrong, why was I in this world? What was my purpose?

A glint caught my eye through a shop window, and I barged in, wiping tears from my eyes. There in the corner of a dingy pawn shop, mostly covered in rags and knickknacks, Violin slept.

Scooping her up, I cradled her to my chest, back scraping against the papered wall as I sunk to the floor.

“Sir, you can’t sit there,” the counter man rebuked, glare both chiding and expectant.

Violin’s silent chimes jingled. They described the uncertain footsteps of a child drawing nearer to someone barely remembered. The closer they came, the louder the bells rang, their strength and confidence overwhelming me, towing me to my feet.

Holding Violin tighter against me, I scrambled to the counter, my last pennies dug from my pocket and pressed against the glass, their clinks reverberating through my fingertips and into my bones. Violin wanted to answer their call, to sing the song trapped within me.

“It’s worth much more than that,” the man scoffed, his spittle landing on my face. My gaze dropped to my shaking hands.

I knew it wasn’t enough. I alone knew how much Violin was worth. She was a piece of my soul, and souls were not to be bartered with. They didn’t belong alone in a pawn shop.

So I returned to the corner, leaning against the wall as I held the missing part of me.

***

As the sun burned red on the horizon, Boss stormed into the shop, a policeman at his heels. Their thick shoes spelled a heavy rhythm on the wooden floor, saying everything.

I’ll be taken away.

Panic pooled within me, igniting the fire again. I wanted to scream, anything to scare off silence’s approach. It would kill me this time. My own blood would incinerate me from the inside out.

Why can’t I release my music into the world without disturbing anyone? When did they start to hate clapping the rhythm for me? What happened? When did this blessing become a curse? When did music become a bad thing?

I hugged Violin harder, her strings protesting against my shirt, an awful, pitiable sound.

Boss knelt. “We’ve been looking for you.”

I stared, not daring to move. Could he see the fire burning in me? My eyes were dark; flames should have been easy to spot. Father used to say eyes were the window to the soul and mine only opened the door to a useless place.

Silence claimed Boss for several moments, posing him with pursed lips. I waited, cherishing what time I had left with Violin.

“Are you a real musician?”

I nodded.

“I’ve never heard anyone sing like that. You’re like a bird.” He chuckled. “And you kind of flew off like one, too. Can you play these instruments as well?”

“Yes.” I sounded like a frog, and I hated it.

I am Kocho, the nightingale. Why should I have to deny the music that weaves me?

I frowned, and Boss’ brows knit together. “Which one?”

“All of them.”

I am the master of the menagerie.

His eyes widened, then he pointed at Violin. “But that one’s your favorite?”

I let silence win one more time, but he saw the answer anyway.

Holding up a finger to tell me to wait, Boss approached the counter and spoke with the man there. Money notes were exchanged, and Boss returned to drag me out of the corner and usher me out the door.

I kept my head low, arms crossed over Violin as I concentrated on keeping beat with Boss’ footsteps. The policeman outpaced us, disappearing in the crowd on the sidewalk.

“Did you just…buy me from that shop?”

“I bought that instrument, and I’m giving it to you.” He smiled, and I didn’t have any idea what it meant.

“Why?”

“I don’t believe in magic, but I do believe in things I’ve seen with my own eyes, and I saw more get done in a few hours today than in most weeks. I think I might finally be able to beat out my brother if you come back to the factory. I’ll pay you to work that musical magic again and again.”

A new song welled within me, taut and high with hope, rich and full with purpose, one thought darting through my mind: Is this finally where I belong?

I knew part of the answer. I belonged wherever music did.

A fog thick like a shade casting a net; A night where nocturnal animals in the thick grass are silent to face regret. The air is chilled, as if the void grows a restless will.

The loom of thread, a spiders web under thy head, and thoughts soon suddenly still..

The pitch bearing a moonless and lightless night; the stars hiding in the overcast clouds.

The shadows of the hills painting the mist, creating the scene like a silhouette of death and silence over the land like a panoramic box or coffin.

It is the season of mid-fall, & the land onward is a roadless path of loose debris and messy grass and leaves, with mountains surrounding like fallen giant's at their last bow..

A swift breeze enters, and exits the furrow of grass like a blink..

The sounds of the night have become even more silent, as a man approaches over the lesser traveled path in the dark; the grass blending like converging shadows mating.

A lone swordsman walks across the land, a wanderer moving like a form with no name or past. Renounced from the order, & left only as a tool to the unrequited.

His sword tested by time, and his soul feeling the hunger in the night air.

This swordsman is more than a wanderer; he is a Samurai.

As the Samurai strides forth, his geta's naturally avoiding the loose rocks as he steps, he looks back in his mind at the vivid flashes of his heart..

The  times and tastes of wonderment; lost lives, wives  wine, and the fragility of man; all deep in of the heart and heat.

Passion, assassination, and battle.

His spirit and soul all wound and engulfed, all at once stirring like a candle.

The catch of a uneasy wind glances his nose. The Samurai's eyes and heart feel the familiarity and rarity in the air, his fire stirring in hope.

Suddenly the brackish night slowly clears like a ink cascading off of paper, where only faint blacks and muddled greens appear.

The smell of fresh pressed grass in the clean air clearer yet little to no breeze to carry the scents..                            

The Samurai senses the mood's sudden stir; the grass fresh in the middle of the night, and hints of sulfur trailing the sour sweet grass tainting the air bitter.

Aware of his intuitions, he begins to discern what is in store on this night for him and his blade at his side; softly playing in his mind in a cruel & earnest chortle; the samurai grins like the moon that was not present this night.

His honed training wells into his mind, filling like

an autonomic function of one of his own organs.

His senses akin to the smell's of different tints tinctures & metal's no mater how acrid.

Where this life of battle and honor is wrought, as being and not being; such traits become the validity to distinguish irony from iron & ire and blood.

Where even in the murky night is where honor separates the dead from dread,

where a tome, or a tomb.. and eventually all of the above, all eventually fall into the fire to make ones own fate..

A mid aged strangers voice echoes from a dividing point of the mountain's and hill's, sounding from above below & behind; as if they were a omnipresent ghost with a message perfectly placed inside the Samurai's own head.

“He, is like a fallen star,.. It cut's away the open sky;..

the eye, left open like an opaque wound.. we all bleed down, where none of us ever die”.

The samurai understanding the depth and tone of this message, despite poetic & melodic, but a hazard with a internal depth of deep calm.

A sudden wind is churning like a snowfall upon a broken harvest a breath of time and death stirring upon the air..

The samurai knew; the very testament of malice is inlaid with the thickness of this characters wisdom's.

The crisp air of this domain being thick, & like static rolling across the body a excitement imbuing in his midriff.

The samurai places his mind deep, adhering to his needed devotions alone.

His discipline a rush and sync; purging all deviations and confusions afar to the abyss.

And like the untangling a red ribbon of sin's to be undone, where all his binds to its existence's become meaningless attachment's released to focus.

The samurai's eye widens to catch the night for what it is.

To many it would be a weighted slate of stale fading pitch; where the equality of ones life is their trade.

But for the stranger and the samurai, this night is of romance; to time as a warrior of contest, as self conquest's to his mastery are in battle & mettle.

The samurai's pupils adjust to the blanket of death, he innately prepares his mind & finds his inner peace; inward and out & between the seconds & sands we perceive to fall, time is soft, and sharp;

The stranger is poised & the samurai is composed like a muse and musician all into oneness.

With a set of motion's that seems unplanned to the novice warrior; a plethora of moments are deeply missed from a few seconds passing between one another.

The samurai puts his left hand above the haft of his sword, his palm resting open just above the pommel; he moves to hit the hilt of his own sword with his palm, guiding the side of the hilt to  an angle; turning the sheath directly behind his hip.

As the bottom of the weapons sheath swings into position; the samurai moves his left leg behind himself in the shape of a lame L, to catch the very bottom of the sheath with his foot.

When his foot is in contact of the sheath, & his foot shifts slightly to counteract the weight of the weapon & the sheath..

Using the curve of his heel and the strength of his leg combined, he then hoists his sheath upward, freeing it from the loops of metal no longer confining it at his side.

While sheath is moved upward, the samurai's right hand is placed low near his belt;

he extends two fingers to gently stop the vibration of the elliptical rings that once held the sheath in place, otherwise he may alarm the approaching danger more so than just the sound of his footsteps and a few jangles..

During the stilling of vibration's of the rings; the Samurai's left hand moves rhythmically to push mid-center against the midair sheath & sword, causing them to spin interlocked counter clockwise. As the sword and sheath face vertically; he finishes by catching the handle of the sword upright in his right hand; with the sheath still in place over the  sword.

The samurai striking a rather unusual stance, which resembles a calm pose as if a moment of silence.

The Stranger on point to blood lust; he lowers his center to the ground like a swift bow,  raising his speed while motioning his hand to his blade sheathed behind him rushing forward to an advantage.

The samurai prepares for the beautiful unknown's that await.

The stranger approaches just close enough for the samurai to distinguish his silhouette then from a straight shot inward he circles around the samurai like a miasma..

Like the damp mist surrounding the night of the stage; the stranger can be blown away by the sudden shift in the wind that is fate itself...

The stranger stays swift to his circles but low to the ground like a predator, removing his presence of sounds diminishing his shape in the night backdrop, forming his intent to be hidden.

The samurai thinks to himself the kind of trade of this wonderment before him entails.

Is it an assassin? Or a ninja?

Perhaps,..

this stranger can shift the mood of the air, and is just as swift as he appeared from nowhere. He may even have the skill to even change the speed of his own heart flow,  swift rapid strikes, sharp movement's of the feet..

The samurai stifling his rapturous thoughts; he has had enough battles to understand the simple intent of this whomever & however.

And any tantamount he has yet to face as a warrior is equally partial, as all forms are distraction deception & a strike; such is the art of war.

From benign smiling people into the cutthroat devious animal's..

he has dealt with many apprehensions and apparitions.

The samurai continues to ponder..

The ground the stranger is treading is not many steps away, only *13 or so paces away..

As the stranger moves; each step in motion becomes another tell and a closing gap.

He pulls his short sword out flipping it around in hand like a spiral, flickering in what little reflection of light he can to distract the samurai as he circles closer.

The samurai keeping a track of the strangers habits

the samurai thinks to himself.

The loose dirt kicks backwards in each step..

There is a drag every so often, he is somewhat skilled in battle in his perceptive & apprehensive movements.

he's to sloppy for a ninja, his footwork is more of a musing at best, with parlor tricks and fear games.

He must be a hired assassin to switch between obvious, sloppy, and proficient.

The assassin is 10 paces away..

Also this assassin's feet tense; hes kicking up the dirt more as he turns;  he will soon rush inward and then relax his step as he strikes..

Doing so he will have more power to the side to take my neck back or vitals properly, but for him to relax at that angle he must be fleet footed.

..9 paces away..

The rush of the assassin seems to be swift; low to the ground, but the steps quicken.

As soon as his steps break rhythm he will lunge..

..8 paces..

Will it be a feint? Will he flash his blade to reach my eyes with a glint of light, only to slash at my legs or stomach.

.7 paces.

To feel another night as a fallen veil.. is such bliss..

“But”.. the Samurai mutters to himself

.6 paces.

The assassins swift steps rush forward closer.. a fast step and a heavy left, so he will lunge with a horizontal blow. A underhand vertical slash will cause him to back step.. or sidestep..

.5 paces

“hes is becoming too predictable to play with anymore”.. the Samurai gruffly expresses to himself..

The Samurai waits for the Assassin's feet to become perpendicular to each other.

And just before the assassin lunges to strike; The samurai winds up, & uses his sword to launch his sheath like a accelerated projectile.

The sheath center wedges in-between the tensed feet of the assassin's mid stride met with a hard hollow klocking sound.

The Assassin instinctively locks his muscles hard into the sheath.

And without forward ground to switch out his leg position into a safe step for a counter;

all the Assassin can see is the seconds from his own obfuscations as he falls forward  with his back exposed and legs & core tensed 3 paces away.

The samurai in response to the sound of the sheath moves in a pivoting motion with his heel, rotating himself beside the mid air assailant assassin. The samurai using his centrifugal force thrusts his blade hard forward under the assassins chest.

As the assassin is falling, the blade positioned under the assassin shaves away the cloth like a long flat chisel does to wood in the process flaying the assassins chest; cleaving a few layers off the seam, curling away flaps of matted skin and cloth soaked in blood.

Then the samurai flips the handle in his hand, turning the blade reversed.

Like the twisting of a feather the samurai does the same to the assassin's back peeling the bare skin off like bacon meat.

With a shaved a layer of flesh exposed in the front and the back.

The ground staining out red rivulet's as the assassin rolls, creating a purple haze of grass.

The assassin feeling all of his nerves wrench as his muscles tighten in response, naturally he screams as loud as his own discipline allows;

the assassin is just as seething as the dirt and debris under his wound.

The samurai beguiled by his own handiwork

lectures the the assassin.

“A deep cut will escape all pain by the rush of the river that becomes the spirit”

The assassin remains silent while his pride is left screaming..

the samurai continues..

“I have done this spectacle many a time as I am sure you have noticed.”

The samurai begins to pace in a circle like a distanced shark observing his first bite mocking the assassin intentionally.

He continues on..

“I doubt you will speak of why; and in a few, the rush will subside the pain.”

“So how shall we do this.. quickly?”

“Then give me proof of life, or honor.”

The assassin remains silent..

Despite how trained you are to notionate this, I am sure I can figure why you are hunting me, and I doubt the shogun or emperor has anything to do with it.

“Is it my good looks? The samurai smiles coyly.  

The assassin looks the samurai in the eyes with a grimace on his face.

“Is it what I know..?” the samurai deepens in tone while staring the assassin down.

Then the samurai casually riddles off in a rhetoric rapport, mocking the Assassin further.

“Or is it some invalid casual vengeance, placed by some ones ideology of penance and price, plagued to a remorse..

that I couldn't care less of..

the Samurai starts to laugh like a deviant.”

the assassin not amused at the mocking tone of the samurai..

“So..Which is it going to be this time?

You have but a few seconds to displace my mood failed warmonger; or attempt another test of how under the dirt you already are..  

seconds pass

“A fog thick like a shade casting a net;

A night where nocturnal animals in the thick grass are silent to face regret.

The air is chilled

as if the void grows a restless will.

The loom of thread

a spiders web under thy head

and my thoughts soon suddenly still..”

“You know, Ash. Ever since I've known you, you've always been so interested in music. Why?” She asked curiously. “It's almost like you're obsessed with it.”

Ash looked like he found her question to be funny. “You're asking a musician why they're so obsessed with music?”

Aria rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly, her face flushing ever so slightly. “Er, yeah. I guess I am.”

The musician smiled at his girlfriend. “It's only natural for you to be curious, my love. You know how you always talk about how the world would be nothing without art?”

“Of course I remember!” She exclaimed passionately before she began rambling, “After all, art is everywhere. From paintings, to drawings, the clothes we wear, the buildings and architecture, even nature itself. The world would be nothing without art.”

Ash's grin only grew. “I couldn't agree with you more on that sentiment, love. But...” He took a brief pause before continuing. “Haven't you noticed how you've mostly been referring to the design aspect of art?”

Her ocean blue eyes were full of confusion. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“Well, what about things like writing?” Ash questioned. “I know how you're always geeking out over your favorite book series. Could you imagine a world without books and literature?”

Aria's eyes widened in surprise and looked heavily taken back by the mere thought. “Of course not! Whenever I'm not painting or drawing, I practically live in the local Library. I'm even good friends with one of the librarians there now.”

The musician's expression was one of calm and patience. “Are you beginning to understand now?”

After a few seconds, the artist nodded her head. “I think so. Are you trying to tell me that writing is a form of art as well?”

He returned the nod. “That I am. Not all art necessarily has to be visual in nature. Writing could be considered an art because just like when one paints a picture or creates a drawing, it's fueled purely by our own imaginations. With nothing more than some words over several pieces of paper, a writer can take us to worlds unseen, allow us to see through another person's eyes as if they were our own, make us cry and weep whenever a fictional character dies, and establish whatever setting they wish, and they are the ones who set the rules. Through their words, they get us to visualize and live through an entirely different world than our own.”

Aria's expression gradually turned to one of understanding. “You know Ash, you're right. I've never actually really thought of it that way. I've always just seen art to be something visual in nature, something that could only be seen with our eyes.” She stopped for a moment, before looking confused again. “I know what you were trying to say with the whole writing thing, but what does that have to do with music?”

Ash shook his head with the same amusement from earlier. “Aria, my love, you can be really air-headed at times. What I just said was an example. I brought it up because the art of music and writing aren't so different in nature.”

Upon seeing his girlfriend's continued confused expression, he began to clarify. “Things like painting and drawing are perceived through sight. Writing is perceived through your head as the words get you to visualize. And music is perceived through your ears. But each of them has something in common: they are all fueled by imagination.”

As he continued talking, Aria's perplexed expression was eventually replaced with one of interest and curiosity. “You asked why I'm so interested and obsessed with music. And the answer to that is the same as yours. It's because it's my art. My craft. Just like you, I want to change the world. But not through paintings and drawings, but rather from music and song.”

“Music is everywhere. Whenever you go out to a diner or out at a store, there will almost always be some song playing through the speakers. Not just that, but for something to be considered music, it doesn't always have to be a song. I've always considered the chirping of the birds in the morning to be rather musical, or the rhythmic purr of a cat. Things like that have always spoken to me. We're all artists, in our own way. The world would be a completely different, and much bleaker place, if it weren't for the efforts for people like us.” He finished with a small smile. “So, that's why.”

“You're dropping a bunch of bombshells on me today, you know.” She said teasingly. “But again, you're right. I'm surprised I never looked it that way before. No matter how hard I try, I can't actually imagine a world without writing or music. I guess I just began to take it for granted.” She finished shamefully.

He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Hey, it's alright. It's easy to take things like that for granted. I don't think a lot of us really think about stuff like that anyways. But at least you know now.” He gave her a small kiss.

They locked lips with each other for what seemed to be an indeterminable amount of time, before Aria finally pulled away. Blushing, and with a slightly embarrassed tone, she asked, “Hey, um, Ash?”

He looked at her attentively, giving her a reassuring look. “It's okay, love. Go ahead and ask.”

Feeling more confident, Aria finally spit it out. “Do you think I could watch you play?” She asked hopefully.

He gave a hearty chuckle at that. “Of course. I would love to.” He walked over to the other side of his room, and retrieved the guitar out of his case. Then, he sat back down next to his girlfriend, and started to strum the guitar, and began to sing, closing his eyes in concentration and losing himself to the rhythm. “In this silence, I began to realize...”

There's a sudden sound of rustling leaves that's soothing to the soul-

The wind has passed and whispered once, I've heard it all before;

In leaves that leap and twist and dance into untimely air,

I stand below, duly observe, "There is music everywhere."

Her marriage was ruined, by her and him, by the both of them. Their arguments, differing point views, and their stubbornness broke what might have been. 

She gave him the best years of her life, the best 20 years of her youth that was riddled with anger, sadness and contempt. Her life was supposed to be good. Getting out of her mother's home, her oppression, yet she was led to another, lied to repeatedly that this was her happily ever after.

In the end, it was nothing but heartbreak and a whole of regrets that she held in her heart.

And yet, here he sat, begging her to come back, begging her to give this might have been another chance. He promised her more things, things that she had believed that he would have fulfilled, even before the ring was on her finger.

But she wasn't 20 anymore. She was 40. She wasn't that desperate girl, nor that girl that love him and willing to bet on what she has now to have what she wishes to have. She wasn't willing to make another gamble, after so many gambles that she had done in vain. She was done with the addiction of giving him another chance.

He still didn't want to let her go. She didn't care about it a bit.

The love for him in her was completely gone, diminished over time like how rain demolished the great buildings of mankind into slabs of stones that had no engravings to create meaning.

Yes, the great buildings were the structures of her heart and soul, and the engravings were the love that she carved into those structures. He was the rain, an endless rain that just never stop and eroded the love she had.

What was next? The rain don't stop at love. It stops when the slabs of stones are finally eroded to small minerals, taking away the pieces of her that make up her. She wasn't just no longer that young girl; she wasn't also the person that was build on that foundation because he had been chipping away that now.

Love does that to you. It keeps you bound even to the most damaging thing, because your engravings holds a part of the meaning to your life. It became your lifeline, your future.

And the thing is, it's painful, so painful, to have those engravings to be eroded by the very thing that made you gave meaning to those engravings. And the thing is, until those engravings are gone, you have no choice, but to bound by the feelings that held you there, while you go through that painful process of erosion.

I trust nobody.

As a human being, there is one fact I know to be undeniably true: every human being is flawed. You cannot depend on another person for your mental health, or trust another human with your sanity. It is foolish to do so, and will bring about your inevitable undoing. A man on a ledge who gave the task of fixing his mind to another man, is not a victim of life, he is a victim of a natural consequence of his actions.

Blind faith. If you truly believe that a support system of friends and family is all you need to survive in this world, you will not survive. It may seem like you have stability, acting according to society’s definition of “normal”, “healthy”, whatever that even means. You don’t. You're in denial.

Complete trust in another human will only result in being disappointed when they are negligent of your feelings, or being disappointed when they try to fix you, believing themselves to be all-powerful gods who are superior to your flaws, ignorant of their own. Either way, disappointment is inevitable. The only person you can trust, the only one whom you've known all your life, whose every thought you're familiar with, is your own flawed self.

Yet despite all this, our cynicism, our former belief that true love isn’t real and that faith is a fickle thing, I completely trust you. It was a battle with the long-held beliefs made concrete as truths in my mind. I was certain that to open up my heart would be equal to goad the bully into beating me up, to invite karma and whatever other forces exist out there to toy with me, with us, to disrupt our natural balance, upset the scales and cause the weights to drop on our feet and make us feel pain.

It's painful being so far away from you. I always said, we agreed, long distance was never an option, but love is lawless and allows you to change your mind, to adapt to the circumstances and try new things. Sometimes my heart hurts as it stretches to bear the weight of the lack of weight of your body against mine, your absence, the empty space in my bed, in my arms. I admit, I may feel the tiniest pang of jealousy when you mention another woman or female colleague. Perhaps it's not jealousy, but envy. I'm consumed with envy that these people are able to see your face every day, to hear you speak, to have the pleasure of being able to have a face-to-face conversation and breathe the same air as you.

You are the first man to love me for who I am, to see me for all angles, to never be disgusted or horrified or ashamed of being seen with me. To kiss me in public. To apologise for hurting me, even when the pain was predetermined by the condition of my existence. To love me in the morning, without make-up. You have never once tried to fix me. You let me leave mascara stains on your polo shirts without saying a word, you just held me, listened and let me be. You are a human antidepressant, giving me more confidence in my physical appearance, more motivation to improve my life, more reasons to live. That is why I completely trust you. You do all this, sometimes without intending to. You wish nothing but happiness for me, and derive happiness from being a part of my life. Our love is uncontaminated, despite everything. In a world regulated by relativism, it's an absolute truth.

For the first time, I don't feel used, a means to an end. I feel loved. You have taken over me. And I willingly let you.

This is your written coronation. I officially crown you the King of my heart.

Instagram: @incompleteexpressions

#love #romance #trust #longdistance #relationships