User blog:Kat2wind2archer/June’s writing prompt contest entry-thingy

Mmmm, this might have been a bit rushed, I'm leaving in 3 hours (gonna be sitting in a car for the next 24 hours, help me) so sorry if this isn't that good...? Also, I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind when it comes to the topic, but it's from an OC's point of view, in my 'mind village' during the summer- so yeah.

I'll just post the story then (also, Dan Brown did actually hand upside down to cure writer's block, just if you were curious.)

I heard that Dan Brown hung upside down to cure his writer’s block.

That was one of the thoughts that crossed my mind as I continued to pick the apples from the tree in the backyard. The tree itself was nothing special, a simple apple tree with a bundle of branches on top. The leaves were bright green, like the ones of a healthy and happy plant- people wouldn’t spare it a second glance, seeing as it looked as normal as can be.

But, the problem wasn’t the actual tree or it’s look. It was what hid inside the tree. The plant, was unhappy, standing there in one spot. It had tried running away, yet it only grew taller, up towards the never-ending sky. Its constant sadness seamed to poison the ground underneath it, turning the grass rotten and the flowers broken.

The poor thing was slowly killing itself, as I was left to stand and watch. Every few days a strong gust of wind would rustle its leaves, pulling and tugging at them until they flew away, turning to ash.

I could see that things have changed here. Characters keep coming and leaving.

Those who have once built houses and cabins in the woods, set them on fire. Some villagers have lost themselves in the west mountains, that were far, far away. Too far for us to save them, to find them. They were all probably dead anyway, probably haven’t lasted this long. Too much time has passed.

I wonder if they even remember that this town exists.

The townspeople have also changed. They’d used to snack on happy pills and bottles full of drinks tainted a rainbow-like colour, creating an illusion they’d never want to leave.

They’d see a town filled with cotton candy stands, souvenir shops, bikes sales, furniture sales, shoe sales, train, park, chicken, cloud and planet sales. Everything was free, everything worked fine. Everything was colourful, challenging, exciting.

The pills and drinks always fell from the sky in the form of snowflakes or drops of rain. Everyone would grab at them, stuffing the food wherever they could. It was meant for survival.

After a few months, though, the clouds stopped coming, stopped dropping the pills and bottles.

There was nothing to eat, nothing at all.

Dan Brown hung upside down to cure his writer’s block.

Hanging upside down for him was a cure. It’s a cure for some people, a worthless action for others.

Writer’s block is a deadly sickness, killing many worlds, lives and futures. A writer is a god of their own creation, manipulated by his own world. If his planet desires a sudden event, sudden attention, something that would shake its characters and rip them apart, the writer will do just that. He’ll summon a deadly monster, controlled by bloodlust, and send it chasing after the other characters.

The Author would then have the power to move every single creation just as he’d want across the board he’d call his own. Be it his world, planet or universe, he respects it, and supplies it with endless possibilities. He’s its ruler, its king, its god.

Dan Brown hung upside down to keep that world alive.

Here, on the other hand, we had nothing to hang upside down on. The cotton candy stands are long gone, the shoe sales disappeared, the painted houses got rusty, the green forest turned to ashes.

The townspeople had nothing to eat, their ruler nowhere to be found.

They raided the castle in search of anything, really. They broke down the walls, burned down the towers and killed anyone who tried to stop them.

They destroyed and burned every house, every tree. Now, the sun just stared into their backs, as a sign of disappointment. It drilled holes in some, burned through their feet.

Snowflake, a character shaped out of a figure from Jamaa, was pulled apart by the ruler and rearranged to match the god’s expectations. Her insides were emptied, replaced by a soul and personality that the ruler picked. The sun burned through their skull, setting fire to the small rabbit.

The rest of the townspeople sat baking in the sun, the hot summer sun. There were no clouds to drop them food, no distractions from what the summer sun could do to them.

The castle they raided, it might have been without food, but it certainly wasn’t empty.

Barrels of ink were spread throughout the halls, long corridors filled with bottles and wine glasses filled with the black substance. There were whole rooms dedicated to keeping pens and pencils locked safe, paper scattered everywhere.

And the sun’s rays of sunlight finally, after all these years, could reach the barrels. The summer sun was mad without relief at the barrels, for it was the only thing it’s never set fire to.

The villagers had wooden crates, metal gates and brick walls, and all of that the sun has already burned. Already turned to ash, already destroyed over the years. But the barrels, they were only kept to hold ink inside them. Held somewhere in the castle, in the dark corridors and pitch-black rooms. The sun yarned to destroy the item, to feel it’s rays burn into the wood.

It seemed rather pathetic. The sun was aware, the townspeople were aware, but nobody questioned it. Nobody dared to question anything the sun did. The sun know that it was powerful. Painfully powerful.

In the winter, the sun never turned others to ash, never melted the gates and bridges. Only when it was summer, did the sun get pissed. All those villagers down there, having fun. And for years, and years, all the sun does is stare at them, as the townspeople just turn their backs.

So, suddenly this opportunity, this wonderful, screwed up opportunity opens itself to the sun. And why, tell me why, shouldn’t it destroy the barrels? The villagers, even after all the desperate measures the sun took to impress them, to make them cower in fear, never gave up to the sun. They’d brush off the fires, the burns and ashes. They took pills and bottles to help shade from the sun and fix what it had destroyed.

The summer sun, oh how much it wanted to see all of them bow down. And how else would it do that, if not spill all the ink, by melting the barrels?

 Dan Brown hung upside down,

While ink drowned our town.

I grimaced, shuffling through the ink. Picking apples was hard, considering I was knee-deep in the liquid. It burned, it truly did. It felt like freshly poured tar, digging holes in my legs. But I was immortal. Just like Deper, Illi and Slasher. Besides that, someone had to pick the apples, didn’t they?

I, Beld, was standing in front of the dyeing tree. Ripping off its apples, pulling them apart, searching for the seed.

None of the apples had a seed. I was beyond pissed at this point. My legs were burning, drenched in the black liquid. The sun, the sun was concentrating on me, concentrating on killing me. But it couldn’t.

As much as the sun would have wanted to be the ruler, it could never be. The ruler is the one who sends the clouds, full of pills and bottles during the winter, the ruler is the one who gives everyone rose-coloured glasses in the spring.

The ruler was the one who keeps me afloat, keeps me alive. They stick a knife down my throat, poke needles at my stomach and rip me apart, recreating, removing and adding things to my soul, things I’m not aware of, things that make ‘me’ a ‘me’ the creator likes.

Make me a simple thought of the artist, a reflection of their feelings. More often than not we’re all used as punching bags, for the ruler to be angry at. We’d have their feelings moulded with ours, we’d feel their misery, their fear and guilt.

I continued to take a few steps forward, trying to circle around to the other side of the tree. The ink was desperately grabbing at my clothes, pulling my coat and tail. I was full-on drenched in the liquid, my fur oozing black. I made sure to keep my paws above the sea of darkness, for the rings that decorated my claws were so fragile. They meant nothing now, nothing to the people that were tied to them. But they were still my rings, my property, and had meaning to me.

Deper, Slasher, Illi, Maroon, Kat, even Oreo- that pathetic excuse of a German shepherd that was just a scrapped idea for a character- didn’t wish to have any connection with the rings.

The golden metal was a reminder of the relations that have once been, that are right now, and those of the future.

Once on the other side of the tree, I started pulling at the apples, desperate to find the seed. The flesh on my legs was slowly peeling of, the ink so hot that it burned me to the bone. There was no other way to do this, no other way to get the ruler’s attention. They left us here, as they do each time the sun gets angry. They have the nerve to leave, even though they know we’re suffering. We’re dying- we’re slowly being forgotten. They always leave us to our own devices during the summer.

Dan Brown hung upside down to cure writers block.

Our ruler can’t hang upside down to cure writers block.

Our ruler is sick- horribly sick.

We’re their thoughts- we reflect who the ruler, the god, the king is. So, we’re all sick, too.

But we’re just thoughts- we’re much more fragile than the god.

We can be forgotten, ages of our existence erased in a matter of seconds.

I am immortal, in some way. The sun can’t kill me, scars don’t affect me, and pain is welcomed.

But I am horribly, truly terrified of death. I do not want to be forgotten- I do not want to be a simple thought for my ruler. I don’t want them to ignore my existence, to ignore me, their own creation. I want them to remember me as something that had an effect in their life, something that existed in words.

Deper, Illi, Slasher- none of them were scared of that. All of them have embraced that they’ll once be forgotten. They’re all fine with that- they know they have no power over who the ruler remembers, who the ruler choses to keep alive, who to kill. But I believe I have at least a bit of power. I’m their reflection, as are all the other villagers. We’re all a part of our god- a part of our king. If the ruler can change our world, that means we also have that power- maybe a very small, uninteresting piece of that power, but we have it.

I cracked apple after apple, the ink now rising to my chest. I picked the fruits from the tree, ripping them apart, tearing them in half, only to find nothing.

I continued to scratch at the tree, cutting of its branches, braking apart it’s twigs and destroying its fruit. I had no sympathy for the tree anymore- the tree would never be forgotten. It was the core of the ruler, it was the main creation of theirs. It was in every story, every thought.

A blooming tree, an apple tree, a sad tree, a tree under which the character sits, a tree with bird chirping on it. The tree was everywhere- no matter how much the author- excuse my words, the ruler- would try, they’d never forget a tree. Something as simple as a tree wouldn’t be forgotten.

But me, they’d forget me. I don’t want them to forget me. Every summer- every summer they’d drown me. The villagers, I have no sympathy for. Deper, Slasher, Illi- they all don’t care either. They don’t care for what I feel, they don’t care that they’ll all die. The ones who burned their cabins and houses in the forest, they didn’t care. The ones who got lost in the mountains, they forgot we existed already. We’re dead to them.

I don’t want to be dead to my leader.

I snapped the last apple open. Its sickeningly sweet scent spread through the air, something refreshing. It was the last apple- the one that presumably held the seed. It was like this every year. I’d go through all this, just so someone won’t forget me.

I could already hear the sun, the hot, summer sun, screaming my name, telling me to let the apple go, but I didn’t. I was going to plant the damned seed, and the king would return. They’d give the villagers pills and bottles, they’d paint the trees green again, they’d make my rings have meaning once again.

Dan Brown hung upside down, to cure his writers block.

There was no seed in the apple.

I stared at the apple, as it slowly melted through my fingers, oozing down into the ink below.

The remains of the dark red fruit swirled in the liquid, turning and twisting it to crystal clear water. Instead of the constant burn, I finally felt the refreshing, freezing water wrap itself around my waist. I was so tired, so terribly tired. I let my body drop into the ocean, letting it massage my back, flowing through my fur and swirling around my tail.

I let myself drown in the feeling of relief, the pleasant sense of relief.

I looked up, staring into the sun. Normal people- normal characters would hurt their eyes-but I was fine. I was happy. I was relieved.

I mouthed a ‘thank you’ to the sun, before closing my eyes.

Dan Brown hung upside down to cure writer’s block.

Our creator needed us to help them cure their own writer’s block.