자주색

That's what I find when I look up your name. But that's not your name--it's Bora. Purple. I think it must have been a purple flower, or something. But I'm pretty sure it was just purple.

[this is not a class related blog; if you're looking for parasites, go forward or backward. If you're looking for nonsense, stay here.)

I haven't had the time to paint lately. At all, really. The last thing I painted was a toy lizard I found out by Alpha, and that doesn't count, because I just painted it to look like a guilmon, which is silly, and therefore not real painting. I am still waiting for a chance to paint you. Purple, puce, lavender, magenta, rouge, indigo. In the treeline, something blue-green; no skyline. No sky. Your head in my knees; your fat belly stretched out to the side. I have never met a more comfortable creature. Or forgetful. Or cruel.

You know the way someone will come at you, slowly, if they're trying to do something they know you won't like, and they don't want you to find out until it's too late? I'm not going to do that.
I'm doing this to get over you.
Even though it's not something I can do. It still sounds good, though, doesn't it?

You're too tied up in what I was and who I am now for me to come to terms with anything. But what were you to me, really? A pillow. A damn good pillow. And that's it, I think. Really? Yeah--that's it, I think.

Or is that just what you'd say to me?
And hey--even good pillows are missed, right? But now I'm being the cruel one, I think. Don't worry. I don't mean it--I'm just looking for a way to hide the fact that I'm a sentimental twit.


I think I'll write something about you. A story, or several, that hold parts of you. This one won't go belly up like my nanowrimo one, so don't you fuss. It's the only pretty thing I have. Shut up. Don't wag your tongue like that--I'm trying to be serious here. You'll be the apprentice of a terrible, very stupid wizard. The reader will want to hate you as well, but they won't. You will be too sweet, even when you bite. You will go off on your own and have all sorts of adventures: two crows will tell you to run down the hill as fast as you can, but no, you should have turned around before you left--you would have seen a pair of bones leaning against the tree. You'll roll into a hole in the ground and find an old man with hooks for whiskers. What is he fishing for? Sense, he mumbles, tugging a hook. Good sense. A herring slips out of his mouth. You pick it up with your teeth. A mole bites your rubbery lip. You chase it through the narrow necking paths until you both break ground; you kill him dead. God, what have you done? You've learned something awful from that wizard. Now you've killed a child, dead. Mother mole collects her son. The funeral is held at the edge of the pond. You are present; you push your hands in the dirt and repent. On the other shore, the ducks are laughing. Screaming. making licentious advances on one another. At a funeral? You chase them away, and almost commit your second murder in a day. You would not have killed them, you say? I believe you. I believe you. But it is the reader you must convince.
The woods are full of mud and frogs and crawfish and grass. These are all things you grow to love. You eat the crawfish and play with the frogs. You love them, and they love you. But they are frogs, and so they also love playing tricks. They tell you to see what's on the other side of the mossy fence. So you go. It's very bright. You're very tall. You feel like you're in Oz, but you don't know what that means, do you? So you go back. But not to the frogs. There is tall, dry grass and birds hiding in the grass the way you go back. They spill nonsense as you walk by. You're short and fat again, but you still know it's nonsense.


But where shall I go from here? I am not good at writing my way through holes, as you know--only twisting threads until I've made rope. Will you return to the cruel wizard and...and then what? Is that the end? Will you fall asleep one day, and dream of frogs and mud and never wake up again? You can't destroy that wizard. No sword for you. No magic rock. It would be good for the plot, but it wouldn't be good for you.

And I've forgotten a whole chapter of your sins--what about the little urchin you brought to your master to be sacrificed? Yes, you threw the pepper under the table; and when he was out buying more, you sat and watched the birds with her. And then you pushed her out the window, so she could be one. And she was. Don't you grin like that now--you've still got plenty to be ashamed of. You were a veritable criminal. I do believe you stole from that urchin's plate not a week earlier. And it's not like you weren't well kept at home. No wonder you were so round you rolled down that hill, just like those birds told you to. You poked at the bellies of dead fish and what were you but cruel to everyone save your wizard?

Still. I want you to win. More than that, I want readers to want you to win. Can't you do something, anything before it's too late? Before your cruel wizard slips something foul into your meal that night and makes you sleep forever? I think you should cut him. Cut him good, for me and for you. If not in life, than in death. Take everything that you can from him. His things are broken. His bird is gone. His family is gone. His town is gone. But you are the only one that can make him alone. Do this. Please. Do this for me. It will show you to be warm and sweet in the eyes of the reader, warm and sweet as I've known you. It will make the writer look cruel, but haven't I been the cruel one all along?

Don't worry. You don't have to tell the story--you don't have to do a thing anymore. I'll make the bird tell it, so nobody has to get their hands messy. I don't like birds anyway. And I'll leave a soft, light, purple place at the end of it for you. You'll still be short and round, but you can put your head on my knees and rest for a bit. Just a bit.