This is my first original prose piece posted on this blog. Please leave any and all feedback in the comments!!

written by: morgan williams

Deep in my heart, there lies a secret; a confession ensconced to the walls of my throat, trapped in by a wall of barbed wire that would sooner unmarry my head from my neck than form words on my tongue. A secret that drifts around as abstract shapes in my mind, too painful to mature into a thought. But, as the moon reaches its peak, the seal on my throat weakens, and the haze in my mind clears. Trembling hands grip the sword of cowardice, and step onto a lonely battlefield.

A forsaken little soldier boy clad in loose linen sleepwear, with a sword as long as a whip, but as thin as a sheet of paper. If it weren’t my own image, I’d laugh too. On one side, there is fickle determination; on the other, endless resentment. What a depressing lineup. There are no colosseums of ghosts to cheer nor jeer at him. Not even a debauched crowd would find joy in gambling on his fate. No one bears witness to the final stand.

Even I, watching from a distance, am not sure what to expect next-

Thick trails of sweat and tears kiss as they accompany each other down his cheeks and drop heavily on his sword. The reflection of the boy in the sword ripples as it is drowned by the couple. The little soldier boy’s furrowed brow and pursed lips were traditionally always a harbinger of a tantrum, but on his face now, they rather resemble a theatre mask. If only the battlefield were a stage. If only the grass were replaced by lacquered wood, with bright spotlights and an enraptured audience. But what’s a mask to a soldier? What’s a little, unconvincing performance in a war?

If it weren’t my own image, I think I would be more convinced. But when I look upon him, I can only notice the thin cracks and chipped paint on his second-hand mask of bravery. Young and credulous. Weak and brazen. Gazing at that little boy, I can only ask myself: what right do I have to those feelings anymore? The boy cruelly remains unmoved.

It’s not like I revel in my own weakness — I despise it. But just as I am incapable of valor, I am incapable of change. However, ‘incapable’ doesn’t quite encapsulate the feeling. It is a little closer to fear. Fear that my cowardice might be my only virtue. My inability to act prevents me from hurting others, though I doubt that my neglect can even be classified as an entirely conscious mercy. I wonder what unbound kindness feels like. I wonder what it feels like to have fear as a catalyst rather than a shield. In my life, I’ve only ever had one wish. It exists as a little lantern that I lit and let float to Heaven.

“Oh God, please let me be good.”

Even if that little lantern reached its destination, the journey might have been meaningless. Because, can someone become good, or is it simply fate? I have long since known that I am incapable of change, so if I was not already good (which the act of asking implies), then what is the point of asking? I could ask to change my fate, but my heart only had just enough fire to light one little lantern. The idea of mustering more is far too burdensome. The only thing that I have left is the sword irrevocably tied to my hands.

The battlefield was silent, no clashing of swords nor rustling of footsteps. Only the labored breathing of the little soldier is discernible. I could blame the weakness of my body on laden limbs and haunted breaths, but what about the weakness of my heart? Thus, in a slow succession of nothingness, hues of midnight blue fall to vibrant rays of gold and pink brushstrokes. The sword is sheathed, and the battlefield is locked back in its crypt. Reprieve is very short, though, only lasting until midnight claws its way back into the sky.

On some nights, the scene shifts. The image of a little soldier boy in a grassy plain contorts into a sexton in an unkempt graveyard. Headstones extend in lines far beyond what my eyes can see. The names on each stone are indistinguishable; weathered age steals their identities. Only half-bloomed white lilies remain reverently placed on each grave. The sexton’s soiled white robes stand out amongst the gloom, but only just barely. Just like her robes, her hands are covered in a film of grime, and her fingernails are broken and jagged. It’s almost as if she scraped her way out of her own grave. I watch as she walks along a well-traveled path, only stopping to kneel before a mausoleum of hope. It’s covered almost entirely in vines. Its pearly white exterior seemingly beaten into submission by forest green. The vestibule has long since browned with age, now solely ornamented with dead leaves and twigs.

It seems that despite its ugly visage, the sexton has yet to retire her efforts to maintain the mausoleum. In her genuflection, she uses her hands to sweep the foliage away and grasp at the vines polluting the building. All the while, her eyes stay firmly closed and her head bowed, as if deep in prayer. I can only laugh as each deferential care is undone. The wind resurrects the twigs and leaves with the tempo of a slow waltz. With each vine pulled off, ten more grow to fill its void. Of course, with her eyes closed, the sexton sees none of the desecration of her work.

How absurdly dutiful this ritual is! The notion of blind perseverance. Even as her arms tremble, she does not stop– for what cause? A brief glimpse of the past’s former glory? The force of my laughter brings me to my knees. As the wind carries the sound farther, it begins to resemble a sob. It’s been many years since my perseverance has been dissected from my soul and replaced with regret. I wonder if I could burn my regret as fuel like the sexton. Could I explode into a flurry of bright light? Could I light one more little lantern? My question is answered by the taste of ash on my tongue. It seems that my regret has long since doused whatever embers I had left.

As I look back at the sexton’s closed eyes and frantic hands, I’m not sure which scene is worse: the little soldier boy or the sexton. A cacophony of silence versus the despair of darkness. Another remarkable lineup. Sometimes the sexton feels like a champion for the little soldier boy, other times she feels like penance.

As every night concludes, I am left with the same plea:

“Oh God, must this really be all that I am?”

I’m not sure why my bravery strikes only when my spirit is nearly withered. It seems that I can only muster enough courage to stop fatality rather than pain. What an inconvenient defense mechanism. This resolve of mine is the last barrier between the fractures of myself and the call of the night. I wonder which one could bear my cross: a mask, a blindfold, a sword, or a lantern. I wonder which one would buckle my strength. I wonder how much more I can love that little soldier boy and the sexton. I wonder how much more I can resent them. Nonetheless, the sun always rises and falls just as my heart does.

I’m not sure how many nights I have left until my soul atrophies, nor do I know whether the scalpel in my hand is meant for a surgeon or a mortician. Perhaps I could live and let things be, let fate prevail, but I know that I couldn’t. For my will has always wavered, but never once abandoned me.