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WRITING EXHIBITION

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ENTER: ORIGINAL CHARACTER, STYGIAN

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THE DREAM OF DREAMS, THE FINALITY.The coldness of dew, the warmth of the glowing sun. The air holds wetness, sticky against your complexion, and it’s crisp against your tongue. The day is consumed by stars dotting a blackened expanse, cicadas chirping as idle noise. A firefly— one, two, three more, then they are infinite. Uncut grass kisses your limbs, curling against your flesh. The seasons shift. Winter, spring, summer, and fall. Yesterday precedes today, tomorrow comes after. The first week of the month, the first winter solstice, the final summer solstice. Another year narrated in tragedy, another day authored in joy.Pain, despair, grief, sorrow, melancholy, joy, relief, shock, anger. Emotions that are familiar, natural in its arrival. They course through abruptly, and they leave just the same.Juxtaposed against reality and dreams, the memory exists. The uniqueness of a mortal being, the material of what makes a god. An unloved god is a forgotten memory, a memory-less mortal is the shell of one. A soul exists to allow the body to survive, the memories are why it lives. They will start with you, and they will die with you.And finally, there is you.In the dream-like realm, there is nothing but the awning floors of reflective waters. There is nothing but the singularity— a man that dared to roam the endlessness of a memory. Alone, with nothing but the mirroring ocean, hundreds of thousands of memories flow like currents. Olson existed in the current now, the infinite state of the realm of memory. He existed in the past, the scorned son and king. Familiar, unfamiliar, forgotten, and remembered. His body, a vessel to contain the memories that make up his individuality. Had he not been born as the son of a fallen god, wrangled Hell into civility, loved fleetingly and sparingly, and finally routed by his very own daughter— would he be the person he is now? Would he be ‘Olson’?The ache and jubilation of memories continued to overwhelm him, drowning him in its love, loss and betrayal. The story of a son, a king, a father— and at the very end, he was none of them, and thus, he stood in the realm of memories. He was a boy coveting his father’s shadow in a castle with roofs far too tall, an artist preserving his boyish features to an ivory canvas that contained his brothers next to him and the looming figure of a god. He was a feigning mortal, entranced by love and desire, mortal emotions unfit for a demon. He was the foolish king seated upon the throne adorned in red, and unloved by a kingdom that drew too close to the sun. He was everywhere all at once, he was everything he once was and currently was.He was encompassed by his entire lifetime in mere seconds, and it would have easily swallowed any mind whole. Would he not be able to endure it, then the currents would consume him until he lost all that gave him individuality. He would become another story lost to history, living onwards only in memory. The unforgiving assault continued as he trudged onwards through the murky expanse, until finally, there lied a single orb that contained traces of bright and fleeting lights.The small orb was warm, and cold. It was colourful, and it was bleak. It was synonyms and antonyms that were impossibly tied together, and that was the only possible description for such an entity. It floated in the dark realm, alone and bare. When Olson reached out for this singularity, it beckoned for him.His fingers passed through the orb, and the mysterious sphere created pressure to push the outsider away. When he grasped it, there was the echoing of a bell toll in the distant shore. Finally, it stretched and compressed, in and out, far and close. The orb ruptured in colours until it fractured the dreary realm, each shard reflecting the lone man.The now broken realm began to shift. It felt like the ground shook and tore— or perhaps that was just a trick of the mind. There was no true feeling in this place, nor was there any numbness. As the environment began to tear itself apart, so did Olson who stood within it. He was being disassembled and reassembled again and again, broken pieces of him flinging far before returning back to it’s rightful place like a magnet. There was the constant ringing of a bell toll, again and again, the only sound grounding him to reality. Finally, the realm ceased it’s warping, and the shards were slotted into place.They began to peel away to reveal a new place, another area hidden inside the realm. It diverged from it’s outer layer greatly, and as the shards continued to peel away like wrapping, towering shelves lined with books began to appear. It began to take the shape of a dim library, lanterns dotting the rare, empty spaces in the shelves. The roof seemed to spiral upward infinitely, the shadows raising a curious question of whether a roof existed here or not. There were desks with books atop them as well, and papers littered on the wood. Trinkets and knickknacks could be seen here and there, copious but few all at the same time. There were halls that ran through on either side, and even they contained shelves lined from end to beginning with books. If not for the unsettling and sickening experience before, then one could appreciate the strange warmth this library seemed to offer.The final echo of a bell toll, louder and clearer than before. There was the sound of a book slamming shut that followed. Stood alone in the middle of the room, enclosed by the shelves all around, was a petite boy holding a title-less book too big for his hands. His cheeks were rounded, limbs short and ungrown, still blooming in the test of time. Horns had just began to sprout atop the bed of black hair on his head, gentle curls kissing his cheeks. He was a child in every way, a familiar one. One that Olson could never forget. The second-youngest of his spawn, the one he had doomed in the house of spiders— Able Brûlure-Noire, now standing perfectly preserved in the realm of memory. There was the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips.”Welcome to the Archives.”

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example 2!THE DREAM OF DREAMS, THE FINALITY.
IIThe fallen god said nothing as he continued to weave through the rounded corridors of the Archives. He wouldn’t deign to answer the man’s pleads. For a moment, his eyes dragged to meet the king’s, and there was a flicker of contempt. As quickly as it came however, it was gone, and the boy continued to march through the halls. He’d stop to reach for a book, sliding it out from its tight place amid the other neatly stacked books, and open it to skim its contents. Every book that lined the shelves had its place. It was Stygian’s responsibility to make sure each memory contained within it was placed in accordance with the mortal’s life.Appearances were deceiving. The boy stood like a regular librarian, like any other capable overseer of a grand library.Stygian only offered nonverbal responses, but remained relatively aphonic for the remainder of their walk. Even as the boy pulled out more and more books from the shelves, even arranging some, the titleless tome that leaked idle magic remained at his side. Despite Olson’s desire to peer into the contents of the volumes that lined the shelves, even the foolish king would know not to even grace his fingers upon the one that Stygian held. The halls seemed endless, but oddly enough, like a perfect loop, they would wander back into the spiralling shelves of the main room.Finally, the god turned to him, and laid the divine gaze upon the demon. The true king now stood in the domain of memory, a king foolish enough to stand at the level of a god. There was a sudden and overwhelming pressure that now weighed him down, filling him with a crushing dread. It was as if the goddess had reached the final line, the fruitless little journey through the catacombs merely enacted to test his patience. The boy– or properly termed, the god, turned his head fully to scrutinize the intruder. Crimson eyes now glowed a bright ochre, the outlines of stars emblazoned in his pupils. Like a snake shedding its skin, the godly form was slowly escaping from its mirage.“Foolish king, perhaps if Zedar had any reflection on your mannerisms, then you wouldn’t look to a god with such impudence. Do you despise groveling at the feet of a god, having made so many unwise decisions to lead you to this point?” As if he had peered into his mind, Stygian uttered his thoughts. A divine’s anger would be wasteful on a lesser being, and even a fallen one could prove to slaughter Olson just as easily. Stygian was merely a fracture of the true form of memory, yet as he stood in the god’s periphery, the significant difference in power was clear.The Stygian Renaissance– the primordial being of memory, even in it’s most false form, was a god immune to erosion.”You misunderstand what it means to be the keeper of memory. To offer me such a deal just shows me you lack comprehension. Do you believe the fallen angel, Sariel, can simply take my place and keep your little realm in order? What you are asking me benefits you far more than it benefits me.” The god laughed, amused. That sickening feeling began to course through Olson once again, like the ebb and flow of time was pushing against his body.”I am merely the memory of the true form. The Stygian Renaissance does not desire freedom, because a memory must stay in its rightful place. I exist here, keeping your precious realm in order only until the day I meet my true body.”Within the archives, the books of memory and the fraction of a god were one in the same, all serving as memories to their true bodies. It was what truly anchored her to this dimension– a memory that awaited its owner’s return. Like a tree that had burrowed its roots deep into the earth, her ties and powers had been buried into the realm of Hell until her existence was unequivocal. Without her role and the tasks that followed, then Hell would unfurl without its chains. It was a situation seemingly doomed from the start. Hell was imprisoned, but it would fall apart without the shackles of time that kept it caged.Flickers of the goddess’s true form began to appear. Golden eyes that held the stars and ivory locks that extended farther than the body could reach– this was the appearance the primordial memory had taken. Her skin was like porcelain, limbs thin and smooth to fit the description. She was doll-like in features and in body, like a perfectly painted girl devoid of human imperfection. The book that floated atop her fingers would suddenly spread open, its pages flipping rapidly and endlessly, like there was no end to the story it contained.”Tell me, the one who deems himself the ‘true king’. What makes you worthy of this heroic role you wish to play? What are you willing to sacrifice?” The pubescent voice had now shifted to fit her new appearance. The goddess’s voice rang through the room, reverberating with divine energy. With each word she spoke, it was as if many others chorused behind hers.”Do you really believe that the downfall of the system you created was not of your own doing? Do you believe that you are the ‘hero’ to this story? Your greatest enemy, Candycorn of the Skies– was she your greatest downfall?”The figure began to wrap and shift once again, until it morphed until the domineering form of the old King of Skies, the leader of the resistance against his regime. The woman had made a fool of his title, having managed to cause a civil war in the very realm he ruled in. The King of Skies was the first string to be plucked from the seams of the thread that Olson had created, and many more would follow, until he reached the point he was at now. Like the collapsing dominos, it was one after another. The threads he created to keep Hell controlled fell apart, and with nothing left under his authority, he crawled into her domain.”Or perhaps, it was merely your birthright to fall. After all, the children of Zedar were never meant for glory. Was it the fact you were the child of a fallen god that made you audacious enough to have done what you did? To keep surviving, to keep dooming all those around you.”The face of Candycorn melted until the vague shapes of the true ruler of Hell began to form– Fallen God, Zedar. The creator of Archdemons had ripped his own sons apart. In his encompassing form and body, it was as if the god was peering down at the trivial boy once again, blood or not. The memories of his father were all contained in this mirage of the fallen god, and like a tidal wave, they came crashing through the walls. He existed deep inside of Olson– in the paintings on the walls, in the reflection in the mirror. He was the very reason his features took the form they did, and the very reason he bled the color he did. Zedar was his father, no matter how much he wished to disown that fact.The timbre of an archaic ruler now echoed, deep and familiar. ”I know everything about you, Olson. I am the manifestation of memory, after all. What you see now is merely the shape of all your–”“Fears,” The face of Zedar began to flicker between four images. His father, and the Evil Triplets, Aamon, Abraxas, and Aeshma. Their scars left behind by their own father were harrowing, and they came back in full display for Olson to witness.”Your love,” The layers began to melt once again until it revealed the facade of Lath, his late wife. Her fair complexion, the flush that rounded her cheeks and the faded wrinkle of an older time. Long locks of brown seemed to sway in the wind that the godly magic created. Her eyes softened considerably, filled with a bottomless love. A human turned demon, but in the end, the two were like humans in every way; fleeting and fond.”Your happiness…” His wife’s features melded into the similar one of his son, Arial. Light blonde curls hugged his scalp, and he was the spitting image of Lath. The facade blinked into an older man, his boyish features having washed away with time. His eyes had remained the same, melancholic all around its edges. “...your sorrows,” He would never be able to witness his son grow into his gangly limbs, or the way he had grown around the absence of his father. None of his children would, his own kin that he doomed like his father did. Azazial, Arial, Potaz, Able, Lorelei– the children he had discarded.”And…”All of the images began to blink in his eyes, changing from one to another. In one moment it was Zedar, and in the next, it was Able. The cycling facades continued as their voices all echoed together into the single syllable, and their memories all moved forward in one step. The everchanging mirage moved to take a seat upon the throne of goddess of memory, positioned right in the middle of the neverending shelves.
And finally, at the end of it all, was a child who sat on the seat far too big to hold her body. ”...Your regrets.” Long, pine locks graced her shoulders, curling into her smile like a sunflower to its sun. Her feet could barely touch the hardwood floor. Large, azure eyes looked up at the true king, and while his other children resemble their mothers– she mimicked the features of her father. It was as if this memory was breathed into life once again, as if it had been wrenched out from the deepest part of his mind. It was a long forgotten sight to see the girl so young, dimples at the corners of a smile that shone so brightly for her father. It was as if the entire environment was starting to warp with the newest appearance, and suddenly, it was no longer cold halls and tall shelves– but a warmly lit home, and it was just the two of them who presided here. Sarvai, so alike her father in every way– and the one who poised a blade to kill him at the very end.Yet here, it was only father and daughter. The daughter who adored him more than anything else.The sun was slowly being swallowed by the horizon, its final rays of light spilling across the plane. It embellished the girl in a warm light, and a slight updraft from the open window coursed through her hair. The faint hiss of a kettle in the background (perhaps dinner was cooking), the serenading songbirds (if you remember, the passerines became noisy at this time), and the sway of the silk curtain (you washed it just recently).It was fleeting domestication in his history, such a mundane and forgettable day. The little girl adorned a frilly dress knitted by her mother, her smile never seeming to ebb in his presence.(It was like this once, in a time long forgotten, before children knew of all the terrible things you were. Before children knew to hate their fathers, they’d learn to love them first.)“Olson…” She spoke slowly, looking up at him. “Why do you deserve to be a hero?”

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[ if you saw grammar mistakes, no you didn't ]
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