Everywhere by Lex Terzioski

Welcome back to Creative! We are excited to introduce this short fiction story written by Lex Terzioski, a sophomore Creative Writing Major at Roger Williams University. 

We hope you enjoy! 

 

Everywhere 

The fresh spring dew began to overcome me as I began to step out of my makeshift cottage. My bare feet soaked in the moistness that coats every blade of grass from the fog that hovered just above the earthy grounds. My white, linen shirt loosely fitted on my masculine frame as was my darkly colored trousers. In the early morning, it was still difficult to see anything that was five feet away. It felt like I was stepping into nothingness, but it was something new I needed to partake in. Stepping closer to the nearby lake the high and mighty peaks of Windermere gazed down below me. It was as if they showed how better they were than I could ever be. Their benevolent beauty stood so tall after all these years. No wonder why these peaks drove well-known poets to their fated deaths.

I needed to get away from the bustling streets of London to clear my head and to find my true desire. Writer’s block has been my veined enemy, and nothing around me was helping. My father dislikes my passion for literature and poetry. He said to me, “I will not allow my son to become an arrogant, eccentric poet!” Those words are verbatim—engraved into my soul for many lifetimes beyond this. The Windermere peaks held solace for poets. Perhaps this shall be true to me, too.

I began to make my daily trek to my favorite spot. Nature was with me that day, and the songbirds sang their melody nearby. Oh, how I adore the season of spring. It was only me within the shade of the weeping birch, allowing their dangling stems to cover the facade I held. It was comforting. I rest my back against the pale wood, quill, and worn-out journal in hand. My brows furrowed in consternation. Focus, I must focus. It had been so long since I had pressed ink onto blank parchment, yet it was a wonderful feeling. It was almost like gracing a woman’s skin for the first time. I shall cherish it and worship it for the rest of my days. My inked quill finally began to move with the rhythm of my wrist:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

These words have been written before. Any maiden would want to be compared to something so beautiful like a perfect day. Scratch that out. I raised my inked quill again, with hopes I will find a conclusion within this next verse:

I could suffice for Her, I knew—

She—could suffice for Me.

There was my spark that I had been missing all along! I knew coming here was able to relinquish my writing abilities. Ha! I say to my father. How do you like that for a devious poet? Shall I be writing you fair checks when my work has bore witness? Never mind that, but this was the greatest news I received. Oh, my spontaneous mind, how I love you so! The whistling of the wind began to sound like a song… a familiar song. Soft, pitchy, yet a feminine melody. It sounded like angels, sweet angels. My head lifted from my journal as I listened intensely.

“Cardain…” The soft rustling of the leaves whispered amongst the wind, and chills went down my spine. My posture stiffened, and I froze in place. I could not move from the fear that I indulged in. My interlude to the fated poets’ deaths.

“Who goes there? How do you know my name?” I called out, but there was no answer. Perhaps I was only imagining things—it is something that can happen to a writer’s mind. So much to write that all these ideas sprung unto me. I shook my head, getting rid of the thought as I revisited the focus I held so dearly to my journal. The breeze began to pick up—feeling like delicate fingertips threading through my chestnut hair. My eyes widened, and these fingertips felt familiar.

“I said who goes there?!” I exclaimed again, but there was no answer once more. A sigh fell from my lips as I closed my journal with frustration. Something must be deterring me from focusing on my work. My promised work to bring the notability that I yearned for. I stood and made my way to the edge of the lake. I splashed the fresh stream of water on my face.  As I rubbed my eyes to clear any water droplets, my amber-colored gaze widened. There, within the reflection beside me, was the face of a woman. Her eyes were opaque, hair as golden as precious threads that curled at the ends, supple cheeks, and tear stains marked permanently on such beautiful and delicate features. I felt as if I had teleported back in time, and everything seemed to freeze. There—in all her somber glory—was the face of Elizabeth when I broke her poor heart.

My father wished for me to marry her and produce an heir since her father had set wealthy prospects in the coal mining exchange. I did, in fact, love Elizabeth, but I loved my writing more. My work has great promise, and I could not let some woman ruin that for me. I thought writing poetry for her would bring my poetic muse to an all-time high, but I was wrong. Quite wrong. She took my work for granted, and she did not seem that much interested in me, but who would? Besides poetry, my betrothed and the one I wish to be bonded with for eternity. The glints of lust within my eyes were the ones meant for those sweet words to be caressed onto paper. At least my poems do not mind my company. My chest began to rise and fall in soft rivets, just as the beauty of the peaks did. This could not be happening, could it? Have I been cursed for all eternity with the inability to write the pretty words I wish to convey? My phantomic illusion brought me here to discard my mind and focus, to settle my being in the failure in the righteousness of poetry. All because of a woman that I did not wish to love in return? Although she is not deceased physically, she wishes for me to grieve for her as if she was.

***

The night had come, and there was no hope of falling asleep. The reflection I saw continued to haunt me every time I closed my eyes. How long shall this curse continue? When shall I be free of Elizabeth’s unruly chains? I wished to be set free. I wanted to beg and plead, but nothing will suffice for her to forgive me. My eyes shifted slightly to my bedside table to see the journal cracked open to a blank page. The moonlight streamed through the small windowpane that brought light within the small cottage. It seemed like sorcery, witchcraft as the ethereal light was now crafted these words:

I am the standing trees,

I am the gentle breeze,

I am the wading water,

I am a freshly bloomed flower,

I am the blood spilled

upon enemies,

I am the pain,

I am the agony,

I am the heartbreak

you lust over;

no matter where you go,

I will be here.

I am everywhere.