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Literature Text
She was sitting beside the small boy's bed when he opened his shadowy eyes. The first thing he noticed was her hair: it was golden and glowing faintly. He couldn't remember if hair normally did that or not, but it hurt him to look at her; she, like sunlight, burned his eyes in the darkness. In the dim room, in his numb thoughts, the girl's hair looked like a halo, and he imagined he saw her unfold wings and fly away, but then he blinked and she was still there.
The first things the girl noticed were his eyes. They were dark and clouded with pain, flashing like a stormy sky or an emergency light on a sinking ship. They flickered like incandescents losing power; his pupils dilated as he blinked, struggling to focus on her. She looked at the IV meter indicating the level of failing platelets and morphine, and the machine hummed as she watched the blood swirl unfaithfully.
"They tell me you are dying," it was not a question.
The boy followed her gaze and inhaled painfully. "I'm not afraid to die," he breathed, defiantly, and there was no tremble in his voice, no desperation.
The girl looked at him pensively, and then at the dark curtained window, casting shadows across his hospital bed, where bright rays of sun leaked in between the fabric and the wall, smoking on the boy's eyes like fire on glass. "Then what are you afraid of?"
He half-smiled, closing his eyes. "I'm petrified of needles."
"Really?" she was taken by surprise.
He nodded weakly, "They had to sedate me to attach the intravenous cord." He looked at his arm and his voice dropped to a throbbing whisper. "The pain isn't worth it." The girl wouldn't stop looking at him, and he began to wonder if he was imagining her. He did that sometimes, to distract himself from the suffering: pretended he was in love. But he didn't even know how to start. "I'm not in love," he confessed, testing his hallucination. She didn't reply, so he bit his lip and repeated, "The pain isn't worth it."
She still looked at him, her golden eyes not blinking. "What's your name?" she asked, finally.
He closed his scorched eyes, like hiding little shards of darkness, "Alexei."
"Are you going to heaven, Alexei?" she looked more like an angel than ever.
Turning his head to face her, he opened his eyes one last time, and she barely heard him say, "Anywhere but here." And he gazed through her to the sunlight on the wall, his searing eyes flickering like a dying candle, glazing like a broken emergency signal, and she knew his ship was going down.
Thirteen days later.
She lay beside him, her hair blazing softly, like a halo brushing on the back of his neck. The hospital bed was cold, covered in tubes that pulsed with drugs to augment his failing blood. But the morphine's effect was fading and he had passed out from the pain. The doctors increased the dosage but there wasn't much they could do.
She felt his pulse quicken and he opened his singed, tortured eyes. They looked at each other in silence, and then Alexei said, "I once told you I wasn't in love," his voice cracking painfully. She didn't reply, staring at him with sorrow-filled golden eyes that filled with tears as he whispered, "I think I was wrong."
The girl swallowed and looked at his arm, where a trickle of blood had leaked out of the needle.
He looked at the syringe and quietly said, "I'm not afraid of needles anymore," but his starless eyes came very close to betraying his words, glimmering faintly in dread. He closed them, fighting the fear, consuming it with fiery pain and the sound of an ocean storm.
The girl brushed his arm lightly, running her fingertips across his cold veins, "What are you afraid of?"
Alexei opened his eyes and looked at her, his raven hair falling across his face. But she could still see the embers of his eyes, almost-tears smoking them black. And she could hear the pain in his cracking voice as he whispered, "I'm so scared to die."
She felt tears on her cheeks as she drew her arms around his trembling body.
Maybe his eyes glowed a little brighter when she touched him, burning hot with a piercing incandescence. Because maybe the little ship could outlast the storm after all. And maybe the glittering tears on his pale cheeks meant that he was fighting back the agony.
But she felt his breaking heart pound in her embrace, pulsing futile poisoned blood through his failing veins. And his heartbeat couldn't last much longer, bleeding forever in the betrayal of morphine.
The first things the girl noticed were his eyes. They were dark and clouded with pain, flashing like a stormy sky or an emergency light on a sinking ship. They flickered like incandescents losing power; his pupils dilated as he blinked, struggling to focus on her. She looked at the IV meter indicating the level of failing platelets and morphine, and the machine hummed as she watched the blood swirl unfaithfully.
"They tell me you are dying," it was not a question.
The boy followed her gaze and inhaled painfully. "I'm not afraid to die," he breathed, defiantly, and there was no tremble in his voice, no desperation.
The girl looked at him pensively, and then at the dark curtained window, casting shadows across his hospital bed, where bright rays of sun leaked in between the fabric and the wall, smoking on the boy's eyes like fire on glass. "Then what are you afraid of?"
He half-smiled, closing his eyes. "I'm petrified of needles."
"Really?" she was taken by surprise.
He nodded weakly, "They had to sedate me to attach the intravenous cord." He looked at his arm and his voice dropped to a throbbing whisper. "The pain isn't worth it." The girl wouldn't stop looking at him, and he began to wonder if he was imagining her. He did that sometimes, to distract himself from the suffering: pretended he was in love. But he didn't even know how to start. "I'm not in love," he confessed, testing his hallucination. She didn't reply, so he bit his lip and repeated, "The pain isn't worth it."
She still looked at him, her golden eyes not blinking. "What's your name?" she asked, finally.
He closed his scorched eyes, like hiding little shards of darkness, "Alexei."
"Are you going to heaven, Alexei?" she looked more like an angel than ever.
Turning his head to face her, he opened his eyes one last time, and she barely heard him say, "Anywhere but here." And he gazed through her to the sunlight on the wall, his searing eyes flickering like a dying candle, glazing like a broken emergency signal, and she knew his ship was going down.
Thirteen days later.
She lay beside him, her hair blazing softly, like a halo brushing on the back of his neck. The hospital bed was cold, covered in tubes that pulsed with drugs to augment his failing blood. But the morphine's effect was fading and he had passed out from the pain. The doctors increased the dosage but there wasn't much they could do.
She felt his pulse quicken and he opened his singed, tortured eyes. They looked at each other in silence, and then Alexei said, "I once told you I wasn't in love," his voice cracking painfully. She didn't reply, staring at him with sorrow-filled golden eyes that filled with tears as he whispered, "I think I was wrong."
The girl swallowed and looked at his arm, where a trickle of blood had leaked out of the needle.
He looked at the syringe and quietly said, "I'm not afraid of needles anymore," but his starless eyes came very close to betraying his words, glimmering faintly in dread. He closed them, fighting the fear, consuming it with fiery pain and the sound of an ocean storm.
The girl brushed his arm lightly, running her fingertips across his cold veins, "What are you afraid of?"
Alexei opened his eyes and looked at her, his raven hair falling across his face. But she could still see the embers of his eyes, almost-tears smoking them black. And she could hear the pain in his cracking voice as he whispered, "I'm so scared to die."
She felt tears on her cheeks as she drew her arms around his trembling body.
Maybe his eyes glowed a little brighter when she touched him, burning hot with a piercing incandescence. Because maybe the little ship could outlast the storm after all. And maybe the glittering tears on his pale cheeks meant that he was fighting back the agony.
But she felt his breaking heart pound in her embrace, pulsing futile poisoned blood through his failing veins. And his heartbeat couldn't last much longer, bleeding forever in the betrayal of morphine.
Literature
Depressing Russian Literature.
Guilt is a piano on top of you
instead of a man. Street noises
drain you like bleach on a rainbow.
Indecision becomes a washer & dryer
you can't stop putting things into
& taking things out of all through
a painful fluorescent night. The
brain becomes smoke, a hidden stash
of dark red cigarettes, dipped in
formaldehyde, waiting for you.
Depressing Russian literature
becomes your best friend & you
can't remember what it is like
to have a flesh & bone best friend,
a soft voice at the other end, someone to cough up
pounds of dirt and flashlights and floods with you.
Fun becomes self-destruction in the for
Literature
For A Genius Dying Young
For A Genius Dying Young
I have always pointed out
That stars are brightest when they've died
And that the miracle, that we can still see their light
Is precious. A treasure.
You burn, not like a candle, not like a comet,
You burn like a star.
And when your fire ceases
Your light will still go on
Blessing all of us still under the same night sky—
You will be beaming down at us even after we say goodbye.
I will take the end of you
The flutter that will close your eyes
Knowing that everything bright like you
Too quickly and too unfairly
Departs from us and
Dies.
Shining, showing, growing soft
Dimming, but bright enough a torch
To Ill
Literature
For the Encounters I Never Had
I released my regrets like a million balloons
chasing the sky with their bright round bodies --
wingless martyrs caught each tiny breath of air
and soared,
a moment of epiphany
when your rubbery skin punctures
and the soul escapes.
There is no element light enough to lift me away,
no instrument to sever the strings that earth
my tiny anklets --
I sway with the seasons
as if I am surrounded by an ocean,
unable to tread water fast enough to run,
nor find the reach to break the surface
where those regrets float momentarily,
winking in the sunlight before they coast away,
waiting for my realisation --
they pollute my conscience
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Inspiration
I was inspired to write this story because of several things. The most significant factor is a person. A boy. His name is Alexei Romanov. I guess I should say his name was Alexei, ‘cause he’s dead. He died about a hundred years ago, and he was the only son of the last czar of Russia.
Alexei had hemophilia, which is a genetic disease that means your blood can’t clot properly (basically, the result of missing platelets, one of the three elements of blood [red and white blood cells, and platelets] – I think that’s what hemophilia is, I’m not sure because I’m combining my biology and history here). Royal families often have hemophiliacs, because of incestuous practices and all that sort of thing (it’s a sex-linked recessive gene, which is rare unless you mate with your family and that sort of thing over and over again). Go read the Wikipedia article, if you want. Anyways, it wasn’t the hemophilia that killed him – his parents made sure he was very careful. He died in the aftermath of the 1917 Russian revolution. The Bolsheviks executed the entire czar family, but the way Alexei died is actually too horrible for me to write here. It made me cry.
You should probably know, I have a crush on Alexei.
Especially in Nicholas and Alexandra, a movie about the end of the czarist regime (Roderic Noble is the actor, he’s a) really cute and b) really talented). You should watch this part of the movie, he sings this really cute song:
Alexei, Alexei,
Mustn’t run, mustn’t play,
Mustn’t jump, mustn’t climb,
Must be careful all the time!
You can imagine why I love him.
I also really love this quote from this part, he says, "Instead I just bleed. It's my fate. I bleed and hurt." His dad says, "I love you, Alexei. I understand." And he says, "I don't, father. But does it really matter."
Technique
So, back on track, I wanted to write a story about a dying boy, and the Alexei character was just too tempting. I considered using cancer as the sickness, but it has a lot of baggage, and I’ve never had an experience with a child who has cancer, so I didn’t want to create an ignorant story about it, you know what I mean? Hemophilia seemed perfect.
It’s a passive disease, you understand, so what’s actually killing him is internal bleeding. He was injured somehow, a blow that would not normally prove fatal, but since his poisoned blood can’t clot, the bleeding continues. It’s a painful and slow death, and I did my fair share of research to get it right. But all of my newfound knowledge isn’t really shown in this story, it didn’t fit anywhere because I didn’t want this to be a medical story. It’s a love story, okay.
The girl is a bit of an enigma. Don’t ask me about her, because I don’t know. Where did she come from? Does she love him? Is she an angel? That’s up to you.
Other than the name ‘Alexei’ (which I also love and will name my child), there’s not much in common with the historical figure. I used a lot of artistic license here, but I think the outcome is well worth it. I wanted to combine the ideas of death, love, and needles to portray how the boy’s passion changes his perspective about life. After thirteen days of feeling the powerful emotions she symbolizes, he is ablaze with determination.
But, you see, he’s still dying. I considered giving a conclusion to the story, and was very tempted to write a tragedy. But I decided to leave it up to you. Can love really cure a fatal disease?
Special Mentions
~cherrichan13 and *HtBlack, they were extremely helpful in my writing process.
Groups
For #theWrittenRevolution members: Who do you think the girl is?
Other Deviations
How My Eyes Are Glowing
Fighting For Love
© 2009 Jonathon Reed
deviantART | Society6 | Tumblr
portfolio.jonathonreed.com
I was inspired to write this story because of several things. The most significant factor is a person. A boy. His name is Alexei Romanov. I guess I should say his name was Alexei, ‘cause he’s dead. He died about a hundred years ago, and he was the only son of the last czar of Russia.
Alexei had hemophilia, which is a genetic disease that means your blood can’t clot properly (basically, the result of missing platelets, one of the three elements of blood [red and white blood cells, and platelets] – I think that’s what hemophilia is, I’m not sure because I’m combining my biology and history here). Royal families often have hemophiliacs, because of incestuous practices and all that sort of thing (it’s a sex-linked recessive gene, which is rare unless you mate with your family and that sort of thing over and over again). Go read the Wikipedia article, if you want. Anyways, it wasn’t the hemophilia that killed him – his parents made sure he was very careful. He died in the aftermath of the 1917 Russian revolution. The Bolsheviks executed the entire czar family, but the way Alexei died is actually too horrible for me to write here. It made me cry.
You should probably know, I have a crush on Alexei.
Especially in Nicholas and Alexandra, a movie about the end of the czarist regime (Roderic Noble is the actor, he’s a) really cute and b) really talented). You should watch this part of the movie, he sings this really cute song:Alexei, Alexei,
Mustn’t run, mustn’t play,
Mustn’t jump, mustn’t climb,
Must be careful all the time!
You can imagine why I love him.
I also really love this quote from this part, he says, "Instead I just bleed. It's my fate. I bleed and hurt." His dad says, "I love you, Alexei. I understand." And he says, "I don't, father. But does it really matter."
Technique
So, back on track, I wanted to write a story about a dying boy, and the Alexei character was just too tempting. I considered using cancer as the sickness, but it has a lot of baggage, and I’ve never had an experience with a child who has cancer, so I didn’t want to create an ignorant story about it, you know what I mean? Hemophilia seemed perfect.
It’s a passive disease, you understand, so what’s actually killing him is internal bleeding. He was injured somehow, a blow that would not normally prove fatal, but since his poisoned blood can’t clot, the bleeding continues. It’s a painful and slow death, and I did my fair share of research to get it right. But all of my newfound knowledge isn’t really shown in this story, it didn’t fit anywhere because I didn’t want this to be a medical story. It’s a love story, okay.
The girl is a bit of an enigma. Don’t ask me about her, because I don’t know. Where did she come from? Does she love him? Is she an angel? That’s up to you.
Other than the name ‘Alexei’ (which I also love and will name my child), there’s not much in common with the historical figure. I used a lot of artistic license here, but I think the outcome is well worth it. I wanted to combine the ideas of death, love, and needles to portray how the boy’s passion changes his perspective about life. After thirteen days of feeling the powerful emotions she symbolizes, he is ablaze with determination.
But, you see, he’s still dying. I considered giving a conclusion to the story, and was very tempted to write a tragedy. But I decided to leave it up to you. Can love really cure a fatal disease?
Special Mentions
~cherrichan13 and *HtBlack, they were extremely helpful in my writing process.
Groups
For #theWrittenRevolution members: Who do you think the girl is?
Other Deviations
How My Eyes Are Glowing
Fighting For Love
© 2009 Jonathon Reed
deviantART | Society6 | Tumblr
portfolio.jonathonreed.com
Comments211
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Overall Vision Originality Technique ImpactI remember learning about his history it was so sad. I actually didn't know about that movie, but now I'm really curious so I'll probably go out and rent it. <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/b/b…" width="15" height="15" alt="
" title=" (Big Grin) - "/>This piece is incredible though! You did an amazing job. All the time and effort you put into it was really apparent to me as I wass reading. It just sucked me in.
I'm glad that you made the choice that you made about the topic. This is much more original and I think because you're so devoted to the topic it really shined through in your writing. Honestly, I know I'm critiquing this but I read it three times and I couldn't find anything wrong with it. I have nothing but praise for this piece.
Your use of imagery was wonderful. It didn't go overboard, but it was detailed enough to paint a vivid scene in my head. I didn't see any problems with grammar or structure, and it flowed together seamlessly.
I especially liked that you left it as an open ending. Generally I'm the type of person who doesn't like them because a lot of people leave too many questions unanswered, but you did it really well. In a way that one question, was the perfect ending.
Fantastic piece! :+devlove: (one of the best pieces I've ever read.)