Young Writers Society

I am sorry it has been so long, dearest, but it is so very hard to make these words unreal enough to reach your ears- though I suppose you don't quite know that form of trouble. For all that poets like to think otherwise, words are uniquely tangible things, solid knots of meaning and syntax. They wouldn't have so many rules if it were otherwise. As such, they are in many ways inadequate in their attempts to describe the ephemeral when they themselves are concrete. But no matter- I shall try to explain my experiences to you regardless.

Do you appreciate my efforts, dearest? I like to think you do. It is quite impossible to know the turnings of your vast mind in its entirety, but I know all too well of your love for me. As contradictory and strange as it may be, yes. You love me. And it is for this reason that I am safe in my knowledge that you shall forgive me.

What happened to me was… incredible, I suppose, in a way that was entirely ordinary. It could have happened to anyone, but instead it happened to me- but I suppose many things are like that. Births, deaths. Falling in love with beings deeper and more true than the sea. It is of little importance. You see, on April twelfth- what to you would be but three days prior- I met someone.

Shall I call him Gabriel, dearest? For his hair was brass bright and his eyes were bluer than the sky, almost glowing in their intensity. Or perhaps Cupidon, for his perfect rosebud lips and his sharp teeth like thorns. I could call him Orpheus, for he hummed constantly- it would make you laugh so, to hear him! But no, that would not be fair- you are so much more talented than he. To be brief, let us call him Ezekiel and leave it at that.

We met at work actually, the pair of us assigned to work together to make a test RPG for the next big release. Me, to make things. Him, to make them real. It's almost funny, how easily he stood among his co-workers as the manager made introductions. Not one of them could see how poorly his humanity fit him, how he wore his skin like an ill-fitting suit. You and I have better taste, of course, but he looked so silly that at the time I couldn't help but smile.

I showed him my notes soon after, all several hundred pages of them- the drawings, the spires, the spirals. All of it, even the places where the letters shivered on the page, so unwilling to remain linear. And despite their contradictions, Ezekiel just smiled at me and told me yes, he could do it. Never mind how it was far too much to code for in three days, how it was eerie and strange, filled with errors. Just yes.

I think I loved him, in that brief moment of ephemera.. I'm not ashamed to admit it, for all that I can feel your disapproval from here. He was handsome, even you must admit that, and besides- I said “loved,” didn't I? Past tense.

We got along well enough, this shining boy and I. Despite the fact that circumstances had drawn us together, our talents just meshed. I gave him descriptions, names and faces and nightmares, and he put them down into strings of numbers and lines of artfully arranged code. And that was what it was- art.

I generally don't trust words on principle, but I built him palaces nonetheless. Towers of punctuation and paragraphs, solid things that would last forever. Words do that, you know- last forever. So much longer than the paper they are written on or the bodies that speak them. Every word ever created, from the Latin prefixes to the French verbs, has the potential to live for centuries. And really, who can trust something so old, that has had so many years to learn secrets?

Perhaps that was part of why I liked Ezekiel so- he was so new, so fresh and young. Inexperienced. Open, in ways that you are not and never could be. I don't hold it against you, dearest, I know you would share it all with me if you could. It is not your fault my head would crack like an egg as soon as you raised your voice above the barest of whispers. But still, it was… nice, not to have to worry about constant communication issues.

(Speaking of, dearest, could you please take back that ceremonial dagger you left on the counter for me? It is very sharp and a lovely color but not exactly easy to chop vegetables with.)

Ezekiel gave me gifts too, actually. I created fantastical armies for him and he wrote them into existence- then used them to slaughter enemies in my name. Never mind that the blood was pixelated or that the swords weren't longer than toothpicks- he commited genocide of an entire alien race. All for me.

Then smiled and asked if I liked it.

I won't bore you with my response. Of course I liked it- the bloodshed was beautiful, practically unholy. But I was quite happily taken at the time, and there are some things you just don't do with someone who hasn't sworn an oath or two to you yet . Or at least, not in public.

The project ended not long after that. I convinced him that we were better off drifting apart, and although the company didn't care for his new scars, I think he took it rather well. I haven't forgotten him, in any rate, and I suppose that means something. As much as anything can mean anything these days.