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<title>nostalgia week, day one - Archive - MayVaneDay Studios</title>
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<p><h1>nostalgia week, day one</h1></p>
<p>published: 2016-09-01</p>
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<p>A young man straightens out his hat as his eyes wander back to the screen for the fifteenth time that night. The sounds of <i>drip, drip, drip</i> filter into his ears and settle there, muddling up his mind from the words he has tried so hard to focus on.</p>
<p><i>Damn, maybe there's a leaky pipe in the bathroom again. I should get some duck tape in the morning to fix that.</i></p>
<p>He picks up his phone and writes a small note there beside the grocery list he made a few days ago and forgot about it. There's a portal near the hardware store, so maybe there'll be more than one reason for him to leave the house. But there's no time for dillydallying on other games, for a deadline for a delicious poem is closing in.</p>
<p>A perfect line sprints into his mind, and his fingers race against the keyboard, against time itself as he struggles to record it all before it can escape. It is a fish floundering against the line on the fishing pole that his muse is holding- a losing fight destined to fail, and his internal editor second-guesses himself just enough to confuse the words and then lose his train of thought.</p>
<p>“Damn!” he shouts, pounding his hands on the desk and confusing the keys on the keyboard. Not even a second later, he regrets the outburst, fearing that his parents will wake up and chastise him not only for using profanity in their house but for being awake at such a godawful hour. Writing is something that can only be done on a well-functioning brain, they might argue. And sleep deprivation does not lead to a well-functioning brain.</p>
<p>His mind wanders back to the hazy days of seventh grade- where his immature twelve-year-old self tried to make sense of a much wider range of potential peers and instead alienating the vast majority of them. His feet quicken halfway down that particular Memory Lane, slowing down and then stopping to loiter on the lawn of a specific period of time around the second trimester. In the window, a TV replays the sight of his young body thrashing in bed, restless as his deeply religious psyche believed that he was about to be possessed by the devil and refused to give up his soul.</p>
<p>He winces, both from the memory and from being thrown back into his chair. The mostly empty document stares back at him. It is two in the morning, and his phone has been buzzing for a few seconds- his ex got a new phone and desperately wants to cry on his digital shoulder. The desire to block her number wanders into his mind, but he casts it off for the moment and files it in with the grocery list and the reminder to fix the leaky pipe.</p>
<p>He remembers the fictional planet of Solaris as his cat wanders into the room and beelines for his leg, a good post to rub up against. Good old Solaris, making those who orbited around it experience so many delusions to the point of being forced to believe that all sensory input was real. He knows that he does not own a cat since his mother is allergic, but ever since he attempted and failed to astral project, the cat has been paying him company whenever he tried to write. At no other time does the cat show up, not even when summoned. Words are its catnip. A good paragraph is a scratch on the tummy.</p>
<p>The man looks back to the screen. The cursor flickers in the faint glow of the room, and suddenly he is stricken with the urge to spill all the details about this cat. The yellow and green eyes watch as he divulges memories, both repressed and at the top of his consciousness.</p>
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<p align=right>CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 &copy; Vane Vander</p>
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<title>nostalgia week, day two - Archive - MayVaneDay Studios</title>
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<p><h1>nostalgia week, day two</h1></p>
<p>published: 2016-09-02</p>
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<p>The man is back at work again for yet another night of staring at his computer screen. The cat is curled up at his feet, snoozing away and twitching every once in a while. Maybe it’s thinking of chasing a mouse- the man last saw one a few months ago while up north and trying desperately to stay on track for his writing. Maybe the cat is dreaming about what it would be doing if it weren’t so concerned with giving the poor man some company.</p>
<p>The man pulls his notebook again, sighing in frustration when he sees the assignment that he laid for this night a week ago. <i>Resurrect a dead character from one of your earlier works</i>, it reads. <i>Let them walk around the room for a bit. Have a conversation. See if you can learn form the past.</i></p>
<p>He runs a hand through the part of his hair flopping out from his hat, trying to think of a suitable character to bring back that would cause the least amount of detrimental consequences on his fictional canon. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t have done this assignment in the first place- the people who are dead should stay dead, but his poetry is getting stale and he had already taken photos of every interesting thing in his neighborhood.</p>
<p>Maybe he could bring back the stereotypical Japanese princess he dreamed up during his hamster phase- but there was no characterization to her. The humanized trigonometry functions come to mind, but they only suffered through one book and a few shreds of a sequel that never came to fruition.</p>
<p>But wait- and he slaps his forehead, but the horrific idea refuses to leave his body. There is an edgy character waiting in the deep recesses of his old books that he never wants the light of day to reach ever again. Her husband is dead too, waiting in the shadows. Dead among the archives of his current blog, they lie as an eternal shrine to the dead past.</p>
<p>As if possessed by a ghost, his hands creep onto the keyboard against his will and draw out the girl who has died seven (or possibly more) times. She collapses onto the floor, coughing and convulsing, and the man can do nothing but sit fixated and grow anxious at the blood dripping from her mouth onto the dirty carpet.</p>
<p>"Em..." Her voice rattles as she sits up, bloodshot emerald eyes digging into his flattened chest. "Who are you? You’re not Em."</p>
<p>"You can call me Kellin," he offers, searching the back of his mind for the nearest fire escape in case things get heated. He doesn’t know how to open the windows, and the girl is sitting in front of the hallway leading to the front door. "Kellin Avaroe."</p>
<p>Her eyes search around the room. "Where is Em?"</p>
<p>"She isn’t here anymore."</p>
<p>Her voice rattles as her emaciated body slowly stands up with a great deal of effort. "Why am I alive? Where is Rishen?"</p>
<p>"I don’t know-" he backs up in his chair, tensing his muscles in case he has to use the chair to bash her over the head- "I don’t know! I’m under orders! This wasn’t my choice!"</p>
<p>"Where is Rishen...?" she moans as she takes a few strained steps.</p>
<p>Kellin’s butt slides off of his chair, and Yasmin’s eyes glimmer with bloodlust as he collides with the floor. He is immediately on his feet, hands palming the chair. "Don’t come any closer."</p>
<p>"Why am I alive? Em promised- promised that my soul could rest-"</p>
<p><i>Damn, why didn’t I bring a gun?</i></p>
<p><i>Because you can’t write with a gun, Kellin.</i></p>
<p>Yasmin shambles closer. One of Kellin’s sweaty hands palms the pen lying on his desk- if all else fails, maybe he can poke one of her eyes as a distraction. Those emerald eyes...</p>
<p>"And you brought me back..."</p>
<p>There’s a button on the pen that Kellin hadn’t noticed before, which he presses only to find a weak laser pointer dot glowing on the ceiling. He points it at Yasmin, and she hisses as a tiny hole in her clothes begins to sizzle.</p>
<p>"Begone, you beast!" he shouts, not caring about fear or his parents possibly waking up or the fact that this character is only a figment of his imagination. Or <i>was</i>, rather, because she rapidly disintegrates into stardust and piles onto the carpet.</p>
<p>Kellin sighs and adjusts his hat, throwing a glance to his still snoozing hat. What a stupid night it has been. Maybe he should have just stuck to poetry.</p>
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<p align=right>CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 &copy; Vane Vander</p>
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