Write Eye full magazine 2021

Priceless

Rue’s rectangular apartment room preceding the midnight of November 14th was outstandingly standard, as Rue liked to call it -- or at least, it used to be. The walls, bearing photos each over two years old, were painted a deep beige color; an easel sat stationary in the heart of the room, with paintbrushes strewn about its surroundings; and in the desolate, unlit corner of the room opposite the windows lay a heap of papers, each overflowing with handwritten texts only half-finished. Rue, himself, stood hovered over a glass jar, with the bombardment of raindrops against glass ongoing in front of him, and surrendered a penny to merge with a pile of ninety-nine others. Rue met his eyes with those of an unexpected visitor the moment he turned. A threatening ghost-like figure suspended itself in the air, carrying a twisted spine and worn-out clothes that dangled onto the carpet floor. Its appearance was some sort of an amalgam of the thousands of apparition illustrations Rue had once analyzed on his laptop, the only difference being that this ghost wasn’t confined to a rectangular screen. And its ghastly mouth and raspy voice weren’t, either. There was going to be no more wasting of wishes, not this time … Behind you.

A couple seconds of stillness passed before the ghost spoke again in a booming voice, crescendoing and accelerating slightly at each word until the very last.

Tainted brass, tainted past, those pennies in the jar. All the same, all disdained, those pennies in the jar.

Rue’s fists tensed slightly at those words but relaxed again at the sight of the ghost. It continued.

But I can help, make pennies melt, you’ll finally be free. Just name one, fast, back from your past; I’ll erase it from history.

Rue understood. His glare toward the jar of pennies transformed into a smile, a smile that would last forever if the ghost’s claim was genuine -- and Rue didn’t have a single doubt in his mind that it was. He couldn’t let anything extinguish this opportunity, not this one: an opportunity to lessen the torture, to amend his life for the better, and to burn down the roots of this abhorrent shrub sprouted by a single incident from eleven years ago… That brisk fall afternoon began with a light breeze and golden leaves occasionally descending through the air. A herd of seven and eight-year-old children gathered around a table underneath a huge wigwam-shaped tent. Rue, accompanied by his second-grade friends, had the special role of gazing at his mother’s homemade chocolate cake while the Happy Birthday tune was sung in a childish, out-of-tune manner. But just as Rue shifted his head forward and prepared to blow, a sharp, tornado-like gust of wind burst through the field, sweeping leaves off of their soon-to-be bare branches. The tent wobbled maniacally, as if it might collapse at any second, and paper plates and forks soared into the woods while children pathetically attempted to race after them. The weather cast an ominous shadow across the field, overtaking Rue’s spotlight that had just been taken out before his eyes. Soon, children and wind tightly surrounded Rue, howling like ravenous wolves, and Rue’s eyes were wet not by the rain, but by the deluge of tears nearly bursting out from inside of him.

My name, my weight, my aim, my state, No point in discussing the things you create. I sense you’re distressed by more than your guest, that jar on your desk has caused much, much unrest.

Everything about the interaction, not just the peculiar manner in which Rue’s new visitor spoke, felt out of place. Rue was facing a monstrous creature, towering at least a foot above his barely five-foot-tall body, yet he showed no sign of uneasiness, and his visitor seemed to have no intent to change that. The climate certainly didn ’t help set the mood, either. The air was stiff like cement, and Rue’s arms rocked nonchalantly yet uncontrollably in tiny increments, like the second hand of a clock.