"A Story" by James Archer

This week's pieces of the week feature our senior tutors, some of whom represent our very first HWC tutors. We wish them the best of luck in all that they do, and especially in their writing!

                The murderer’s knife, metallic and sinister in the full moon, dripped with a crimson shade of blood. She crouched to the ground, budging the weapon from the victim’s body. Police sirens echoed through the cold, silent night. Rain, pouring, washed the blood from the knife and the victim’s body. The murderer carried the body, thrusting it down an opened, then closed, manhole.

"Pen, not Pencil" by James Archer

For as long as I could remember, a pencil was my trusty weapon while conquering the great plains of lined paper and the valleys of words. It was a default option. I never really questioned it. Then, like a mighty sandcastle overthrown by the rioting sea wielding swords, I rewrote the government of my perspective. I edited out my notion of the pencil, replacing it with the might of the pen. Instead of writing out words in a pasty gray color, I now adorned the shades of the rainbow ready to convey my thoughts.

"The Piano" by James Archer

White and soft the piano keys soothed the old man’s broken skin, cracked and dry. Tempting winds sift through windows and walks up and down the frail spine and fragile bones. Closed eyes are shut and prepare for the storm, opening up the drapes of yesterday covered in dust. Lost thoughts and dreams sit around in the graveyard of never, mingling with unfinished compositions.

Raising fingers above the forehead, the old man hammers them down on the keys. A dissonant and raw euphony echoes and rests across the wooden floor. It is all coming back to the ancient player. Forming his hand into a specific pattern with precise distance, the pianist presses down. And, as the keys are pressed down, so is the air around the piano, it resonates and raises the noise high into the pinnacles of life and the far reaching caverns of Hell. Moving the fingers and spreading the palm, various notes and chords swirl around and mix with the stars. Right when the sound meets the nebulous ball of fire, at that exact moment of physical contact, it explodes and illuminates the darkness with a blossoming crackle of symphonies. A wise old head tries to keep pace with the youthful and spirited fingers that dip themselves into the minds of demons and angels.

Every noise creates a conversation between the heart and mind, a fluid dialogue. Neither can actually stand each other, but somehow, no one knows how, they just work. Sweat drops and drips from the wrinkles on the old man’s forehead. The mental composition comes to an end as the man, spirited and youthful, puts his finishing touch. A final tap of a black key is uttered, and the piano is sealed back again.

And as the artist walks down the attic steps, accompanied by the creaky noises, one could almost hear him say “I still got it.” Almost. 

"Mental Warfare" by James Archer

Mental Warfare

Are you free

Or are you trapped

Am I talking to you

Or are you talking back

To the voices in your head

That sews the needle of doubt

Through the quilt of shame and

Dead memories

That you look back on every once in a while

And every once in a while is yesterday

And the day before that.

You’ve put your soft heart into a kiln

Hardening it, so that it won’t break easily

And yet you’re waiting for it to fall and crack and break

Through the abyss of love and hatred

And maybe you think love is hatred

Because each time you’ve loved

You have hated

Yourself

And your head, and your thoughts

And the people all around you who are

Happier than you, think less than you,

Have fewer “tendencies” than you do.

You ache for the pain to subside

Of course for it to have subsided means

For your grave to be filled

as You are choke on the air

You once breathed with happiness

And optimism but now

Your tears are as sour as your soul

And as cold as your heart.

Every time your eyes are closed

You invite the darkness that’s already in your soul

Because you believe that the light is gone

Just like the life you knew way back when you

Never thought about it because you never had a

Reason to break down and

Sink into the floor where you’d become

One with the world and one with the

Blood that your desperately trying to

Stop from giving your life and feelings

Something of better days.

Most of all you write this down for another time

With the scratching of the pen matching the scratching in your

Mind, but you don’t itch it,

Not now, not yet, you’re hoping not yet,

you’re hoping to never scratch the eternal itch

because that’s just war between you and your soul

Your heart and your mind.

That’s just common war among

Rare people with rare self-conviction