I Know You

; she wishes to be someone else. he has numbers on his hand. she lost her rose. he has nowhere to paint. all of them has nowhere to go.

Philippe watches her for a moment.
      Morgen is as beautiful as a midsummer painting. There she is, sitting in a patio, overlooking the lake. Philippe tries to see what book she was so interestingly reading, only to be nudged by a winged faery.
     “Well, what’re you waiting for, ya dummy? Talk to her!” the little creature exclaims.
      “It would be ridiculous wouldn’t it? I haven’t even any flowers for her!” Philippe responds.
      The sparkling lady rolls her tiny eyes. She reached behind her back and pulls out a small bouquet of roses. “Now go, young prince!”
      He had no idea how strong a tiny faery can be but he ends up getting pushed into Morgen’s sight. She looks up from her book and smiles, a little laughter in her eyes. “Why, hello.” The young lady tries not to stare at him.
     Philippe’s cheeks turns beet red. “I couldn’t help watching, I mean staring�"observing! I was observing how you’re just reading a book on a beautiful day like this. Why not come with me? It would be such a shame to waste this weather.”
      Morgen looks at him for a second and chuckles. “Reading is knowing an adventure in another life. There is nothing more magical.” She gets up and gracefully makes her way to him. “But let’s see if you can at least put up some competition.”
      “O-of course! This will be the most magical afternoon you’ve ever witnessed!” Philippe stutters.
      She laughs again and he’s dumbfounded by how musical her voice is. Her eyes see the roses and she asks, “Are those for me?”
      The prince responds by stiffly giving her the bouquet, almost hitting her nose. “I’m sorry! My apologies, my lady�"”
      “You’re very endearing.”
      Philippe stares at her, “I-I am?”
      She nods and that’s all he needed to take her hand and lead her to another part of the lake. They walk together and she tells him how her mother is a duchess, he responds with how his family has always been royalty. He splutters out how beautiful he thinks she is and she gives him another musical laugh. She sighs at how perfect he seems and how she feels like she knows him somewhere.
      They stop at the edge of the lake and a boat was making its way to the bank. A naiad emerges from the surface of the water, and begins pushing the boat to their direction. The water sprite giggles when she sees the couple. “You two look lovely.” she tells them.
      Morgen smiles and responds with, “You look very lovely yourself. Thank you for giving us our boat.”
      The creature blushes and nods. With a splash, she was gone.
      Philippe gestures to the boat, “After you, m’lady?”
      She gets in without any trouble like she’s done this many times. Morgen thinks, she believes she has never done anything like this. But strangely enough, this all seems too familiar to her. “Have we met before, prince?”
      He takes out the oar and buoys them farther into the lake. “No, I don’t think we have. But you feel very comforting to me. Like, I know you.”
      “Maybe we have met somewhere. A past life, maybe. Perhaps I’ve read about you in a book, a past life of mine.” She smiles.
      “I might have to start reading books as well.” He tells her, “I would love to remember all my past lives with you.”
      Morgen feels heat rise to her cheeks as she gives him another smile. "Oh, Philippe," she sighs, not realizing he hasn't told her his name yet.
      And they talk all afternoon. One would be strolling on the patios by the lake and would see a lovely couple on a boat. She with her light long hair and he with his brown eyes, watching her like her knew her. And one would sigh seeing how beautiful they are.
      The little girl with the faery wings sits by the water calling out to her sister, “Tier! Look at grampa and gramma. They look very pretty together.” She says, adjusting her costume.
      Another girl, much older than the little one, rises up from the lake. She sits on the patio as well. “Mama told me that grampa does this every afternoon because gramma always forgets. She told me that gramma forgot that she was old and she always doesn’t remember anything.” Tier adjusts her swimming trousers.
      “That’s horrible! Gramma doesn’t know who we are? What about grampa? She doesn’t remember him at all?” the small one asks.
      “I thought she didn’t. But didn’t you see, Blume? She kinda recognizes him. I feel like she’ll always know who he is, even when she doesn’t. Mama told me that the heart is better at remembering than the brain.” Tier tells her sister.
      “What does that mean?” Blume asks.
      “It means,” Tier points at the couple on a boat, “He’ll keep reminding her. And she’ll keep remembering. Even for just an afternoon.”
      And together the two girls watch their grandparents re-live the same day, reading their past lives as they continue to live in it. And further down the lake, she with the beautiful smile and the white hair talks to her prince, knowing well that they must’ve had many lives together.

©2016 W. Greene, All Rights Reserved ​
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Author's Note

Every writer knows the struggle.

There are too many things to write about but your hands aren't fast enough and your brain easily comes up with a new idea, lighting quick. Your whole body is a confusing paradoxical thing. Mine was, and is, no exception.

This isn't the first book that I wanted to put out to the world. But I can never find myself struggling to finish what I've started writing, I only end up writing a completely new chapter, a completely new book. I couldn't stay completely idle either (there's this thing that stops me from being completely stupidly still—it's called a brain.)

The whole process burned me out.

Someone suggested I try this app that gave out creative suggestions, it was to fuel the artist. "Draw something beautiful from something tragic," it challenged me. I didn't get to screenshot it but my mind already did that for me.

One day I scrolling through youtube, I found a song so fucking beautiful that I hated how it broke my heart—it was a perfect fit. That's how I started writing these stories.

Each one is inspired by a song I would hear,

Every story takes me days to write because I wanted to make people feel what these songs make me feel. Creating a story is easy, making people interested is fairly easy too, but putting out stories that would make them feel exactly how you need to? That's the thing I struggled with, and god damn it, I did struggle. I hated writing without passion, and writing a whole book can really make you forget the whole emotion you're supposed to put out. A feeling is strong, it punches quick but it's the aftermath that breaks you—just like a short story.

So here they are, love.

Enjoy my writer's struggles and my human's emotions. I hope you feel the songs in these chapters.


W. Greene