Kevin's Watch

Lately I haven't written anything of length, and I haven't been adding to existing things. I've just been bashing out the odd short thing here and there. So this is a place for me to stick them.

Anything I post in here will almost certainly be an unrevised first (and probably only) draft.

Ten years ago I was pretty. I was vigorous, lively, energetic; my smile dazzled and my wit charmed.

So why was I so miserable? I know why. The world was too much; I didn't know how to cope. Now, with these years under my belt, I know how to move through the world; I know how to persuade, how to manoeuvre, where to stand firm and where to retreat. I know how the world works, and for the most part it doesn't scare me anymore.

If I'd known then what I know now, I would have been unstoppable. The energy and beauty of a nineteen year old enfolding the wisdom and comprehension of experience. I'm not old; I'm not vain enough to fear that I am. But it's too late now; I can build upon what I know, make myself better, but I can never recapture that searing energy. If I'd know it all then, if I'd seen the way things really are, I could have been master of all I surveyed. But it all came too late.

That brings us to where I am now.

I stare right back at them, feeling my bafflement expressed all too inadequately in my eyes.

'How do you not get this?' I ask them. 'I'm not trying to be immortal. I'm not trying to rule the world. All I want is the life I should have had the first time. The things I've learned, in a body young enough to use them. I just want a fair chance!'

They don't react. They don't even move. I can see it's the blankness of a poker face - no-one is that expressionless - but all that means is that they're holding to their purpose, unwilling to be swayed.

The hardness in their eyes terrifies me, all the more so because they haven't been made cold by harsh reality, but have chosen it for themselves. It seems life can still scare me after all.

The taller one speaks: 'Your crimes end here. I don't care how you try to rationalise it. Evil is evil. You're a monster.'

They move against me then. I fight - but I'm no monster, whatever they say. They are many and I am one, and I don't have the strength of youth. I don't get a fair chance in this, either.

That was all I wanted. A fair chance.


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This one was inspired by a Watcher's Facebook status, of all things.

I remember that time. Fingers splayed, arm outflung as though to prevent my inevitable fall. Or perhaps to encourage it.

I remember the feel of static bristling between my palm and yours, braced a fraction apart like paused motion, as you said, 'I'll show you' and I replied, 'No. I don't trust you.'

I knew that contact would end it. And I wanted to. I knew, and I realised you didn't know, and I couldn't bring myself to care. But I am, above all else, a creature of fear, and you are a being of tranquility. Our touches could not be compatible.

'I'm not leaving you a choice,' you eventually smiled into my morose silence. And -- I'm so sorry -- I answered, 'fine, have it your way. Don't say I didn't try.' I moved my hand forward a hair's breadth and you grasped it unbearably gently, as though to soothe its violence. The static roared, my mind leapt to flame; my world burned and yours with it. It all ended in a moment, by the touch of two hands; a hand of violence and a hand of peace. The universe is not made to hold such extremes. Nor are we.

Do you remember? I do.

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This was in response to a prompt on DeviantArt. 'Write me a ficitious memory of something we shared,' she said. This is what came out.

Something will come next, and what will they see of our society? Of our species? We strive so hard to keep records, but what wonders do we record? Endless lists of names, numbered into insignificance; strings of codes and references, stacks of paper and racks of plastic. What will the future learn of us from our remnants? That we were a pedantic, lifeless people, obsessed with listing ourselves and one another, accumulating nothing but charts, tables and graphs. Early man left us fire, then tools and the fabled wheel; later, feats of architecture and displays of grandeur; eventually, powerful but fragile machines driven by steam and smoke, that might just barely survive the coming harsh ages. Now, though, all we leave - our entire legacy to the future - is lists. The apex of our species leaves its immortal mark in the form of lists of its own names.

So acquire wealth, hoard it and waste it. Our selfishness will pass, accompanied by our cruelty, our compassion and our kindness. Construct towers and blast away mountains. At least the future will know you were here.

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This resulted from listening to the same song over and over. I initially didn't include the final paragraph. It's not necessarily a position I advocate, but it seemed to follow logically from the preceding thoughts.