Yannick Write

Sunset and trees. Everything in between, I write stories for them. Also active on Lofter and Instagram @yannickwrite. 

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project 9. Eternal

Eternal In exchange of the tens of thousandth of gazes you took away from my countless eyes, I decided to capture your youth and beauty. Soft fragrance as if the innocent first love of a naïve girl and luring lust that strangled my senses, switched between day and night.

I would close my eyes and feel you, but you were too much of a temptation. “Love” or “care”, neither one was an inborn part of me, so I had to be very careful. Careful of not to destroy you. I reached out, with all the tenderness, in my love, which I could give. Silver hug were to embrace you tight. Glossy lips, soft and petal-like lips tastes like age-old wine, deep and layered; endless, always a different part of you, different taste of you revealing with thirst burning on the tips of my tongue. Bitterness, however, I could sense the poison secretly powdered and blended into you. I would be paralyzed from pursuing you at any moment. I took in whatever you gave me. Take them in, devour, absorb the parts of you into me. I was never in a stable set of mind. Then the last string of restraint, last string of sensibility snapped broken the moment I fell for you. To think of it, I may be just as dangerous as you were. We were born for each other. Even though in front of your enigmatic beauty, I became speechless, my actions were reflexes. Within a blink of an eye, I caught and embraced my prey. I watched crimson blossom silently and passionately from their chest. Not a chance to struggle. Not a chance to panic. They gave their all to me. Such a pleasure, but I never paid attention more than one night. Unlike you. I was, I am, forever burning with thirst when the slightest thought of you struck across my mind. Passion and obsessed sincerity surged from the inner most of my body, as saliva were to be tempted by hunger. A kiss wouldn’t be enough, I thought numbly and excitingly. Gracefully, you were dancing with the movement of wind. My breath heavied as I approached you, the monster in me was lurking behind the passion I had, for you. A kiss wouldn’t be enough. So bites, love bites froze your elegance as my affection flowed into you. The monster in me charged and attack, at the splitting moment, I knew I did it. I stole you from the hands of Time. I won your heart from Life. The all mighty, tempting grace of Life. Silver hugs were to embrace you tight. You did well, I whispered as my love strangled and adorned your body. You dropped obediently into my arms. Never were you soft, so soft as your blushing red cheeks while you were still the mistress of Life. Now you belonged to me. You did well. For that, I granted your wish to never grow old. For that, you would be forever young. Forever the beauty who captured my eyes.

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project 8. Meal After Same

“What was her answer to those likely forever unsolved questions?” I pointed my pencil to the note I made, and thoughtfully asked for our readers (if any). “I find it interesting that many people go through the phase of thinking about the same questions,” counting his fingers, James sipped his coffee and gave me a glance. Meanings of life. Meaning of death. Feeling useless. Feeling lonely.

Saying the above, childishly playing with his fingers, James seemed to be in a good mood though. Thinking oneself as the only one who cares about these. Every one else only selfishly thinks of the own problems in life. I wear a mask to pretend to be like them. I added as I watched him drink the coffee that he wasn’t supposed to drink. I wondered how he snuck it in. Maybe one of his friends helped? He did have a lot of friends, I noticed. “So you were an edgy teen.” “I was.” Strangely, I didn’t cringe a bit whenever I admit these things from the past. “Did you ever think of yourself as the prince of underworld?” “No. But I hate human beings at, like, 13. And I was a great fan of your book.” I reached to my wrist, “Fallen Crow was the bible to edgy teens. Did you know?” Back then so many kids at school faked the wing tattoo that covered the protagonist’s wrist. According to the Crow/Crown trilogy, the tattoo is actually used to cover a burnt scar left by his lunatic abusive mother. James burst out of laughter. I knew he was imagining me following the trend. “You did that?” “No. Actually I think that helped me out of my edginess a bit. I was 16 when the last book came out. I felt stupid seeing young kids drawing fake tattoo with markers.” I also flipped through my foster brother’s diary (yes, diary) without any conflict of conscience. I said earlier I hated normal human beings. As I skim through his secret thoughts of his, I realized how similarly (edgy) we were. And so I reflected on myself. Quite a bit. “What are your thoughts on those questions now, as a “grown mature man”.” James made that quote and end quote sign with his fingers, eyes still shimmering with a trace of happiness. Probably arisen from both the caffeine and what I just said. “I don’t really consider myself as a grown and mature man, to be honest.” Seriously speaking or not, I had always felt this way. “Oh?” “I felt like I remained somewhat edgy. Edginess can make a kid imagine a whole underground world and magic spells or dystopian land or whatever. I think it is the wildest way imagination can go, which would be bad if I don’t have it, as a writer, I mean.” “So you’re basically saying that your view on life was mixed with half realistic and half edginess.” “Yeah. I am also implying that I highly suspect you to be in the same case as I do, too.” “Tell me what you think and we’ll see.” “All right,” I shrugged and moved towards him. “I basically think that there’s actually no true answer. There could be multiple and at the same time there could be none.” “You’re being too abstract.” “Well then why don’t you try and explain it? I want some coffee, too.” James made a “tsuk tsuk” sound with his tongue, and pretentiously frowned. “You’re such a kid without manners.” “And you’re an adult who have no self control.” “Most people would just snatch the coffee out of my hand and freak out, you know.” James clutched his chest as if I hurt him for not caring what he did. He looked at me and urged me to play on. “Well, since you are an adult, you should take responsibilities of your own action. If you decided to drink, why would a little KID like me stop you anyway? I would only sneak to you and ask for some, too. So can I have some or maybe I’ll just eat your cookie.” I rest my head in front of the cookie package on the tiny table drawer. There’s still a get well soon note stuck to it. I flicked the note with my index fingers. “You can have the cookie. Go ahead. But unfortunately this is my last can of coffee.” “Deal.” I indulged in food and totally forgot about James. When I finished eating, I whipped my mouth of crisps with my sleeves. Totally in the character of a little child. “So, you ready to explain?” I asked him, “You had five minutes to prepare your speech, now ready, set—” “Relax. Now you look sugar-hyped,” James rubbed his forehead as he quietly laughed and shook his head. “Ah…I really can do nothing about you.” I gave him a thumb up and returned to an overly serious position. “Mr. Gould. You need to stop fooling around. Now, please.” “Okay. The questions. So the feelings were flowing spontaneously as I went over that part. I don’t really have a solid answer for why. Why as “she” grew old, she started to let go. She stopped being overly persistent. Maybe the character herself did not have the reasons in words either. I guess, if you want me to think hard ……” “If you really want me to put it in words—” “I would say, she had found her happiness.” “As you said, different people have different perspective, thoughts, and goals. The old lady found hers. And to her, that is quite enough.” “She could go on and pursue for the better and satisfy all her desires and wonders. She could have thought: is this really the best life I could have? There are always better men than the old man. There are also always better women than her. But they decided to stay. Grow old, become forgetful, be happy, and be content.” “And they are. Even if the true answer for the whole universe is that there is no meaning for life, or that the existence of humans is a mistake, it didn’t matter any more. They are “living” their own answer.” Emet held out his hand in the air as if he were tracing out something as he spoke. Maybe something in his mind. Maybe something he longed for. Maybe this was what he longed for as the ultimate goal of life. I may never know. I felt like this should be a very personal area he had in his mind, and I did not have the slightest idea if I were allowed to step in or. Or only be able to stand aside and watch, as I always did. James turned to look at me, and I shifted my gaze away. I was hesitant in breaking the relaxing atmosphere. But I guessed I was just not that good at dealing with other people’s feelings. I shunned from them in the past. So did this time. I quietly let out my breath, and refocused onto the story, retreated into my safe zone. “So that’s the main concept for this story?” “Maybe.” “Maybe.” Right. You tell that to the readers. I won’t. Imagine saying to readers: Good luck figuring out the meanings on your own. Or not. Since the one true answer is not important. Or since there is not only one true answer. Maybe there wasn’t even a concept behind this story at all. I wonder if Emet’s hardcore fans would feel trolled or even love him more upon hearing that. Anyways, jokes aside, I do hope you enjoyed a good time reading our work though. To Emet and I, that’s what mattered. And this would be our answer.

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project 7. Same

Same “Did I turn off the TV?” “Did you?” She stopped for a second. Then suddenly realized something not that relevant, but important. She reached into her front pocket, the back, the one on her jacket. Eventually, she gave out a sigh. “I think I forgot the car key.” “Oh well,” Her old man shrugged and dragged his steps back to the door, taking his time, “guess we’re going to be late then.” “The privilege of being old,” he grumbled. “No one will say anything about us being late. Which is good, when I was……” The half of his sentence trailed off as he reentered their house. Somehow this same scene seems to become a daily routine. “Did you turn off the stove?” “Where’s your glove?” “Wait, honey. I forgot my glasses.” “What is that hanging on your neck?” “Huh? Oh.” Every day is the same, every day is a little bit different. Once they locked themselves out since one of them forgot his key chain, and the other forgot her purse. Their son was going to visit them later that day. So they made a phone call (good news that her old man had his phone kept in his pants pocket), making sure that he had the backup key with him. They casually decided to give up on their plan to the grocery store. Not for any reasons, just because they felt like doing so. Reasons. An absolute answer. All of these seemed so young and bright, blushing with the pink of insecure or the red of angst. And she thought, that should be the color of youth. When she was a kid, she wanted to know why clouds fly, why sun drops, and why frogs don’t croak in the pond behind her house. She remembered flipping through books, as her dear mother could not answer her. She remembered eagerly searching for the answer, and the sense of achievement that came right after her curiosity was satisfied. When she was a teenager overwhelmed with emotions and the love for poems, she wanted to know the one definite meaning of life. She wanted to know why the universe exists, what purpose does it serve. She did not find the answer. She remembered how she held doubt and gloomy views towards the world. What was “the world”, however, she didn’t even have the slightest concept about it. When she was a young woman falling in love for the first time, she wanted to know if she was also the first, the best, and the only of her man. When she was left heartbroken, she desperately wanted to know why things wouldn’t work out. The once young girl recalled. Her memories of the past were still vivid, although the vibrant colors mixed with each other for a little; just like what would happen to an old stack of photos if you put them face to face. One stuck to another, even if she originally intended to pick up only one of them, she ended up pulling out a string of memory. Now, she may possibly have the answer. But it didn’t seem to matter that much anymore. Laying in the deck chairs side by side with her old man, her mind wandered off to some thing that would be deemed as “less important” by the younger version of her. She thought about what a great idea they decided to put these chairs in the garden. The lawn was nice, but it's a bit wet and she’s wearing light colored pants. Ah, that pot of flowers over there. Eyes satisfyingly squinted behind the glasses, she thought. I put them at a great place. See how the sun shines on it? See the halo? She patted the back of her man’s hand in a good mood. She stopped for a while, not really thinking, or memorizing what was thinking. Old man flipped her hand over and held it loosely, finger to finger. Old man told her a joke as a crow landed on the road lamp across their yard. Sunset gradually filled the air with soft and gentle light. She quietly laughed a bit as her old man looked at her and she looked back. She was not sure if she had heard this joke before. Maybe it's a good thing that she did not remember. Or else both of them would get into a game of mocking each other’s memory. An older couple that made them looked young walk pass the side walk underneath the land post. The woman cooed slowly, slowly, and the man took one step at a time. Slowly, slowly. They enjoyed their stroll of a day. Memories used to flash across the mind, but now they floated, gently pushing away the others, rising to the surface of the heart. She recalled the one time, sixty or so years before, the then young old man broke his leg. They were just a bit older than ten. That’s what she told him. Walk slower. Watch your steps. Don’t break your other leg, or my mom will be angry of me. She helped him carried his school bag to his home, just next door. Now, maybe she would be carrying his weight again one day. Or he would be carrying hers. The only difference would be that, they would go back together. To the same home. She felt her hand was held tighter with a sturdy warm force. She turned to look at her man, and he happened to turn at the same time. Faces rendered in the same soothing orange, they smiled quietly and peacefully. For a second, she wondered if he was thinking about the same thing. This wonder made her feel young again. Warm wind blew past. Honey colored sunset pasted the locks of their silver curls into a golden one.

So she pretended to giggle like a girl within, and rested her head on her old man’s shoulder.

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project 6. Small Talk after Castle

“A sad story, huh.” “Is it?” James shrugged, handing the phone back to me. “The one that broke the cage fell and died, right? Since they were actually stuck for so long, they not only lost the memory of life before being caged, they also lost the ability to fly, from what you imply.” I tried to weave all the clues and theories I had in mind together. “I never said so.” James, Emet, smiled as evil as the kind of author that always stop at a 100-floor tall cliffhanger full of angst, leaving all his readers banging their head on table. “Even if that is the case, the dreamer already achieved what it wanted before death. Isn't that enough?” “Is it?” I tried to throw the question back. And, of course, James being sly as James, passed it to me again. “I want to know what you think. Not me. I already know my own ideas. That's why I'm asking you.” “Well, you probably wouldn't get much from me. I was actually thinking about the one that stays behind.” I wiped the cracks on the darken screen and said casually. I did not feel as casual as I appeared to be. “What about it?” “That bird…creature… or whatever metaphor it stands for, finally found it's own will and chose not to follow. And I personally think, it’s all that mattered.” Compare to the one that's brave enough to break through, I feel like most people live in some sort of cage…… system or whatever you put it for their whole life. “And?” “And it's not necessarily a bad thing.” I looked into James eyes, somehow I did feel that the character “who break through” fit perfectly with him. I wonder if he could see what I saw, even though he was the very one who created the story. “Both of them did not regret their choices. The one who stays learn to appreciate things it had never noticed. Since it now starts to think and feel, sooner or later, it will learn to enjoy the way it lives and the things in its life. I believe it does realize that there is no “best” way of life. With different characters and different goals, it is just natural that every one pursues a distinct life style. I think that was clear at the end. At least to me.” James looked somewhat surprised upon my words. I could now be sure that he obviously saw a different picture than me, which would also fit into the concept of this story. We were obviously not the same. But I still wanted to hear from his perspective. “I want to know what you think about the one that break out of the cage. I haven't had many thoughts or theories on it.” “What do you want to know then? His motive? My concept?” James tapped on the aluminum railings on the side of his bed. They were supposed to prevent patients from falling off of bed. James, however, simply found them annoying as he always ended up knocking his elbow on them. He eventually found a way to have fun though. “What was it thinking about when it jumps, or I mean, flies?” I tried to look into James' eyes. He was suddenly lost in thoughts, however. Staring at the pure white wall painted with splotches of sunlight, I felt like he was seeing something, somewhere that did not actually exist in front of us. Feelings, thoughts, or memory. Some thing private, that belonged solely to him. The tapping slowed down, then stopped. “That,” I could see that James had become Emet. “I thought of the blue that filled all of its vision. Its pores are breathing in the sky.” “Most of its thoughts are dazzled by, and focused on the blue of its love. But the image of a stubborn, blunt fluffy flashes though its mind.” Regained himself from thoughts, the gaze that seemed to had molten into the amber iris refocused. Cat-like smile wrinkled those large eyes into long curvy lines. Emet became James, then shifted into someone in between. “And it suddenly feels the urge to look back. Regret burdens its wings as blue fulfill its heart.” “That moment, however, it finally feels completed.” That was James', being Emet's, word. I would leave it like this. As for “why” and more “why” branching from his (and mine, possibly) explanation, I suggest you keeping them alive, so that they would create more stories. May imagination and wonder blossom in you.

[yannickwrite]

Castle I shook my leg out of boredom. The shackle loosely hanging around my ankle wobbled along, making a tinkling, surprisingly light noise. Well, not surprising to me anymore. I have been playing with it for a whole afternoon. And yesterday’s afternoon. And the day before yesterday’s afternoon. I had probably done this many, many times, the memories were too far in the past, however, that I could not recall anymore. I raised my head. The background was, as always, blue and black stripes. On top of that, familiar white filled my vision. Those that looked like me. There were a lot of us.

I slowly turned my head around, since there were absolutely no reasons to hurry. Nothing special, as always. Some were plucking out feathers. Feather pieces and dusts floated a little after leaving the body, then gently fell back down, sticking to the filthy ground beneath that neither one of us were willing to rest our feet on. I always thought that white did not belong to that sticky gooey place. Why did they throw it away? I once wondered why, but then I came to realize that it didn’t really matter. Without feathers, their color looked just like those who give us food. Weird. But that’s none of my business anyway. So I stopped thinking. I saw some were sleeping, tucking their face, their mouth, the orange, the only color aside from white on us into the fluff. Unlike the pure white that floated on the blue stripes and under the black stripes carelessly, they were silent. Not moving at all. Looked like dead pieces of white that unluckily fell from the above and into our place. The rest of us, however, were pretty normal, pecking seeds and drinking sips from little boxes. The oily and fresh smell of nuts and seeds, I came to realize one day that they were the only things that mattered. I didn’t remember when or why I believed so, if any other fluff were to ask me. I didn’t think any one would care though. We live for the same cause. Eat more. Enjoy the seeds, anticipate the seeds, peacefully share the given seeds, then it should be enough. It was the ideal life for most of us. Except for one. The one who claimed that the stripes were actually never stripes. The one that announced they were a large piece of blue called “sky”, blocked by the black hard stuff that built our home. It told me that this was not a home. It told me that our white fluffs were supposed to float like the white fluffs that sometimes dropped water and covered the grey when they were too heavy. It said, the movement of spreading our feathers and flapping them up and down as fast as we could, was called “fly”. Most of us did not like it. It always tried to jump from our wooden stick, attempting to “fly”. Wooden stick shook so hard that dead fluffs woke up from their dreams. The fluffless naked ones were then splashed with stinky filth as it unsuccessfully landed instead of “flew”. I sometimes listened to his chirps, however. When I was digesting, making spaces for more seeds. Or when I was bored. I did not know why. But I could blurrily recall that once, once it clanked its shackle on the black stripes so loudly. It bit the shiny circle times after times as it times after times jumped from our wooden stick. It screamed. I never knew we could make such a loud noise. I never knew one of us could look different than the rest of us. The orange on its mouth somehow seemed red, the color of the circle hanging on the “sky” that dropped everyday. A new color I didn’t know. I wonder why I knew the name though I could not recall anything similar. Since then I listened to its chirp. “I am going to fly!” It said. “Anyone want to try?” It said. “Anyone? That’s okay. Not today, maybe tomorrow then.” Tomorrow. With this word I found myself looking forward to something other than seeds. Would anyone join it tomorrow? “I have a plan.” It said. “The sky is so beautiful.” “Look, everyone. The sky is so beautiful.” Is it? I looked up for a while. They seemed nothing different from usual. But maybe. Maybe it was beautiful after all. I think that was the first time I decided on some thing. What was “the plan” though? What was a “plan”? Since it seemed all right to make a decision, then maybe it would be all right to wonder. So I wondered. Surprisingly, the answer came to me it self. “You see how the featherless take away a part of stripes every day?” “See? I am not fooling you. The featherless do not have wings. Look behind the meaty upper leg holding the box of seeds…… I know it’s hard, but try!” I looked speechless at it. Me? “Yes. Don’t look around, it’s you. I saw you look at me fly! You hear me right? Do you want to go to the Sky? I can prove that the sky is real!” So that day I tried, before I jumped forward and fight for my seeds. Behind the featherless long-clawed leg holding our supply, I caught a glimpse…… A glimpse of…… Irregular shape of blue. I suddenly realized one day. It could land without splashing stinky stuff and thus irritating the sleepy fluffs. “I did it!” It shouted, turning its sparkly, reflecting gaze all around. No one’s watching. Probably except of me. So suddenly, but expectedly, it’s eyes met mine half way in the air. They remind me of the new fruit that still tastes like air, and the bright circle outside, and fresh water—while my eyes probably looked like dry seeds. I think. If I could think. I knew what “beautiful” means. No wonder it wanted to fly, if the sky was “beautiful” to it. Since then, I silently watched it flew every day, as if a new habit as important as obtaining the seeds. Even though I knew this was never true as I had always viewed seeds above any thing. I was the same as every one. I was different from it. It had always been alone, even though I was not more “accompanied” either. It asked me to come along. I refused. I would not lie. I would never try to be it. Not a chance. Not a thought. But for the first time in my memory from which I could recall, I gave someone my seed. I gave it the best seed I could fight for that day. I lost a few white fluffs. I met its eyes. Its eyes were, once again, shining beautifully. They were plumped with happiness, but soft with sadness at the same time. As I said, it was different than all of us. I knew these feelings, but seldom ever felt them myself. It made me felt like the one who was about to fly. The one who was special, although I knew all along that one of a kind was always it. I could never be it. But I could witness until the end. I would witness to the end, I had decided. Maybe, just maybe, that would make me a little bit different from the others. And so it flew. Waving its whiteness as hard as it could, kicked and screeched as if a much larger creature dwelled within it, silver shackle left a long scratch of red along the meaty leg that opened the door of our castle. It broke away. Out it went. Down it went. Falling into the embraces of blue that it loved so much, for so long. The one that provide us seeds tried to catch it, but only feathers were left floating, staying in our sights. I watched. Last glimpse, for a moment, I saw its eyes shining more than the red on its smile. While the others sighed and resumed to picking out seeds, the door to a rectangular shape of blue was left open, squeaking as it swung. I never left. Steadily, I turned and jumped towards the new box of nuts and seeds. I never mourn over the lost and waste of its life halfheartedly with the others, either. I knew that while most of us survived on the seeds, what you longed for had always been the sky. Even before you could prove that it was really there, the sky was in you. And I knew that on the last day, you were a happy one, if not the happiest, in the world.

(followed by a discussion between James and I on this story, TBC.)

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project 4. Timeline

Timeline “What do you think?” I rested my chin on my arm, watching James expression as he finished reading on the laptop. “ What do you think about this scene of our first reunion?”

James smiled his usual smile, gentle, but seemed slightly taunting for some reason.

“I think it is quite enjoyable.”

“Every story appeals to you in its own way. Still, obviously there are ways to improve. Or else every story should be equally popular. Be more specific. Criticize it. If you would.”

He handed the old scratched silver laptop back to me. Smile. Still no answer. I had always had a hard time reading his expression since childhood, to be honest.

I was not satisfied with what I wrote, that was one reason I asked him for advice. I would be an unprofessional writer, a disqualified fan, a disgrace of bookworm if I gave up the chance of a close interaction/deep conversation with the legendary novel/poem/script writer.

Emet Gould.

Even until this day we had made a unfair deal that obviously benefit me more than him, even after months of interaction that made me harder and harder to act respectfully and maturely in front of him, I still felt surreal from time to time.

For your information, neither Emet Gould nor James was the names he used in real life. I just randomly made them up as Voldemort played the name game. Not to be edgy or evil in this case of course, although I tried to make them sound as cool/ as ordinary as the real ones. I did so for the sake of both of our privacy. So let’s just left it this way.  

“Give me some hint? Please? I know you don’t like to interfere with other’s style of writing and imagination. But you know me.” I tried to look as sincere as I could. Over the past few months, I felt like I talked more than I had for like, a whole year. James lazily scratched his head.

“I know you. But this understanding seems not to be mutual…… you see, I just enjoy seeing you give up pride and say the word “please”. That’s the only reason, actually.”

I flicked him middle finger without hesitation. Somehow I felt that he would be amused instead of feeling like being insulted.

And I was right. Ha. The understanding between us was actually “very mutual”. I was just slower in catching on cues.

“Sadist.”

“Then you should be a masochist. Asking for someone to criticize you, huh.” He raised his eyebrow and lightened up a smile.

“Criticize my work.” I corrected him, “ Please. Enjoy your opportunity to be as brutal as you can.” I fake threw a punch in the air. Sometimes I felt like a child again beside him, which was a bit weird and embarrassing. But since I couldn’t help it, I figured to just let it be. Not bad, actually.

“Ehem.” He cleared his throat and pretentiously straightened his back. “ One. This is an introduction of our story collection, right?”

“Right.”

“Why are there so many Charlies? I thought this is a suspense novel at first that either you are going to be abducted by alien Charlie or killed by psychopath Charlie.”

“But I wouldn’t be able to introduce you if I did not explain what happened that day. Why would I be at a hospital at, like, five in the morning? That would make absolutely no sense to readers.”

“You could switch the order of your timeline then? Introduce me. Leave the question like a cliff hanger and explain it later on.”

“Well I had thought about that. But then I recalled that Charlie is going to take a role popping in and out of this story anyway.”

“……”

“……”

“Okay. I admit that Charlie is a fun character to write. He seemed unreal enough to exist in our world instead of a story. So probably I just babbled too much about him.”

“Then I’ll admit that I pointed this out simply because I wanted to be more protagonist like. Mysterious, unpredictable—swag, instead of some random nice-tempered guy dying on his sick bed.”

I didn’t know why I laughed at that out of place swag. He smiled triumphantly at me, wrinkles appeared at the corner of his eyes, just like the swimming tail of a playful fish. I guess I should frown on the fact that he seemed not to give a damn about his own health condition. But I knew he was making jokes in his usual savage way of humor. That gentle smile was still on as he tugged the blanket on his lap. Heartless, careless when it comes to things related to him self. He had always been this kind of person. Yet he wrote the most intricate, most heart-shaking story that broke everyone’s expectation. And somehow knew my weird sense of humor.

“Okay. I will consider about that later.”

Squinty eyes.

“I promise. Happy now?”

“Not until you really showed me the revised version. Ah, how I wish I could write it myself.”

“How? Pretend that you are me who walked into a hospital and saw a man so beautiful so that I have to spend a whole page praising your 360 degree absolute perfection with your creepily accurate observation skills?”

“Hmm. That’s actually a good idea.”

I punched James’ arm. Unlike Charlie’s, I felt bone immediately under that clothes and thin skin. This was why he could not write himself.

No. He could still type and hold his pen. But as many of you might know, how writers could torture the body by not sleeping and not eating just keep going on writing when inspiration hit like meteorite. In this condition, he would be chronically committing suicide instead of just torturing his body. At least that’s what his editor… a very close friend of his over the years, I believe, told me. James promised him to take a break until his health condition improved, which surprised me, honestly. Things could really change with age, I guessed.

“Hope my dreams come true then. 360 degree. I would like to see that myself. Please write it.” James chuckled, “that aside, what’s today’s photo?”

And that’s why I was here.

James had been going in and out of the hospital that it had become a regular basis of some sort. It had become inconvenient of him to move around freely.

Trivial things in life, however, were what he enjoyed observing the most, and where his inspiration came from.

We came to an agreement days after we met, or you could say, reunited.

There were still gaps and distance between us created by the time the parted us over the years, but somehow James decided to trust me.

I would take pictures of moments, any moments, in daily life. Then I would come to James and show him of those photos I shot. He would tell a story according to the pictures improvisationally. I’d then polish it into a written version.

Challenging, but I accept the “mission”.

As a writer, this would be a great chance to improve, to learn. As an ordinary human struggling to make ends meet, I could enjoy one free meal a day.

As for personal reasons…… it reminded me of the time back then, when I used to nag him for more stories. When I used to climb out of windows and sneak into his room like a ninja, just to bargain for a nighttime story.

I was an annoying kid, I know. But now that the situation had reversed in my favor, no way I would resist.

In addition, I did think that this project would be quite interesting. In my opinion, the completion of a story occurred not when a writer finished the story (s)he wanted to tell. The magical moment happened when readers took in the story, and comprehended it in their own unique ways. Sometimes what they realized, or where they became emotional would be totally different from the author’s intention. And to me, that’s what made a story beautiful, seeing it bloom uniquely in different people.

Now, I would be able to take James’, Emet Gould’s, tales in my hands.

I had the chance to see what would grow out of us.

Would it blossom eventually?

How different would our perspectives be?

What would our readers see from us?

I would love to know.

Sometimes, simply changing a perspective would create a brand new story.

Thinking about the possibilities made me thrilled.

I tapped on my phone, and showed James the photos I took today.

“This one.” I pointed.

From the reflection of my old cracked screen, I saw his eyes sparkled.

I almost smiled back.

Witness the birth of a story was such an amazing thing.

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project 3. Meet Emet

I had bad mouth.

A guy at the group home told me so.

Not literally like bad breath, rotten oral area or stuff. And not like I spoke a lot of “dirty language” or “bad words” back in childhood.

True, I did say them, but no more than an average boy. Maybe even less. We would get beaten up by certain adults were we caught saying those chaotic words.

Sometimes I wonder who was the one that actually needed the “treatments”. The adults who pinched down a kid and strapped and beat the shit out of it without any guilt, or the kid screaming its head off simply because some worthless petty things.

I could make a quiet, shy, good kid go berserk with few sentences.

Of course, that “quiet, shy, and good” were only some thing unreliable written on our useless profile documents. Those few words give so much freedom and credit to a kid, so much that they may beat another kid without being caught at all. I had no body strength to fight back. But I found my way able to destroy their privilege.

I just knew what hurt someone the most.

I felt like it was a talent that came in the wrong form and stayed at the right place.

I could make kids I hate go into trouble of “fighting” or “attempts to hurt others”.

I could make the toughest and tallest child at my age break down into tears.

I had “sharp words”. The guy I look up to told me, though I did not really know what he meant.

All I knew was, he was the one person I would never think of attacking.

If I had bad mouth, then he should have good mouth. Beautiful mouth.

Amazing stories flowed out of those sicken pale lips.

I saw people’s fear. But he can read all. He could bring happiness. Sadness. Thrill. Hope. Imagination. Anticipation.

Feelings that were supposed to be choked to death by all that had happened in our life.

More than once, he fooled that sly and constantly stealing kid to return his candies voluntarily.

He was amazing like magic to me at the time.

That guy was the first person, I believe, to make me into who I am todays.

Okay. So this was awkward.

Standing at the corridor of in the very early morning that could consider as night, I found no one to blame but myself.

I didn’t even know hospitals allowed visit at this time.

Right. I was here not because I fainted face down at my door. Charlie was just messing with me. He knew I was as broke as a broken piggy bank would be.

It turned out that Charlie decided to visit that new writer friend guy and I have no choice but to go along. Unless I decided to walk myself home.

“Are you sure you want to do this? I’m pretty sure no matter how nice a guy is, he would flip out if you barge in like a creepy fan or something at THIS time. Charlie, look.” I pointed at the time just above the car’s AC.

Charlie, to my surprise but also not out of my expectation, nodded, with a proud smile on his baby face.

“Yup. I called him yesterday and he said okay.”

“Wait so you do know how to call beforehand—no, that’s not my point, I–”

“It’s all right.” Charlie soothingly patted my shoulder, but I did not feel soothed at all, concerning what he said next. “I called him when I gave you a piggy back ride down stair. I said I might go to the hospital. He said okay and told me the time. He also said that he is interested in meeting you.”

“No. Wait…… no.” There were so many things wrong in these simple sentences that I didn’t even know where to begin with. Nothing could stop Charlie, and no doubt I would lose in a fight for the steering wheel with an exhausted body.

I’ll just stay at the parking lot and refuse to leave, I figured. So I kind of let it be and resumed to sleep.

Then while I was half awake upon arrival, Charlie promised to treat me a proper a meal after the visit. So I drowsily obeyed.

When I realized, I was already standing at the whitish-greyish corridor with a strong smell of sterilizer.

Charlie just went inside.

I was prepared to either meet a man on the same broadcasting frequency as Charlie, or a well-mannered but tired man to politely ask me to “take care” of my friend.

Right. Such a great morning plan.

Charlie happily poked his head out of the door all of a sudden, startling me.

He waved with big movement involving his whole upper body and both of his hand, loudly whispered my name, and urged me to go inside.

All right. Here it came.

Maybe I could sneak away. Maybe not. Charlie would probably drag that poor man along to find me. Seriously. I am a fully grownup mentally stable person. I can do this. Move your feet and smile for a meal. Think of food. How awkward could it be?

I walked with the velocity of a step per century, but eventually arrived at the door. I picked up my gaze on my shoe, faked a polite smile, and raised my head.

Then my face froze.

Holey sheet.

Who had you made friend with if this was your “friend,” Charlie? What the heck, Charlie?!

The man smiling back at me was the same face on one-third of the author profile of the books I owned the other one-third were other books but the one-third left were books that did not have picture on author profile page.

Emet Gould.

N (countless) times best selling author. Prolific writer. Genre of work varied drastically. Critics and readers gave extreme opinions as to the content. But I fell for each and every of the stories anyway. I turned my neck like a robot to look at Charlie. I knew I tend to look scarily expressionless when in shock, but I just couldn’t help it. Charlie was giggling.

“Surprise!” He threw his arms up like an excited child.

I shifted my gaze back to the man sitting up in bed.

I felt unreal. But half-mindedly, I figured that I should say something.

“Hello.” I’m one of your fans. No. That sounds lame. What do I say? “Sorry to in such an early time. I hope you’re feeling better. I didn’t disturb your sleep, did I?” I didn’t even know why he was in a hospital. Wait. I did not bring any get well soon flowers or whatever. I kind of did not know what I said either. But I probably looked calm enough. Is that a good thing? Yes. No. Maybe. That’s how I lost one part time job though. The manager thought I made mistake on purpose because I showed no sign of panic on my face. Who the hell would do that when in desperate need of money? I hope this, this [insert positive description] man would not think I act rude or whatever on purpose too——

The man suddenly tilted his head and laughed carelessly. Once again, I was startled, with a deep husky voice. A smile I could not read formed on his face.

“Of course you did. What time do you think it is?” Frozen like a statue, my responding system working hard as if it was going to crash my brain. Charlie was covering his face and bending over to laugh soundlessly. What’s so funny?

“Ah, ” A soft sigh drew my attention back to reality. I met his eyes. Amber. Wrinkles at the corner. A bursting feeling of familiarity hit me like a train as I see the sparks in his eyes. Wait…… did I just heard—“You used to drool and kick my awake every night anyway. Why bother now?”

My name.

No. Not my name. But the nickname I used to have at group home with Charlie and——

“James?”

Just as a waving gesture, morning wind gently lifted the corners of the curtain right next to the man in bed. Glimpse of early sun light floated in like dust, softly, lightly, brushing through the air between us.

A ghost in my memory just walked out of my mind. Right in front of me, he was breathing and playfully smiling.

And that was the start of our story.

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project 2. Wake Up

Wake up I lived with my biological mother until the age of two. Now, two is not the age that most people would remember anything from. But there is one specific moment from that time that became engraved in my mind.

I cannot in any way prove to you that this is true. I cannot even prove to myself whether it is true or just my vivid imagination going wild that somehow ended up labeling itself as a part of my early childhood memory.

But I suspect that it was.

That piece of memory is now worn and broken, lasting no longer than a few seconds. My senses were strong at the time. But all I can feel was hunger. Hunger from within made me numb. I felt that either I was about to deflate because of the emptiness within, or explode because of the overwhelming emptiness building up in my stomach.

I was not thinking of anything.

I used only my feelings, my senses.

I stuffed something cold, squishy, and oily into my mouth. I don’t recall chewing, simply gulping down whatever that was. I reached out to something shiny—a can… I believer—to grab for more. At one point, my palm cut over the edge. Senses of pain made me sharp and alert for a split second. But then, although blood started to blend into a mess with my already oil-drenched hand, I didn’t care. All I care about is food. Or maybe not food. Just something to fill my stomach. I couldn’t be sure. As I said earlier, I wasn’t really “thinking”. I was crouching down possibly next to a wall or a moldy corner of a room. I felt that my hands must be dirty. I saw black splotches on them, felt greasy, and tasted something salt… something that was definitely inedible in my mouth aside from the mushy oily stuff.

I kept eating anyway.

All I focused on was to swallow faster and faster, move my hands faster and faster. Destroy the empty dizziness of hunger. Destroy it and I should be fine.

I was filled with joy to the point of excitement and ecstasy. Looking back, it made me feel monstrous.

“Urgh……”

“Hey! You woke up? Good morning! Gooood Moooorning!” I woke up to a familiar voice like parrot repeating the same phrase at my ear.

Half stuck in some dream I could not recall but felt like nightmare, I had no idea when I fell asleep. I knew I should be at my apartment, and wherever I was, this was not at my place.

“Shut up…” My mouth reacted before my brain, much like a reflex. As I struggle to open my eyes, I blurrily had an idea of who ever that was babbling next to me.

Slim. Dyed brown hair with streaks of dark green on the side. Extremely radiant smile. Baby face.

Yep. It’s him.

“Ten seconds explain why I am in your car.” I gave up and closed my eyes again, sinking into the front passenger seat. It’s all dark outside of the car windows. We are probably stopped at a roadside in the middle of nowhere.

“No no no! Ten is not enough, I need… I need twenty, no, thirty!” “Well thirty then. Just start. Please.”

“So I came back from –––” apparently, a name of a place I did not know, “and I bought baby bear wooden carvings, do you want to see?”

“So?”

“So?”

“Why am I here?”

“Oh. I went to your house to show you my bear collection. I didn’t remember which floor you live so I climb to the top floor and walk down looking at each door number. And I found you on third floor! You did not close your door actually. You were lying face down. From waist down you are in your home and waist up—”

“Yeah, I get it.” I opened my door for fresh air after typing my story for some hours. The type of apartment I lived in came with horrible ventilation (especially in summer, which is now) and poor sound insulation. I kind of black out because of hunger and heat, I guess. I hope no one just walk in my house and take away anything…… “And why am I in your car?”

“This is not my car. I rented it.”

“Okay, but why am I here?”

“We are going to the hospital, of course.” I opened my eyes and saw that very guy who decided to visit somebody and show off his bear collection in the middle of the night staring at me as if I was the weird one.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I don't have money for that. And I am actually just running low on blood sugar. Give me some Snickers bar and you’ll save a life.”

“No.”

“Yes. Come on. You always have those with you.” The easy part of being with him was that I never have to be indirect. The difficult part, no, the awkward part was that we always ended up bickering like seven-year-olds.

By the way, this guy’s name was Charlie. The only childhood…friend that I still was in contact with. Well, not necessarily “in contact” in a normal way. You see, he just randomly show up at my door once in a while. If I happened to not be at home, he would literally camp in front of my place until I came back (or until my landlord shooed him away).

Charlie was not stupid as back in childhood many people thought he was. He was just the type of kid who, for example, would put sandwich on his head at the playground and announce that he was a sandwizzard. Weird, at most, I believed many people knew one or two kids like him in school. Occasionally, we thought about how and where in life they ended up in.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present you one of the answers.

Charlie.

In fact, Charlie was not his legal name any more. Once he reached adult year, he changed his name to something that I would never say in public.

I insist on calling him Charlie. And no. I would not tell you what that name was. No way those alphabets would come out of my mouth. “No. You don’t eat my Snickers. I will buy you new ones and you can eat them. But not mine.” He handed me wrinkled bills from the pocket of his perfectly ironed outfit with three smiley face pins on it. I see skull and sun silver rings and plastic Snoopy rings on his fingers at the same time.

“THANKS bro. I will return your money next time.”

“You’re welcome. You can keep it. No return. You just said you have no money.”

“I—”

“Shh.” He put his long and beautiful shaped finger on his lip like an anime character. During our school years, I overheard girls saying that Charlie looked like an “angelic doll” if he could just shut up and stand there. “If you can’t pay your rent, I won’t be able to find you next time I collect new bears. I want the robot bear from (some brand) series in Japan—”

Charlie is as always, very Charlie today.

“Wait. Where are we going?” After stopping at a gas station and bought my food supply thanks to Charlie, we went back on road. I was so busy eating and stuffing myself with chocolate that I kind of lost track of where we are heading. Some kind of habit that had stuck with me for over twenty years...... but that was not the point. The point was, why would I expect Charlie to do what I expect an average person to do (which was, not wandering on the road in the middle of a night)?

Charlie was humming an indistinguishable minor chord song. With the dim light and his usual childish smile that seemed unfit for a grownup, he successfully made himself look like a psychopath. He had just successfully kidnapped a grown man my chocolate bars and other snacks. Now he was happily heading towards to dumpster of the darkest corner of this city……

Forgive my imagination.

I punched his arm.

“Charlie.”

“I’m not Charlie any more. I—”

“Right. No way I am going to call you that.”

“Are you scared?” He suddenly turned and looked at me. Eyes dark and deep, nut with the expression of a child on his face. “I can act verryyy scary.”

“No I’m not. Look at the road.”

Charlie laughed a little. “Liar. You funny. Are all writers like you?”

“I’m pretty sure not.” Not every one went through starving stage at the end of the month. That better not be the normal life cycle for all writers. “You haven’t answer me yet, Char. Where are we going?”

“I haven’t finished my sentence yet.”

“Then please?”

Charlie proudly held his head high a little.

“Ehem. I met another writer. Different from you, of course. You are special like my alien bear series.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“He played with me, too. And even though he became older than before, he was still funny. I can talk with him for, for one hour and more.”

“Okay. Seems like a good guy.” “Mhmm. He is.”

Older than what before? Play what?

Well, sometimes you just have to take whatever Charlie said. No sense was the perfect sense on Charlie planet, and I was not even mocking him. Charlie drew a detailed map of Charlie planet at 12. Since then he renewed it every year. As a writer with vivid daydreams, I sometimes found myself wondering whether Charlie actually belonged to higher intellectual species from another world. Then I slapped myself awake from nonsense.

Anyway, whoever that writer was that “played” with Charlie, kudos to you. You may be an angel in your next life on Charlie planet. If you did not end up in heaven or somewhere. Maybe.

“We are going to the hospital.”

“Wait what?”

“Haha, surprise. You funny.”

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project 1. Author’s Note (First Chapter)

Author’s Note  Let’s face the truth.

I am dying of hunger.

Not to be dramatic, though as a “writer”, I am just naturally good at making things sound exaggerated­—but no. This is not the case.

I have been living on ramen for two weeks. You know, the kind of badly packaged instant noodle that marked “Sale! 3 for $1.00!” at supermarkets. This is not the first time that I have survived on ramen for a rather long time span, so I can probably call myself the unofficial master of noodle.

Tips for those who might need them one day: If you are extremely hungry but ends up with only one cup of ramen, dump it in hot water for like 30 minutes. By then the noodles will have sucked in so much water that they puff up. In addition to dillusionally filling your stomach, the texture and taste will be quite unbearable that you most likely will lose your appetite, which is a good thing when you are hungry enough to eat a moose but has no money.

I don't even know what I am saying to be honest. I guess this is the effect of being overwhelmed with hunger. Blame that box of ramen that I officially ran out yesterday, please. Let's see……

Paycheck will come in two more days……I’m alright. I can bear it. Hopefully.

Anyway, where was I.

Oh, right.

Hunger. Poverty…no, not really. I believe that I still have a better life than many people out there. And I am grateful, really. It is just that my telephone got cut off…in order to save my water bill, I kind of stink right now for an obvious reason…I am actually in a sweat shower instead with no fans or AC on……but hey, I still got a home a bed and yes, my wifi plan is still working. I am pretty sure things would be back on the right track in two days, since this not-so-good situation I am currently stuck in unfortunately happens most of the time at the end of a month. And right now I just need to find a way to vent my emotions.

I promise not to whine anymore once the new month starts (I will be too busy eating restoring my bodyweight then). So bear with me. In appreciation for your patience, I will listen to your mumbles and grumbles on life work school anything next time you need a tree hole.

Tree hole. Get it?

The one that the hairdresser shouted his secret to in the Greek myth, “The King with Donkey Ears”?

No?

Yeah. That's why I am a failed writer. Smart as you are, you probably would have instantly come to the conclusion: that's the reason this random online writer guy, is poor. And you're right. My income basically comes from other part-time jobs rather than my writings……but still.

I am quite young, so thankfully I can bear with this unhealthy life style. I have no family responsibility to keep; and my passion hasn’t burned out yet.

So I figured that, I could hang in for some more time.

We'll see.

While passing time waiting for my paycheck, I'll write you a story. Or write ME a story, you know, just to distract myself from hunger.

Let's begin then.

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project — Countdown 1 Day Till Release

Boundary.

What is life? What is death?

The moment Sun drown beneath cast ocean of unknown, will it be the death of a Day?

The season Spring sprinkle water to the roots of the dry twigs, will it be reviving life?

If a human live like a plant without movement without thoughts, will we call it alive?

If a man dies with his thoughts and creation and values continue to grow and expand in the new lives' mind, is he truly dead? If you were to know my intention, you must have laughed. I am in fact just as crazy as you were, as you are.

You create to live beyond the inevitable death; for once, I write to continue your life.

Ah, we are similar, you would smile and say.

This one is for you. Then, I could finally admit honestly.

It's my turn to tell you stories. The ones you still live in, breathe in. In me.

Before I proceed in life, this is for you.

(Project Launched.)

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project–– Countdown 2 Days Till Release

Transformers.

I'm too fluffy and soft, Cloud said. 

Me, too, replied a whole herd of White Clouds passing by. I want to be strong, independent, and mature! Cloud huffed, misty white from breath declared its mind.

Like what? 

Sky lazily stretched behind the excited gang of fluffs. Most of the time Sky enjoyed the companionship of those imaginative youngsters; but they were just a bit too loud, especially when the Clouds shape shifted into Rain, plopping and dropping throughout the Night.

Sky dreaded and looked forward to their answer, as Cloud began to glow with Sunlight.

—Like Mountains! 

That being said, Cloud piled up orderly together, lining up one after another. And Sky was relieved. 

Not telling that instead of Mountain, the fluffs looked like a line of cute baby Grass in a garden— Sky enjoyed a full sunset of magic shaping show.

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project– 3 days till release

Ordinary.

Remember the first time we met?

I don't, either.

It was as if you were always here. We were close enough when I finally noticed, inseparable just as Day and Night shifted subtly in between.

No one— not even ourselves—could tell, when and how your light from an opposite realm melted well into my darkness. Time after time, day after day.

I guess this is the magical part of our story.

And, I guess, you were right.

Miracle do occur in daily life.

Those mini-bit size of beauty— now that I could finally see.

(3 days till release......)

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project Countdown 4 days

Corner.

No. I am not here to speak meaningless words. I've never set foot to the future, no way I can tell you that tomorrow will be alright.

No. I am not here to scold you for your decision. Your life is yours, not me, not any one else would have the right to make single judgment.

After all the paths and cliffs and muddy twisting trails you've struggled though, I just want to tell you that, in case you didn't see—

Sun is peeking at you around the corner, with the most bright and bubbly smile I've ever seen.

(4 days till release...)

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project Countdown_5 days

Lullaby.

Sunset is the time when the colors of dream melt into reality. Deeper and deeper, all Light fade into sleep.

Layer by layer, Night gently covers their fluttering lids.

Hush.

Wave after wave, Darkness hummed.

Back and forth, to shore, to Sea.

Your voice that gives life to stories, now hushes me to sleep.

[yannickwrite]

The Sunset Project

The story of a successful writer and a struggling writer-to-be. This is an interactive novel I guess. All photos connect with the stories. Original short story version posted on instagram @yannickwrite

Copyright of all photos and stories belong to me. Also posted on Lofter. 

Note: All chapters, including author’s notes and afterwords, are a part of the story. Enjoy.

(5 days till release.)