schizophrenia

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Rule number one of schizophrenia: Never interact with the voices.

Rule number two of schizophrenia: What you see is not always what is real.

Even after having these two rules branded into my head since I was a kid, I was slightly shocked when my reflection addressed me directly.

“Good morning.”

I was brushing my teeth when I heard the voice--not mine. I looked behind me: nothing. I looked in the mirror: just me.

“Nice to meet you,” it--I--said.

Physical me flattened my mouth into a thin line. Reflection me didn’t.

“Now now, Charlie, that’s not the way to act around someone you haven’t yet met.” My reflection crossed its arms. I looked down at my own body. My arms were hanging loosely by my sides, my toothbrush clutched in one hand.

“Only my friends call me Charlie,” I stated firmly. “You are not my friend.”

“Yet.” My reflection smiled sinisterly. I didn’t know I could show that much teeth in a smile. I looked creepy.

“Yeah, right.” I gestured with my toothbrush at the mirror. “You’re just another voice, and that person in the mirror is just another hallucination. I’ve been dealing with these for so long that they really don’t impress me that much anymore.”

“Mhm.” My reflection--the hallucination--was unamused. “Well, if I was ‘another hallucination,’ would I be able to do this?”

My physical body winked at my reflection.

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not sufficient proof.”

My hand raised of its own accord, waving at my reflection, which was not waving back. My reflection looked pointedly at me. “Is that good enough?”

“Nope.” I wondered how I had moved without consciously initiating the wave. It was creepy.

I punched myself in the jaw.

“Ow!” I yelled, glaring at the mirror. “What did you do that for?”

“Proof.” My reflection raised an eyebrow.

I fingered my jaw. It ached. The pain seemed real. I sighed. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m here to make a deal with you.”

“Nope. I don’t make deals with hallucinations.”

“Haven’t I just proven I’m not a hallucination? Look, I just need possession of your body. For, like, twenty-four hours. That’s it.” My reflection sighed and scratched its neck. “I’ve failed possession like, three times, and if I fail again, I don’t achieve full demon status.”

I looked at my reflection curiously. I knew I was making a mistake by interacting with the hallucination, but it was either this or ignore it bugging me for the rest of the day. “You know what, whatever. Go for it. Twenty-four hours, I’m yours.” What could it hurt? The voices already basically possessed me, in a way, so I was just giving it verbal confirmation of what was true.

*****

“And that’s the last thing I remember,” I told the woman. “I don’t remember killing any of those people. I don’t remember anything at all. I just came to with the knife and all the blood surrounding me.”

The next day I was admitted into a government mental ward specifically for dangerous psychopathic individuals. That same day, the voices stopped.

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(representation of a schizophrenic person has been based off of my limited knowledge from a psych 101 course; depiction may or may not be accurate)

Books.

Books hold memories.

Some books smell of cigarette smoke, and lingering behind it, leather and deep brown-red mahogany. They smell of homespun tales and suspenders and thick glasses, of white hair and deep, belly laughter. They smell of hastily bookmarking the page so that the grandchildren won't read it--they're too young for that kind of thing, anyway.

Some books have sand stuck in the dust jackets. I can imagine the salt spray that made them feel sticky not too long ago. They make me want to have my feet in the sand with the ocean in my line of vision. They make me long for summer and hot air and sunscreen and still-wet towels. They make me want to dive into their chapters and let the words rush over me till the sounds of the ocean fade away.

Some books have flowery pink covers and, if designs had smells, they would smell like strawberries. I imagine sweet tea and eyes misty from the love contained in their pages, read in a rocking chair with knitting needles somewhere nearby. Sugar cookies are baking and the aroma permeates the pages.

Some books smell of sweat and outside, and lingering behind it, exhaustion and distraction. They smell of lounging on the couch, oblivious to the stains now on the couch. They smell of lawnmowers and fresh grass and dirt. Images fill my mind, of a tongue barely sticking out in anticipation of what the next page holds. These books smell of adrenaline from the thriller, and apologies and kisses to make up for the stains on the couch.

He is here, and nothing will be the same.

I, as you can probably tell, have a large imagination. And that really comes into play when I read the Bible because, well, it's a story. I can't help but expound in my head what everything was like.
Well, Christmas is tomorrow, and I've been thinking a lot about Jesus' birth. I know many people have imagined what it was like, but I thought I'd take my own shot at it.
People have differing views on whether or not imagination should be used in regards to Bible stories, so I should warn you that (obviously) I took some historical liberties when writing this short piece. If you believe it's heretical, then I will not be in the least bit offended if you quit reading right now.
The Christmas story blows my mind, and I wrote this piece not for followers or likes or affirmation, but for myself. Writing it makes it more real for me. It helps me see events and cement them in my mind as something that actually happened, and not just as words in a book. Maybe it'll help you visualize what that night in Bethlehem was like, too.
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Night is slowly falling, and she feels the pain begin to come. 
"Hurry," she tells the man. "Hurry."
They are rushing, now; trying their best to find a place to stay. Her voice is determined between the grunts of pain. "I will not have my child in the middle of a field."
Anywhere, any shelter, will do. She's barely a woman; she's only been mature for a few years. She feels the sharp pain again. "Hurry."
Finally! On the horizon, an inn. Relief floods her senses, a brief solace during the cramps of labor.
Her husband knocks. She sees a man answer the door; watches her husband plead with him as the owner shakes his head. A groan escapes her lips and she grips the animal's mane tighter, just to keep from falling off. Her husband returns with the owner.
"Everywhere is full." His voice is tinged with regret. "The best I can do is the stable."
She's never felt pain like this before. The owner helps her husband lift her off the animal; she lays down in the straw on a blanket, clutching her husband's hand. Neither of them know what to do. There is no midwife to help with this birth. She prays it goes smoothly.
Time speeds up and slows down. Labor is fully upon her, now. Her screams echo through the stable, causing the donkeys and horses to become anxious. She pants. Sweat rolls down her forehead in spite of the cool night.
One final push, screaming, and--at last--!
Here he is!
Small cries join her own tears as her son is lifted into her arms. Her husband takes a cloth and dips it in the watering trough, wiping the birthing fluids off of the baby. Another piece of fabric is found; she wraps it around him tightly, a little Jesus-burrito. 
She shushes the baby, calming him as best as she knows how. Her husband sits back and wipes the sweat off his own forehead, thanking Yahweh for a safe birth.
She remembers the heavenly visits that came before the baby, and she marvels. 
The fingers that shaped the universe are now a half inch long. Hands that lovingly formed her own body years ago are now clenched into tiny fists, grasping her outstretched finger. He who has never lacked anything will now depend on her for everything. He who was outside time has entered it, helpless and covered in chill bumps from the night air. 
He will grow; he will scrape his knees and climb trees and make friends and laugh and cry and live. She cannot see the future, but the weight of responsibility for this Child descends on her shoulders. 
Her son smacks his lips, calm and quiet. She smiles. 
She wonders how her life will be changed, and how the world will be changed.
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A Holy Mess

Thanks to Mary Rezin for prompting me to write this thing :)
It feels good to be back on this blog, even if it's for just a little while.
Just so you know, I do plan on doing a "12 Days of Christmas" very short series, where I use each line of the 12 Days of Christmas song as a writing prompt. I've written the first two or three days, and I'll post them here on each of the 12 days, beginning on Christmas. You guys might actually enjoy them. :)
For now, here's the writing prompt that Mary sent me:

She asked me to do one of the first five (thank you Mary ily), and I chose the fifth. This one-shot may or may not have been influenced by the fact that I watched Jack Reacher: Never Go Back last night. Anyways, Chloë is terrible at writing intros, so here's the lil short story.
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       “I’m feeling very holy today,” he said with a wink and a wince.
       “YOU JUST GOT SHOT!” I yelled. “NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO MAKE JOKES!”
       “How long until I get my halo?”
       “SHUT UP.”
       “Fine.”
       I was fed up. I had just sat down to a relaxing evening watching Doctor Who when this strange man busted through my window--my third story apartment window, no less!--and passed out on my living room floor. After I’d finished screaming, I had tugged him onto my couch, but I hadn’t put a towel down, and now there was blood all over the cushions, which I angrily mentioned to him.
       “Hydrogen peroxide removes blood stains,” was his response.
       Under normal circumstances, I would be pleased to have such a dashingly handsome man in my living room, but these were not normal circumstances. He had better be glad I’d watched a lot of crime shows and knew how to take care of bullet wounds. I felt his dark brown eyes watching me as I muttered frustrated comments and tied on a tourniquet. I’d even had to rip up one of my sheets to get enough material to stop the bleeding.
       He would probably just run out as soon as I fixed him up, without so much as a “thank you.” He was probably going to go rescue some beautiful model gagged and tied to a chair. There might have been a gang involved, or maybe the FBI, or something high-tech and government-related. Why else would he have a bullet wound? I was just a side character in his adventure.
       This evening was not going how I had planned.
       “So…what’s your name?” he asked.
       “Meghan.” I glared at him and yanked the knot on the tourniquet tight. He winced again.
       “Nice to meet you, Meghan. You’re a ray of sunshine.”
       “Shut up.”
       “I’m Jason.”
       “I said shut up.”
       “Oh, sorry, I thought you asked me what my name was like a polite young woman would do in this situation.”
       Gritting my teeth, I sat down on my coffee table and crossed my arms. “Well? Go on, rush out and go save your girlfriend, or take down the government, or kill a secret agent, or whatever.”
       “Actually, I’m at a stopping place right now.” The man propped himself up on his arm and looked at me. His hair was covering one of his eyes. I idly wondered how he could fight crime when he could only see out of one eye. I also wondered how old he was. “Are you busy?” Jason asked.
       I gestured to the television. “Well, I was about to watch some Doctor Who when you broke my window and got blood all over my floor.” I added some bitterness to my voice. He probably had a model for a girlfriend. I didn’t need to waste time on being interested in a stranger.
       “Hey, I love Doctor Who!” He brightened a bit, sitting up straighter on my bloody couch. “Can I join you? The agent I was chasing escaped right after he shot me, and I don’t have a girlfriend, and taking down the government can wait.”
       I tapped my finger on my crossed arm. He was handsome, and I would like some company, even though the company would need medical attention in the morning. Anyway, he’d need someone to drive him to the hospital to get that bullet removed.
       “Fine. But I’m sitting on the floor. You’ve completely ruined my couch.”
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Unless I recover my will to write, I'll be back on Christmas!
Kudos and hugs to anyone who still even follows this blog <3
~~Zoë Wingfeather

Dance with me.

"Dance with me," she said, her eyes fire and ice--and they danced.
Blades whirring, they spun in time to the clash of metal upon metal. The sound echoed throughout the empty ballroom, bouncing off the walls.
Was it a fight, or was it a dance? The danger was so thick in the air that the two almost seemed to slice it with their blades. Eyes locked, concentration on both faces, their feet moved of their own accord as the clashes continued.
Gracefully they stepped, and gracefully they fought. There were two options in question, to live or to die. Only one dancer could leave the room.
Faster and faster they spun. Faster and faster their swords connected. Now they were sweating, the drops rolling down their faces as they continued the dance. The rhythm of their blades kept time.
Now a new sound rang out; this was the sound of desperation. Furniture was carelessly knocked over in order to escape the pursuer. Nothing would deter her. Her eyes were fixed on her target.
Her blade flicked sideways; her opponent's sword clattered to the other side of the room. There was no more rhythm to the dance. The end was soon.
Her eyes hardened. No mercy would be given this night.
The stroke was quick and clean.
Finale.
- - -
"Dance with me," she said, her eyes promising--and they danced.
The steps were slow and sultry. Swaying back and forth to the sound of the orchestra, the partners whirled across the ballroom floor. The other dancers parted ways for them--they knew the importance of this dance.
It was smooth, graceful, full of motion. Eyes locked on each other, each gazed deep into the other's soul. This night would decide much for both of them.
Would they leave alone, or together? The question hung in the air between them, and they seemed to slice it with the intensity of their gazes. Nothing could break their concentration.
The seductive music changed now. The steps became complicated as the music sped up. Focused, the two refused to look away as they perfectly executed the complex dance. Sweat dripped from each; it traced little white lines down her face. Still they danced.
Spinning, twirling, the other took the lead. She let herself be led, but resisted just the slightest bit, so that it was noticeable. She would not let her partner take complete control of her.
Then the power passed to her. She led her partner strongly, firmly, but not too much so. Each took note of how the other treated control.
The music rose to a climax. Both had to work together--and they did.
Faster and faster they danced, and then--
Chests heaving, they stopped, frozen in time.
Finale.
---------
It's amazing what I think of at work. Actually, the prompt for this whole thing was my random thought, "dance with me, you son of a motherless goat." Not sure where that came from, but I like where it apparently lead.
I've been working for an inordinate amount of time on what was supposed to be a romance novella but accidentally turned into something much more. I might end up posting it, if my followers think they might be interested in that sort of thing...?
Ah, well. Feels nice to be blogging again, even if only for a bit. I hope I'll see you guys around :)
~~Zoë Wingfeather

My Illenya

Hi everyone!  :D
Okay, so--a few things:
1- I'm going to do my best to have a blogging schedule.  I'll aim to have something to post, whether it be Stealing Violets or a short story, every Tuesday.  Because it's summer, I should be able to keep it up.  Although inspiration is a fickle mistress and often doesn't show up (smh).
2- I'm writing this from the past because I just now remembered I can utilize the neat post scheduling tool thingie how cool is that so yeah Friday the 16th is when this post was written which I think is super mega cool.  Anyways, right now (Tuesday the future for me, Tuesday the present for you) I'm at camp.  Wahoo!
3- This short story was written for my friend Kiah's writing contest thing, so I had to use a prompt.  The prompt was as follows:

…which is rather ominous.  So, obviously, I wanted to make something completely terrible out of it.  With that expectation in mind, go grab some tissues and enjoy this heart-wrenching short story.  :)
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I thought of the past few hours as I walked, rubbing my bleary eyes.  

It had been an amazing night.  My childhood friend, Gavin, had come to stay with me in my castle.  His coming had been highly anticipated by most everyone in the capital city, and most of all by me.  The preparations were begun months beforehand--to be sure everything was perfect.  He hadn’t visited in years, and he and I had much to catch up on.  

I was in such high spirits that I threw a party for the whole capital city--there was food for everyone.  The entertainers and circuses took the time and publicity to make a pretty penny off the crowds, along with the dancers, charmers, musicians, and bards.

The banquet had lasted late into the night.  It was like Gavin and I had never been separated.  We had laughed and talked about how hard it was to run kingdoms and such.  All in all, it was an amazing time.  

I yawned.  I was on my way to my rooms, ready to get some sleep.  I strolled by unblinking guards who had managed to stay awake despite the fact that it was half past one in the morning.

The years had been good to Gavin.  He had become handsome, and his eyes sparkled when he smiled.  He had also brought his wife and small child for me to meet, which I thoroughly enjoyed.  My Illenya quickly became friends with Ariel.  The two had chatted the whole night long.

As I thought about Illenya, I smiled.  She was such a treasure to me.  My wife and I had been married for seven years, and she astounded me with her wit and beauty every day.  She had retired early, which wasn’t out of the normal.  Illenya was delicate and often slept before I did, especially as of late.  She often complained that it wasn’t easy to be with child.  I believed her--she usually appeared very tired.

I opened the door to my room slowly, lest I disturb her.  My angel, I thought.  My beautiful Illenya, asleep once more.

And then I froze.

There, on my bed, sat Gavin, with a knife to my terrified wife’s throat.

She was in her nightclothes; her hair down, powder washed off, jewelry removed.  Gavin looked just as I had seen him just minutes ago, except now he sat behind Illenya with her in his grasp and held a dagger.  The very fact that he was in my room with my wife would have made a maid gossip, but with a knife?!  I was immobilized; I was speechless.

Gavin’s blue-grey eyes were hard.  Illenya made as if to reach to me and speak, but he tightened his grip on her and the knife and she ceased.

“Wha--”  I finally found my voice.  “What is the meaning of this?” I said indignantly.  “Gavin, what are you doing in my room with my wife?”

My childhood friend smiled, a wicked smile.  “Oh, you know I couldn’t just let this chance pass up.”

“What are you talking about?  Release Illenya!”

“I don’t think so.”  Gavin looked at her, then back to me.  “She’s far too valuable to let go.  As to what I’m talking about, well, you’ll find out soon enough.”

“I’d like to find out right now, if you please!”  I moved toward Illenya, intending to find out what had possessed my friend to do this, but once again he pressed the dagger to her throat.

“One more move and she dies,” he spat.  I stopped, my heart beating rapidly.  Dies?!  My Illenya!  He would not kill her--he would not kill a woman with child, let alone his best friend’s wife!

“I will tell you what my plans are,” Gavin continued.  “I suppose you have a right to know, after all.  I had planned on getting this over with while you were still on your way here, but as you can see that didn’t happen.”  He gestured with the knife at the room.  “I’ll enjoy staying here.  It’s a very nice room, but I suppose one can afford a nice room when one’s as rich and popular as you.”  Was that an edge of bitterness in his voice? I wondered, panic rising in my chest.  What has come over him?

He shook his head.  “Ah, Lance.  It was always you.  We were raised together, childhood friends destined to heal years of fighting between our nations.  We were always so close.  But you,”--his voice hardened--“you were more popular than I ever was.  Your father was richer.  You had the promise of a bigger kingdom to inherit.  All the girls loved you.  You had everything you could ever want.”

“I don’t understand,” I stuttered.  “Gavin, you were a prince--now you’re a king!  How could you possibly want what little more I had than you?”

“Don’t you see?”  He shook his head as if to laugh at my ignorance.  “Those childhood realizations fueled the fire.  They fueled my fire.  The idea only hit me years later.  You see, with our friendship, it would create a vulnerability, a weakness.  It was a chink in the armor of your kingdom.  I only had to slip a knife through and into its ribs.  Our friendship meant trust, and that meant I could bring a small army into your walls without you having a second thought.”

I blinked.  “No…” I whispered.  “This can’t be happening.”

Gavin laughed again.  “Oh, I’m afraid it is happening.  I only had to send spies ahead of me, convince a portion of your army to join my side with promises of promotions and riches, and your kingdom was taken.  When I conquer your kingdom, I will join it and create an empire!”  His laughter was proud and mirthless.  It echoed in my bedchamber.

I shook my head.  “But…if you wanted my kingdom…why do you have my wife?”

The smile returned.  “That was the genius part of my plan.  I have learned that the death of a loved one is what ultimately breaks a man.”  Blood appeared on my Illenya’s white neck.  Her eyes grew large and she opened her mouth.

“No!” I cried.  “No, Gavin!  If you must, take me instead!  Take anything, all I have, but not my Illenya! Please!”

Gavin continued as if he had not heard me, his sinister smile widening.  “That is why this must happen.”

I lurched forward.

Illenya screamed.

With one smooth motion, he ripped the knife through her throat.

Her scream was cut short.  Time slowed.

Blood poured onto our sheets and she slumped down into a crumpled heap.

Half unbelieving, I let out a moan that slowly grew into a cry.  “Illenyaaaaaaaa!”

Gavin released his hold on my wife and leisurely climbed off my bed.  I rushed to Illenya, the tears streaming down my cheeks.  “No,” I sobbed.  “No, it can’t be.  This must be a dream.  This cannot be real!”  I cradled her lifeless form in my arms.  She was still warm.  “Illenya, my Illenya!” I cried, my tears wetting her beautiful face.  Her face that I would never again see smile.

Guards wearing my colors stepped in the room, but I barely noticed.  I held her in my arms, unable to fully accept that my Illenya and my firstborn child were gone.  “No…” I whispered as I rocked back and forth.  I looked up at my former closest friend.  “Gavin, what have you done?”

Gavin simply motioned to me.  “Take him to the dungeon,” he ordered my guards.  I kicked against them as they forced my hands off of Illenya’s body, but I was weakened by grief and disbelief.  They drug me from the room as I wept, unable to resist them.  My last glimpse of the room was Illenya lying on the bed and Gavin’s twisted smile.

My cries echoed down the halls and joined the screaming of my people. 

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Me while I was writing this:

I'm serious--I was so close to crying.  I'm close to crying right now as I edit ;~;
You might need to use those tissues now.  I'll give you a minute to clean yourself up.
…
…
…
Okay so all crying aside--did you like it?  Did I capture the heartbreak well enough?  Comments?  Questions?  Insults?  Constructive criticism?
I'll hopefully see you guys next Tuesday! <3
~~Zoë Wingfeather

Elderly Strife

Okay so hi everyone *waves tentatively*
I've written you all a short story :3
This lil short story is a little different.  As you've probably noticed, I'm terrible at writing conflict.  Like, terrible.  So with this one I tried to experiment with conflict a little more, exploring anger and grudges and some things that I didn't like writing.
I usually try to make even my short stories have happy endings, but this one really doesn't.  It kind of ends abruptly, which is what I was going for (because effects), but it really is kinda sad.  Just so you know.  ;~;
It was inspired by the following dialogue prompt (although it doesn't include the particular line):

So, here goes.
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A shrill ringing noise echoed throughout the empty house.  Muttering to herself, Linda picked up her new smartphone and looked at the screen.  She recognized the number displayed.  Patricia, she thought angrily.  “I’m definitely not answering this.”  Annoyed, she punched a button on the screen.  Not today, not ever.  I’m hanging up.  

“Hello?”  The voice came from the smartphone.  Linda cursed.  I pressed the wrong button.

She put the phone to her ear.  “Hello, Patricia.  Sorry I answered the call, I meant to hang up,” she said sarcastically.

“Oh it’s you, Linda.”  Patricia’s angry voice lost none of its negativity through the phone.

“Why don’t you come over some time?  We could have some elderberry wine, maybe I could poison you or something,” Linda suggested.

“It’s been fifty years since you stole Charles from me, you little mulch,” Patricia spat.  “I swear by my pretty floral bonnet that I will end you.”

“You don’t even own a bonnet, Patricia.”  Linda rolled her eyes and made her tone as salty as she could.  “And you know Charles died six years ago.  You should really get over it.”

“Speak for yourself!  And saying you want to poison me…bah!”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Fine!”

Linda pulled the phone away from her ear and tapped the little red telephone.  “It’s been fifty years,” she said, trying to navigate the phone.  Her nephew had attempted to educate her on the workings of the stupid thing, but she still had no clue what she was doing.  She grumbled as she tried to find the telephone application again.  She needed to call Bill anyway.

Another call popped up and she tried to turn off the phone but accidentally hit the “accept call” button.

“And another thing!” Patricia yelled into the receiver.  Linda winced and held the phone away from her ear.  “Don’t think that just because our children have decided to elope it makes anything different for us!”

“Well you can just go and--wait a second,” Linda said as she realized what her one enemy had just said.  “Our children…eloped?”

“Yes, my Nathan and your Jillian.”  Patricia huffed.  “Didn’t you hear?”

Slowly, Linda felt around for a chair and sank into it.  She was speechless.  

“Hello?”

“I…I’m still here,” the elderly woman stuttered.  “You…You mean, Jillian ran away with Nathan?”

“Yes,” Patricia said bitterly.  “Just last night.  I got a call this morning.”

“I…oh.”  Blinking, Linda tried her best to process what had just happened.  She couldn’t.  Jillian…and Nathan?  How?  How did I not see it?

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I tried calling Nate,” Patricia rambled on, “but he didn’t pick up the phone.  Nathan is far too good for your Jillian, if you ask me.  I just think that--”

Linda pulled the phone away from her ear and ended the call.  I can’t believe it, she thought, half of her unable to believe Patricia. Jillian, my darling, my baby, Charles’ favorite daughter…with Nathan?  

She dropped the phone to the wood floor with a clatter.

The sound echoed throughout the very empty house, joined by her frail sobs.

---------
See what I mean?
I'm really sorryyyyyyyyy it almost makes me cry as I edit it ;~;
So like tell me what you think in the comments because idk man
Also the fam wants to watch The Sixth Sense tonight and I am 0% okay with horror movies so I'll be in my room making no noise and pretending I don't exist writing so I'll have something to offer you guys later aw yiss
Anyways, I feel like my blog is slowly becoming meh so maybe I'll do something fun and interesting to revamp it idk what do you think????
Okay tell me what you think / etc and I'll hopefully see you all soon :)
~~zoë wingfeather

Time Traveling

*peeks around the corner*
*shoots a bazooka full of confetti at you*
hELLO ONCE AGAIN I AM BACK WITH SOME QUALITY CONTENT™ WHY DO I ALWAYS INTRODUCE MY POSTS BY YELLING I PROBABLY SCARE YOU ALL AWAY

Ahem.  Anyways.
Yes!  I am back!  With a slightly longer than normal short story!
This one was also inspired by a Reddit writing prompt (thanks Reddit).  Except, it's so much cooler than my last one.
I'm pretty proud of this, considering today's events and my ability to finish something presentable.  So yay!  Fun stuff.

(click image to enlarge btw)

So yeah!  Thanks Reddit!
Also, this is written in second person (!!!!) and present tense, something I've never ever done before.  Experimenting is a thing.  Very fun.
Anyways, enough of my ranting.  Let's read.
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You step back and admire your work.  Finally, time travel is possible!  And it’s all thanks to you.  Years ago, you had realized everyone was searching in the wrong place for the ability to time travel.  It couldn’t be contained in a machine--it was purely biological!  With the correct combination of chemicals, every atom in a human body, including the atoms of their soul, could be displaced to another place in time and space and reformed with magnetic energy.  It’s that simple!

You shake your head in awe of your own genius.  And to imagine, the first thing you made was a love potion.  You’ve come a long way.

Oblivious to your admiration, the small vial of chemicals steams in front of you.  The steam is white, but the solution is black, blue, and purple--the color of space.  

Anticipation floods through your veins.  The day has come!  You crack your knuckles and adjust your stark white lab coat.  This is it.  The tests worked on guinea pigs and large mammals such as apes.  You even secretly used your nephew as a test subject--thankfully he hasn’t told anyone yet.  He found it very cool to be transported five minutes into the past.

It’s up to you to find out if it works on a fully grown human body.

You had discovered that the amount of one special element determined how far one traveled backwards.  The amount of the chemical in the vial before you should send you back to the Middle Ages.  You sling your pre-packed backpack over your shoulder.  It’s time.

You take a deep breath.  Without time to rethink things, you dump the contents of the no longer steaming vial into your mouth.

Instantly, a cold sensation floods your taste buds.  It feels as if you’ve just bitten into ice.  Your hands fly to your jaw, instinctively trying to warm it up, but to no avail.  Your teeth begin to ache with the low temperature.  You scrunch your eyes closed in pain.  It hurts so very badly, you don’t know if you can stand it.  A wave of pain slams into your head and you feel like you might throw up.  

Just when you’re about to scream from the intense aches, they depart at once.  Shocked, you pry your hands off your face and peek one eye open.

You’re on the edge of a forest.

Warily, you look deep into the woods.  They look normal.  That leaves one thing to do.  

Ever so slowly, you turn to face the field behind you.

You see a walled city, comfortably plopped in the middle of a valley.  Carts travel on a beaten down dirt road to the city, and you see knights in shining silver armor escorting and checking everyone who enters.

You fist pump excitedly and jump up and down.  You’ve made it!  You’ve gone back in time!

“Hey!”  A voice startles you out of your personal celebration.  You turn to see a knight riding up to you on a large brown stallion.  The horse trots to you and leans forward as if to sniff you, but the knight pulls its head backwards with the reigns.  

“Where did you come from?” the knight asks.  He has a kind face and appears to be on the older side of middle age.  His breastplate bears an elaborate coat of arms, and each piece of his armor is expertly shined.  He looks to have a high status.

“I, uh…” you stutter.  “I--came from the forest.  I’m traveling through these parts to come see your wonderful city.”

“Indeed.”  The knight raises an eyebrow.  “Traveling through, eh?  I’ll wager you must be a wizard, then.”  You blink, hoping he hadn’t seen you appear.  “No normal traveler wears such white clothing,” he continues.  You relax.  “Nor does a normal traveler appear out of thin air,” he finishes.  

Tensing, you try to speak but can’t get the words out.  You hadn’t planned this far ahead.  

The knight winks at you.  “Don’t worry.  Apparently unlike you, I know what to do in this situation.”

“You do?” you ask, confused.

“I do,” he affirms.

“Oh.”

“Come, follow me.”  The knight turns his horse around and begins to trot off.  “I have my orders.  If you don’t follow, you may have trouble on your hands,” he says over his shoulder as he pats his scabbard.

You swallow and run to catch up to the horse.  “So…have you dealt with people spontaneously appearing before?” you question, genuinely curious as to how the knight will answer.

“I have indeed,” the man replies.  “A few years ago.  The man appeared right where you were standing, in fact.  It was an odd day.”

“Oh.”  You feel dejected.  If someone had appeared before you, then that means you weren’t the first to discover time travel.  All that work, and for nothing.

Sighing, you hoist your backpack higher.

The knight, whose name is Sir Micah, leads you through the city to its center.  The people all clear a path for him, as if he’s important.  You find he is important--he’s the Commanding Knight of the city.  You learn that you’re being taken to the king, who has a particular interest in magic, as Sir Micah calls it.  Everyone stares at you as you pass by, and you duck your head in embarrassment.

The city, you learn, is called Uther.  When you hear the name, you feel something twinge in the back of your mind, as if you remember it.  You shake your head.  Must have been part of an old TV show or something.  Uther is the capital of the moderately sized kingdom of Aertha.

Sir Micah leads you to the heart of Uther.  In the center is a walled enclosure with some buildings and large towers.  He explains that this is the palace.

You find it pretty impressive.  The outer courtyard of the palace is a bustling hub of servants, soldiers, cooks, and knights.  It’s so incredible, you can’t take your eyes off everything you see.  Sir Micah dismounts and hands the reigns of his horse to a servant.  He leads you up to a large square building, explaining that it holds all the important parts of the palace--the kitchen, bedrooms, ballrooms, and throne room.

We pause when we come to the throne room.  Its large double mahogany doors are shut.  You gaze in wonder at the tapestries and rich trimmings on the walls.  The colors are rich and ornate, and each element of the room scheme is perfectly designed.

Sir Micah begins to look himself over, dusting the dirt off his armor.  He takes a handkerchief from somewhere and shines his armor.  “Best look your best,” he advises me.  You try your best to clean the stains off your lab coat, but they won’t come off.  You wish you could have changed into something nicer than your t-shirt and pants.

Sir Micah tells the guard in front of the throne room that you require an audience with the king.  The guard motions to another guard, and both open the doors to the throne room.  The king is seated at the far end of the room, just like you’ve seen in movies.  He more accurately appears to be lounging on his throne, one leg thrown over an armrest and a gold wine goblet in his hand.  

A thick strip of red carpet is extended over the stone floor.  Even more ornate tapestries hang from these walls, and two rows of pillars line the long hallway.  

You hang behind Sir Micah, unsure of what to do.  An announcer calls out, “Your Highness, may I present Sir Micah, Commanding Knight of Uther, Advisor to the King, and--”

“Yes, yes, get on with it!” the king yells.  “Come, Micah!  Who’s your guest?  Oh, I suppose I should have let you finish, my Announcer dude.  Sorry about that!”

You’re puzzled.  Did a king just say “dude?”

Sir Micah walks toward the king, beckoning for you to follow.  “Sire, remember that order you gave me when you became king?  The special one?”

“Yes…”  The king leans forward in his throne, interest written on his features.  His eyes dart to you, and suddenly widen.  Hopping off his throne, he dashes up to you.  

You step back, a little scared.

The king sticks out his fist in front of you.  “Bro, you discovered time travel too?”

You blink.

“What?” you ask.

“Fist bump!”  The king smiles encouragingly.

You slowly extend your fist and bump his.

“So how’d you get here?” you ask uncertainly.

“Definitely not a machine.”  The king winks.  “My dad taught me that well enough.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah.  You.”

You blink again.

“What?!”

The king laughs at your baffled expression.  He explains the confusing situation to you, to Sir Micah’s amusement.  

In the future, you will stay in Uther and become a successful nobleman.  After a few years, you will travel to your original time and have a son.  You send him back to the Middle Ages, and he will live in that time.  From the king's perspective, he became king several years ago.

In the future, before your son left for the Middle Ages, the future you directed him to watch for you to come and time travel for the first time.  

Your head spins.

Sir Micah and your son the king chuckle at your befuddlement.

You finally stop trying to understand it and shake your head to clear it.  “So…if you’re the king…can you hook me up with some food?”

Your son throws his arm around your shoulder and laughs.  “Announcer dude!” he yells.  “Tell the cook we have a special guest!”

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So?  You like?  I personally think it's pretty cool.  Second person is a cool thing.  And now I'm inserting hip lingo.  It's rad.  Kiddos.  *finger guns*

Okay I'll stop now.  Sorry.
So what do you think?
Please comment!  :D
~~zoë wingfeather