Words by C.M.Jaeger

The patron looked even more confused than he did when he first laid eyes upon the painting. “Who told you it must be displayed like this?“ The patron wondered aloud, hoping the artist would say that his artistic mind instinctually told him to do this in a display of creativity. But the artist said, “The curator said it must be displayed like this. It wasn’t my choice.“ The patron did not understand why any curator would make such a decision.

“Why not just turn it around, just for a moment? I would love to see what it looks like,“ The patron said. The artist took his hand from under his folded arms and pointed to the painting wire. “You see that little dot where the wire touches the wall? That’s a sensor. If I lift or turn this painting around, the alarm will sound and they will charge you with stealing.“ The patron furrowed his brow, disappointed by the fact that he could not think of a way to bypass this obstacle and see the painting. He thought of a few schemes, but none of them panned out in his mind.

“Why not just ask for the painting back?“ the patron suggested, “Put it in a gallery where it will be appreciated properly.“ The artist laughed and shook his head. “I can’t ask for it back. It was in a gallery. The price is higher now than what I was paid for it. Besides, there aren’t any other galleries around to display it in anyway.“ The patron felt defeated, resigned to the idea that he’d never see what the painting was.

“Well next time you make a painting, just display it in your house. At least then your friends and family will be able to appreciate it. Now that the curator has done this to your first painting, you can keep this from happening again.“ the patron thought, trying to circumvent this annoyance from reoccurring. The artist just shook his head, “This isn’t the first painting I’ve put into this gallery. This is my third actually. They’re also backwards. All the art here is backwards.“ The patron panicked, looking around to see to his horror that every painting in the whole gallery was facing in the wrong direction. The patron became angry.

“Then why be an artist in the first place if the only gallery displays all its art in a way it can’t be appreciated? Why not just make a blank canvas and submit that? You’ll get money for art and you won’t have to do any work.“ The artist stared lovingly at the backwards frame as if he was looking at the real thing. “No, the curator would only take a truly inspired piece of art. That is what it means to be displayed in a gallery after all.“ The patron was livid.

The artist looked away from his painting at back at the patron, who seemed deeply angered by what he was being told. “It’s fine,“ the artist assured him, “I know what the painting looks like. All is not lost. You might not be able to see it, but I can tell you about it.“ The patron looked less angry now that there was still something he could appreciate. He dissipated his red faced anger and said, “I would like that very much.“ The artist looked back to his painting and stared for a few more moments before beginning.

“The painting was of a skyscraper. One I quite admired. Its design was amazing. The craftsmanship was perfect. Everything about it was so appealing I knew I had to capture its beauty. It was demolished a week ago, so I knew I had to paint it before it was destroyed forever.“ The two of them stared at the blank frame for a moment and thought.

Well, here it is. Post 100. I made it 3 months of writing every day before I had to quit. As of this post, it has been over a month since I have written anything. The “Daily” of “C.M.Jaeger Daily” was dead the day I missed my first deadline shortly after month 3 was completed. I seriously couldn’t do it anymore. There were quite a few reasons I stopped.

I was tired of wasting upwards of an hour a day writing something that I just wasn’t into. After awhile, it felt less like a fun challenge and more like a chore. I started this whole thing wanting to get myself into writing everyday, but the stipulation of having to actually post a finished piece every day was too much. There were times I wanted to write something great, but didn’t have the time or energy to keep working on another piece after the daily one posted every day.

My work also became a big obstacle in completing these things. Sometimes I would work until 11pm, an hour before the deadline, so I would have to get up and force myself awake to write something. The fatigue was starting to set in for doing this for so long, and it was taking a toll on my mentality and my creativity. You can’t tap into the well before you give it time to refill. I also thought about why I was doing this whole thing in the first place. Part of me, the hopeful part, wanted to write every day to improve my abilities greatly and become a better writer. The other part of me, the egotistical attention seeker who wants so badly to be validated, wanted to post things that people would want to read. I wanted to give people something to enjoy. Under it all, that’s really what this blog was all about.

But from what I experienced, this was not the way to do that. Writing daily made me complacent in a few ways. I didn’t have the luxury of fixing any mistakes or rewrites, because every post was made the day OF posting, rarely before that. The things I was producing were not my best technical writing. I wasn’t getting better at it. I wasn’t on my A-game.

For the one part, how could I expect myself to improve if I was basically forcing myself to write something for the sheer sake of content? The best writing happens when a creator has something to say, but after awhile, I was just writing aimlessly for the sake of having something written down to post. It took so much out of me to reach deep down inside myself when there was nothing there anymore to put down to paper.

Also, I was starting to become disheartened at the lack of readers. This is definitely my ego talking, so just humor me for a moment. Not only was I not getting any notes or readers from people on the internet, but my friends and family also didn’t read anything either. It took days for anyone to notice I wasn’t posting anymore. My bet is that if I don’t tell anyone about this post, it won’t be noticed either. This was the thing that made me re-evaluate myself.

I wasn’t getting better at writing, I wasn’t entertaining people and I wasn’t expressing my ideas. From my position there was no point.

So now I know what I’m going to do. After this month’s break, I will go back to writing every day. However, I will not be obligated to post it here. I will give myself time to think about ideas and execute them properly. I will only write things that inspire me, and I will be proud of everything that is posted from here on out. I may not get many readers, but at least I’ll be able to be proud of my own accomplishments and write on my own terms.

Cold winds blow a space left hollow, Prior dangered visits dissuade follow. Lifeless ruin branches blackened halls. Quiet beating vein in darkness lurks, With empty hope a tresspasser calls, In lieu of this no eardrum perks. The stinging memory of a prior longing. Wander aimless this museum useless, A familiar gut to feel in belonging, Realization’s epiphany sharp and ruthless.

Underneath the wind Cloaked figures hide in shadow Waiting for the marks

Hidden deep below Figures wait under the bridge Monsters bide their time

In this blackened hole Is no shred of innocence Mercy will not show

Hooded figures dance To seal the fate of those scored By the mark of death

Blackened robes conceal Blackened hearts that do not beat Shadows creep inside

They are not aware Nothing seems amiss to them When it is too late

All that led to this Five clans fall to meet their end Of the seven made

All are no match for Those who train under the cloak None can best their skill

One must reign above So their fates are sealed They must kill their own

Opposite but same It’s brother against brother Fated tragedy

Spilt blood of their own Forcing deeds that must be done Through their gritted teeth

Seven caught between Fighting for their hired hand And their loyalty

Swiftly blades rush by Cutting through the flesh of man With intent to kill

The water rushed behind him, down the river to the rocky tributary where he stood. It trickled past his waitered ankle, parting around him like the boulders that poked through the wash. The smooth wet stones, rounded by thousands of years of the water’s unrelenting pressure, sat sturdily despite the resistance. He lifted a small stone from the riverbed and freed it momentarily from its century-long resting place.

He felt the rock in his hand. It was almost as smooth as his own skin, having no jagged edges, but roundness where the ends should be. Where it sat against the clay of the river’s ground, was a pock mark that was not exposed to the pounding of the current.

He stood firmly around a boulder, jutting from the water’s surface. Its top, dry and relatively untouched by the water’s influence, remained rough and uneven.

Below me, the thick glass held firmly. Beneath my feet was something that was not meant to be seen by any living human. Nothingness. Below the glass lied empty space and air. Suspended high above the city, I looked down and saw the lives of thousands of people as my life literally hung over theirs.

The trip was short with the aide of an elevator, making the increased altitude unnaturally easy to scale. Within moments I was above it all. All the worries and chaos below isolated itself out of my depth. The noise of the city below unable to reach me as I stood inside this glass box.

Though all the pain was beneath me, I couldn’t help but feel afraid. When you’re higher up, you always have that anxiety of falling. The thick glass never creaked under the weight, but that didn’t stop me from worrying. The buildings grew narrower at the bottom, perspective making the problems seem smaller. But it was just an illusion. Beneath me lied the hopes and dreams and the lives of my peers.

There’s not much I have to bring with me when I come up on stage. I have to know the words, I have to know the rhythm and timing. I only need to bring myself and the words flow through me. A voice is not something you have to worry about bringing with you. Any time you need it, your voice can lend you its power and grace. There is no need for preparation. Though, your singing voice will hardly ever get you out of trouble.

A sword, however, will get you out of trouble. When you’re on stage and masked assassins with machetes fall from the rafters to kill you, songs aren’t going to kill those killers. A sword will, though. Unfortunately, unlike your voice, you don’t always bring a sword with you wherever you go. No matter how many years of training you get for either, you need a sword to sword fight. That’s just the handicap you’re given.

If I had come onstage with a katana or a broadsword instead of a guitar, my fans would assume I had gone crazy. Given the circumstances however, they probably wouldn’t think I was so crazy after all. Alternatively, if I had shown up to a sword fight with just my voice, my opponent would think I was crazy. Though, it’s unlikely a concert would happen during a fight to the death, apparently a fight to the death during a concert isn’t so unlikely.

Luckily for me, there was a bucket aboard the lifeboat. What a silly way to go. As if the ship sinking wasn’t enough, here I am, sinking in a second boat immediately afterwards. How ironic that this lifeboat would be the death of me. Irony wrapped in a coincidence. How lovely. Lovely for the fish perhaps. They’d be getting a good meal of me.

That’s more than I can say of my last meal. To think I was worried that spoiled tuna would give me food poisoning. Wouldn’t have to worry about that upset stomach now that I’d be dead. Besides, what kind of cruise ship doesn’t have fresh fish on board? Old fish on a ship is like fresh fish in the desert. Logistically, it seems improbable, yet here we are. Some days you eat the rotten fish and other days the rotten fish eat you.

I wasn’t really mad that I was dying. Everyone dies. I just wished I wouldn’t die so ironically. I know I’m prone to bad luck, but I don’t think I deserve it like this. Luckily I wouldn’t die the day after I retired or something. At least I was going to eventually drown and not burn to death. That would have been too perfect to even happen. Unfortunately, my current situation wasn’t much less poetic.

I looked at the knife I grabbed when the wreckage floated by. How a knife floated by, I’ll never know, but it did. I thought about slitting my throat with it to escape this ironic death. Then I wouldn’t have drowned ironically, I would have bled out. But even that seemed ironic. Sinking in their lifeboat and they bled to death? Nobody would have seen that coming. Was that still irony?

I said “Screw it!“ and jammed that thing in my neck and I passed out. I bled out and died right there, thinking I escaped my fate. But instead, fate just changed the rules. Not 5 minutes later, a passing ship sailed by and saw my lifeless body. They took me aboard and tried to save me but it was too late. If I had just waited 5 minutes, I would have been saved. I cursed to myself as I existed in the ether. Now everyone would know the kid who offed themselves 5 minutes before they were going to be saved. What a loser.

They caught me. Arrested me for time thievery. Goofing off on company time. I took too long on my break and now I’m done for. Fired or worse. I don’t quite know why they punish us so severely, but I think I might have an idea.

They punish us for stealing pennies from them while they get robbed whole dollars by those that rule them. We steal threads and they raise hell. The system steals the whole rug from under them and nobody dares say a peep. They only dare ruin our lives. They criticize us for stealing morsels and then call us “Crumb Kings” as if we live heartily on hoarding scraps. They complain about our welfare, but the paychecks they lose to their masters are happily given.

I guess they can only crush the bugs they can stomp with no repercussions. I almost feel sorry for them. Almost. If I wasn’t going to suffer because of this, I would have, but they are too blind to realize. Covering their eyes with their own hand. They believe money means worth.

People are born to fortune and people are born to poverty. Yet those who waste time are only called slackers if they are poor. Time thievery is only a crime if you’re poor. Because you’re stealing the time from the people that own you. If someone has all the money they need to survive, they owe nothing to society. Is it fair that these people are considered great when they contribute nothing? To them it is is fair, so it is.

Shouldn’t a man be known for the accomplishments they make, rather than the capital? No. This isn’t a meritocracy. This is capitalism. Money is what you’re worth. Money buys you time and the time of others. That’s why time thievery is a crime. They think you’re stealing from them.

Every day, when I walk home from school, there’s this tunnel I have to go through. Once in the morning, once in the afternoon. Even though I’ve walked this dark, lengthy thing so many times, I still feel uneasy walking through it. No matter which side you stand on, you can still see light on the other end of it. It’s the only comfort of walking through it. There used to be lights on the ceiling, but I had never seen them on. Maybe they were all burnt out a long time ago. It was a safety hazard to be sure, but since nothing ever happened in there, nobody seemed to care

So every day, I just run through it. No matter how tired I am in the morning or how exhausted I may be after school, I always sprint through it as fast as I can. For all I know, there are people in there waiting to jump out at you and hurt you. Of course, that’s what I tell myself anyway. The town I live in is quiet, and something like that would have been unheard of. I knew it was just an irrational fear of mine, but I had to lie to myself.

I would sometimes stare through it a moment before I ran through. The tunnel was long enough that plenty of darkness fell under it. The walls and floor reflected no light, adding to the darkness and uncertainty. Even at a full sprint, it would take me twenty or thirty seconds to run the entire length. It gave me time to ruminate on all the things that could hide in the shadows around me. All I would do was focus on the light ahead and not anywhere else. To look down would be to see nothing. Not even your own body would be visible.

Today, I stood at the precipice of the long tunnel with a lantern in my hand and I was determined to put my fears to bed. Instead of my normal sprint, I would walk the length of it and face my fears. The first step was the hardest. Once I stared into the darkness, it took every ounce of courage not to stand there or turn my walk into a deep sprint. At first, the light of the sun could penetrate the opening, but further in, my lantern was the only thing that lit anything.

I ventured further in, illuminating everything that I once feared. The walls had no nooks or places to hide behind. The brick that was laid was a bland dull red. Nothing was written on the walls either. We didn’t really have any vandals in our quiet town, so there really wasn’t any graffiti at all. The floors were unimpressive asphalt and the ceilings were brick archways where nothing could hide. I wondered why I ever had any bad feelings at all about the place.

It was an ordinary tunnel. In fact, I became a little bored with walking, seeing the same sight of brick and asphalt for awhile now. I started to jog a bit, still looking around, but at a quicker pace. At this point, I had made it about half way in, and I stopped to look between the two sources of light. For a moment, I realized I was standing right in between the two exits. If anything were to happen, I would be the furthest place possible from escaping.

It was this realization that kept me moving forward. Very soon, the monotony of the brick was punctuated by a strange and curious sight. A door. It was a solid metal door painted a similar red color as the brick. The knob, which was not much more than a round piece of stainless steel, hung wobbly in the door itself. It had a lock on it, but the knob itself looked like it was going to fall off. The sight of the door led me to look just a bit ahead of it, where there was a window in the brick.

Behind the glass was a steel reinforcement, as if there was an expectation that something could puncture through it. Behind that was a small room. Broken blue tiles on the wall and a shadow occupied the space. Moving my lantern a bit higher, I brightened up the room inside and revealed the shadow inside.

A man in a white shirt and black tie sat there, staring blankly down in front of him, just below the window itself. His presence scared me for a second, as I was surprised anyone would be down here. He didn’t move at all to my light as I waved it back and forth, trying to get his attention. He couldn’t see me. Gently, I tapped on the window, trying to get his attention. Once my light tapping gave me no response, I tapped harder and harder until my tap became a knock.

Still he gave me no response. I turned to the door, hoping maybe I could get inside. Sure enough, the brick red slab of metal creaked open like a charm. The paint on the hinges cracked and fell off as I opened it, as if it hadn’t been opened in years. Once inside, I looked over to the right where the man sat. He didn’t hear the door creak open, and he continued to look down.

I looked around the room. It was barely big enough for the door to open. I closed the door behind me, only to find there was nothing but blank tile wall. The door I came through was the only one in or out. I stepped towards the man slowly, hoping he would hear me and stop staring so intently on the control panel in front of him. His eyes were still open, staring intently at it.

“Hello?“ I asked, but he didn’t say anything or even respond. Either he was both deaf and blind, or something was wrong here. I put my hand on his shoulder and shook it a bit. He wasn’t cold and he wasn’t stiff. I didn’t dare check his pulse, but he was alive, for sure. I checked him out for a second. White shirt, black tie, khaki pants. He looked like some possessed office worker. On his shirt was a name badge. But instead of a name, all it said was “OPERATOR” in cold typeface lettering. He was just sitting there, ignoring everything around him, save for the console in front of him.

It was a simple console. Only a few buttons on it, all labeled and all very simple looking. There was a switch on it too. The rather large switch stuck out in a T-shape out of the slanted metal box. The label below it read “ACTIVATE“ The operator’s hand clutched the switch with white knuckles, but it was still set to the “DEACTIVATE“ position. Something deep and guttural in me wanted desperately for him to let go of the switch, but I knew somehow that touching his hand would be a big mistake.

I read some of the other buttons. None of them made much sense to me. There was one though, that stood out. All of the other buttons had a small film of dust over them except for one. “LIGHTS“ had a void of dust on its round button. Someone had pressed it far more recently. I decided to press it. Once I did, all the lights in the tunnel sparked on.

I stood there in shock for a second. All this time I could have just turned the lights on and saved myself all this dread. A tiny light switched on above us in the small room. Leaving the tight, claustrophobic quarters, I left the operator there and went on back home. Walking out of there, I closed the door behind me and started to leave.

I checked the window again. The operator was no longer looking down at the console. He was looking straight ahead with the same intent stare he had at the switch. To my bafflement, he had moved since I had left the room. I passed him, making the mistake of passing his gaze. I stared into his eyes. They stared straight through me, chilling me to my core as I gazed back into his. He was empty. He was nothing. A shell of a man. But somehow, I knew he saw me. I broke my sight-line and never looked back.

I jogged heavily down the now brightly lit corridor. The orange glow of the tunnel lights bounced off every surface and made everything the same monotone orange. I kept going forward, not looking at anything else in case I might find something else. I almost made it completely out of the tunnel, almost tripping and stepping loudly to a halt just outside the opening. I fell to my knees. I was out.

I heard a click. Turning my head, I saw the tunnel lit from end to end, almost able to see the knob of the door all the way in the center. But then something changed. The lights in the middle began to go out. The darkness fell like dominoes as all the lights shut themselves off, one by one, until the darkness filled the long tunnel again, light by light. They hadn’t just burnt out. The button had been pressed.