The Writing Space of Zevie Quinn

One lily drifts

Away from another

Across clouded water

To the pond's center

Where it sinks

Beneath the clouds of dirt and dust

Leaving one lily

To cut itself from its roots

And drown itself in the murky depths

Leaving nothing

"Of course I am, I wasn't gonna let you explore the depths by yourself!"

"I thought you said it would be a worthless endeavor, that there was no sense in leaving the comfort of our roots."

"Well, I still think there isn't, but there's also no sense in letting you go alone. I also didn't realize what a source of entertainment you are for me; I got bored really quickly after you left."

"I haven't been gone for that long!"

And, usually, memes die eventually or they fade out of usage and I would think, after literal centuries, that it would have long gone away.

But no. It was there, in the first edition of the Modern World History textbook, in the section about culture. As an example of a meme. And there, in the caption, is my name. And it's been there in every digital and physical copy of the textbook since. And then it made it into historical archives and now I'm stuck here, in LIMBO, because a bunch of hiStoriAns are arguing over the meanings and cultural relevance of different memes. There's one historian, I learn, that specializes in memes specifically. And she especially LOVES the kind of meme I have been made into. She talks about how famous I became, simply for a face I made one time that someone decided to focus in on.

I don't remember making the face. I don't remember if anything happened that would make me make that face. I don't know who decided to capture that moment, and I likely never will. But that meme specialist barely goes a day without saying my name.

I have never been angry before my first death. I died fairly young, from a motorcycle accident. But what I feel now borders on anger; it's frustration, narrowed towards a single person, wondering when that person will just let it go.

Let me go.

I've been waiting for centuries, watching others die their second deaths, and I am so tired of it.

I found out a couple days ago, after someone died their first death, arriving in limbo (same old, same old) and recognized me.

"...How do you know who I am?" I asked.

"Dude, you were in our history textbooks and my class made soooo many jokes about it."

Oh god.

In the starlit sky

Each burning flame, a piece of art

That stands the test of time

Each picture has a deeper core

With heart and soul and feeling

Connection that's so valued

That the lone ones lose their meaning

But many were not made to be

A lion or a dipper

Pretending burns the energy

And your light will start to flicker

But nights that most are photographed

Are ones with stars that dance

Without a pattern or sense of order

Sends many in a trance

We're a lot like stars, this way

We tend to prioritize belonging

We overthink and force our way

Into cliques that hurt us

It's easy to forget that people

Shine as bright alone

And the more you shine, the more you'll find

okay there are 42 chapters in the book, and dividing 3000 by 42 = ~72

so I’d have to write the chapter titles like this:

Now, I’m going to give you a number, and I’m going to ask that you send in a photo of your target alongside any additional information you may have- family members, security, combat training, medical conditions, just anything you can think of that might be helpful.

Wonderful, you are all good. All we need now is a piece of government-issued ID, for insurance purposes, and a location for payment pickup. We accept cash, gold, processed uranium, and etransfer.

I’m sorry, we don’t take american express.

Good, okay, so it looks like we are all set- when the job is complete, you will be notified VIA discreet codeword that a stranger will whisper to you on a crowded street.

We do not issue receipts, but if you’d like, I can arrange for a specific breed of tropical flower to be sent to your home address. Our associates will be able to validate it should the need arises.

“I’m sorry sir, but I’m afraid the Pope is a high-status target that is beyond our area of service.

Yes, I- no, I’m sorry, I’m not able to do that for you.

Okay. Okay. Yes, I understand.

Sir, if you’re going to use that sort of language, you should know that our HR department does operate in a hands-on capacity.

I look at the plants as they reach for the sun

I watch the moon move the oceans

Watch you drive

To listen, not stand and wait for mouths to stop

Give all the feeling that is embedded in my marrow

To take all I am, all that I could be, to show you how I love

.

We have both been through cruel hellish lessons on earth

A barrage of inflicted wounding events, tainting life with doubt

Callouses grown for self defense, to shelter the paths we tread

Walls easy to hide behind, lest we fail in our upward climb

.

Even on my softest day, your most hardened is still softer

Compassion, unlocked with love, flows from your words

Genuine care given, even when others have left scars

A heart beating true, a soul rare in form

.

of or relating to a previous day or to yesterday (Merriam-Webster)

n. the otherworldly atmosphere just before 5 a.m. when the bleary melodrama of an extremely late night becomes awkwardly conflated with the industrious fluorescence of a very early morning.

Etymology: French aubade (an ode to the morning) + abattoir (slaughterhouse)

A slice of sunlight that pierces through the leaves of a tree.

From "shive" (OE) meaning slice.

Coined by poet Gerald Manley Hopkins in 1888.

In use: