InkStains
January
by John Urbancik
InkStains
January
by John Urbancik
© 2014 John Urbancik
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to persons, living or dead, are neither intended nor should be inferred.
Cover art and Design © 2014 John Urbancik
For more information, please visit www.darkfluidity.com
For everyone who has ever
touched a pen to paper.
Acknowledgements
It would’ve been impossible to write all these stories by hand without the help of Cross fountain pens and all the notepads I used – including Moleskine, Lechtturm1917, and Rhodia – none of whom provided me with any promotional considerations.
As I took this journey, and twisted my hand into unrecognizable distortions, Mery-et suffered the most even as she gave me her full support. Thank you.
And thanks, as always, to Sabine and the Rose Fairy.
INKSTAINS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
January
1 January
2 January
3 January
4 January
5 January
6 January
7 January
8 January
9 January
10 January
11 January
12 January
13 January
14 January
15 January
16 January
17 January
18 January
19 January
20 January
21 January
22 January
23 January
24 January
25 January
26 January
27 January
28 January
29 January
30 January
31 January
About the Project and Author
Also by John Urbancik
INTRODUCTION
When I started this project, I aimed to write a story every day for a year. By hand. I found an inexpensive yet fancy fountain pen (fountain pens are, by definition, fancy), started with a Moleskine notepad, and on 1 January 2013 set to writing.
I allowed myself three days off per month; after a few months in which I only took one day, I decided to make it one day – a mandatory day, at that – through the rest of the year.
Stories did not have to be fiction. Nonfiction, essays, reviews, memoirs – all genres – everything was open to me, so long as they were complete.
These are the results: failures and successes both. I made zero editorial decisions on what to include. I cleaned up grammar and spelling, and spent months typing up the almost 250,000 handwritten words; I did my best to strengthen the writing where it was weak. I’m very happy with a lot of the stories, and disappointed with others, but I think some are fantastic. (I’m biased. You decide.)
As these InkStains collections come out one month at a time, I invite you to follow me on this journey. See where I went. You’ll start to recognize recurring themes. You’ll start to wonder why I’m so fascinated with a nursery rhyme. You’ll start to map out your own journey. You’ll know, almost to the day, when I went to New Orleans; but will you know when I went to New York, or where else I might have gone?
As you read this year’s writing, I’m doing it again. I’ve embarked on another InkStains project. The twist, for 2015, is that I will decide on a monthly theme to unify the stories – whatever they may be.
JANUARY
Welcome to the first month of the year. You are welcome to read a story every day – every day but the one I took off – to follow my progress naturally. You are just as welcome to devour them in an entire night.
In January we’ll see fast cars and old gods, magic and myth, the first of my maps – a theme I’ll return to throughout the year – a few dangerous women, and the birth of poetry. I hope you enjoy following my journey.
1 January
The moon overhead: she smiles on me, she guides me, she offers me the greatest of gifts, even if I cannot recognize them at the time.
The moon, high above, sends her blessings, sends her archers, sends her poisonous children to aid me in the great things I must – in this lifetime – accomplish.
The moon, behind her veil or fully exposed, doesn’t merely watch. She manipulates. She plans. She changes. She’s responsible for the most intricate machinations.
The moon, hanging low, tonight, eyes – angry, disappointed, dissatisfied – focused on me. She’s taken her blessings, she’s sent her archers and poisons, she means to eradicate me.
I won’t let her.
I have learned a great many things and fostered a great many talents. As fine as her archers may be, I am swift, agile, light as the wind, and fluid like no thing these men have ever seen.
Arrows in the air, a rain of them – a storm, but I retreat to city streets and narrow alleys. I force them to chase me into close quarters. They are archers, designed for long range assault, and have little protection from my knives.
I don’t make them suffer. I am quick and merciful, merely fighting for my life, my own life, and perhaps the fate of the world. I don’t know if I’m bold enough to make such an assertion.
Ultimately, the moon’s archers fail, and the moon’s archers fall.
I have devoted myself to the study of a great many poisons. The powders do not tempt me. The smokes dissipate. The odorless, colorless, invisible and undetectable poisons she sends – the moon up in her sky – swim uselessly in my veins. They fight amongst themselves, acting and counteracting; and yes, they make me ill, they bring a sickly color to my cheeks, and they steal my strength, but they fail to bring me down. My lungs still draw breath. My heart beats. In an uncomfortable, unsightly moment, I am purged.
Almost, I admit, the venom of a lover threatens me, but even against impossible beauty I emerge triumphant. I would like to say I changed my lover’s heart, that Love conquered, but this night; alas, that would be a lie.
Finally, atop a hill, within sight of both the city and my former lover’s fresh grave, the moon comes down from the sky wrapped in elegant darkness, shadows cascading from her hair, eyes like diamonds, lips and hips dangerously curved.
We circle each other on the hilltop. I can defeat her archers and her poisons, her plans and designs. I can overcome the loss of her favor. I do not know if I am capable of defying the moon directly.
“Why will you not die?” she asks.
“I will. But not tonight.”
“Why must you resist me?” she asks.
“I never have.”
“You mock me.”
“Never would I dare.”
She smiles. It’s the sharpest weapon in her arsenal. She says to me, “I may have fallen in love.”
I don’t presume, so I say nothing.
“You have proven yourself worthy,” she tells me. She steps forward. I step back. Her smile trembles.
I say, “You turned away from me.”
“Tis my nature,” she says.
“You set your archers on me, and your poisons.”
She shrugs. “I have more archers, and more poisons.”
“You wanted me dead.”
“Death,” she says, “is not an end.”
“I will not die this night,” I tell her. “I will not fall for your lies, your machinations, your fabrications. I will not fall for you. You’d be gone within a fortnight.”
She looks away. A moonlit tear slips from her eye. Sorrowfully, she admits, “Tis my nature.” Then she looks to me again and extends a hand, one last, final invitation. “But I promise a glorious fortnight.”
; 2 January
The crow said to me, “It’s time.”
I glanced at my $23,000 watch (don’t judge me; I’m in the midst of a fever dream) and asked, “Time for what?”
“To float down the river.”
“Styx? No.” I said it flatly. “That’s not going to happen.”
“A different river,” the crow said. Then with a mighty caw, it flew away, leaving me on this raft without an oar, leaving me to the mercy of the merciless river. I floated, swiftly and with apparent determination (no, I shouldn’t really call it floating) until the raft got caught up in the bend of the river.
I’m no raftsman. I’ve never been on a river. I don’t know how they work, except in the grip of a fever dream.
Upon the shore, the land, the dry stuff that surrounded the river, I met a coyote – a desert creature, I’m sure, but you can’t blame me. The coyote said to me, “It’s time.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re already late,” the coyote said.
“Then I’ll need a faster car.”
The coyote grinned the way you’d expect a wolf to grin, then he led me to a sleek, low, red piece of art from Italy on the edge of a long, narrow road.
“Straight on till sunset,” the coyote told me.
Let me tell you now, that car was fast. I didn’t have to hit the gas to make it go; I had to hold it back with all my weight on the brake just so it wouldn’t take off before I was ready.
The road led to a castle. The sweet Italian stallions got me to it in no time.
At the door, a butler greeted me. He called me Lord something, and it might’ve been my name. He said to me, “The party has already begun.”
“They couldn’t wait?”
“No, my Lord, the could not.”
So I entered the ballroom, where I thought I’d heard all the music, but it was empty. I found a kitchen large enough to cook for the entire Velvet army, but it was hollow and full of the echoes of my footfalls. I found a bathroom with an Olympic sized tub, a jetted tub, the water streaming – but I found no party.
I did find a mouse. The