Empire

´To fight the empire is to be infected by its derangement...whoever defeats part of the Empire becomes the empire, it proliferates like a virus...thereby it becomes its enemies.`

´Welcome to Eve Industries´ the soothing feminine voice on the intercom spoke as the elevators opened before her.

Aere took a big breath, tucking a loose strand of strawberry pink hair behind her ear before stepping into what would now be her new office in the Empire. The room before her contained a wide open floor plan letting in plenty of natural light, a drastic difference from her old cramped office space on the Golden Coast. The room was decorated in various shades of lavendar, cream, and rose with the traditional Founding Mothers displaying the New Republic´s leaders mounted on the lefthand wall. From the kitchen to her right, she could smell a brew of fresh chamomile tea--leaves no doubt grown in one of the many window boxes that hung from the furthermost wall overlooking the impressive modern cityscape.

It was perfect. 

This is it, Aere thought surpressing a squeal. This was the realization of her dream—of all their dreams and hard work over the years. And she was a part of it. She was a part of the new nation-building---a critically important piece of herstory that would last throughout the generations.  

´You must be Aereola´ the woman at the front desk said warmly, rising from her seat and extending a hand out in greeting.

`My name is Hilary, after President Clinton. I`m the front desk coordinator here at Eve.´ 

        

The girl was in her mid-twenties, tall and lean with beautifully green doe eyes and long blonde hair. She had the type of body evolutionary bioloigsts had immortalized for years before the revolution. Aere had no doubt that she would have been a model in the Old Republic. 

`Please, call me Aere.´

`But you have such a lovely name!´she exlaimed, brushing Aere`s bare arm and sending an all too familiar warmth courisng through her body, causing her to blush. If Hilary noticed her feelings, she gave them no notice.

`I guess you come from a long line of activism then, yeah?´ she continued, not wavering from Aere`s gaze.

Aere smiled, surveying the girls bright yellow bohomeian parachute pants and white loose peasant top, reminding herself once again that in the New Republic she had no need to be insecure of her own appearance. Still, it was a hard habit to break from the dark days, when beauty and competition for men´s attention was all that mattered to a young woman´s self worth. But those days were over now. Aere sighed and visibly allowed her shoulders to relax.

´Yeah, I was conceieved on the night of the ´Free the Nipple´ march on Washington. My mother was very proud of the result, on all accounts, hence the namesake.`

´Well we`re so glad you could be a part of our team. If you will follow me, Joan is waiting for you in her Office` Hilary continued gesturing to the far right hand wall.

Aere followed closely behind as Hilary made her way to a rich mahogany door adjacent from the Wall of Founding Mothers. It seemed dark and isolated, a threatening eyesore in an otherwise bright and collectively open workspace.

 ´Yes! Come in` a fluttery voice called from within.

Hilary pushed the door open, revealing a very large desk with two women in long black Maxi dresses and matching gray pixie cuts huddled over a spray of papers. It was hard to tell which was Joan, as the two were almost identically dressed—though the woman on the right sported a full colored sleeve of tattoos. The tattooed woman looked up and smiled, her crows feet giving away her seniority.

´You must be Aereola! Hello, I´m Joan. Please, come in.  I´ve been expecting you. Placenta here was just showing me her work on a new high school instruction manual entitled `How to write the Female Heroine.` She used to be the Dean of Letters at Welsley before the revolution, you know.´

Placenta smiled up encouragingly and gave a little sheepish wave.

´The New Republic is really trying to push creative writing this year!´ she chuckled, gathering the papers in front of her and pushing up her thick coke botttle glasses.

´Well these look great Placenta, thank you` Joan continued with a sigh of finality. ´Lets talk again after lunch.´  

As the door closed behind Placenta, Aere stepped forward to shake her new boss` hand.

´Welcome welcome! Forgive me, today is a very busy day so brevity is the name of the game but I look forward to talking with you at greater length later in the week. Please, take a seat.´

Aere smiled and sank gratefully into a plush cream armchair opposite Joan`s desk, the long walk from her new apartment to the Office having taken its tole on her poor feet.

         ´So as you know, Eve Industries has been contracted through the Department of the Arts to prepare the main texts used for school ciriculums nationwide. In a very real way, we are in charge of writing the next generation of narratives in which we hope to see a drastically different representation from the inequality of the Old Republic. 

´Your main focus will be working on adapting editorial content to make it more approachable for younger audiences. As I understand it, you`ve had extensive experience with Ms as Chief Editor?´

´Yes that`s right` Aere nodded. She had been with Ms. since before the revolution, back when there was such a thing as a ´feminist´ category of magazines.

´Well you`ve been an exceptional asset to the cause over the years, Aere. Just as your mother was before you and your future daughters no doubt will be should you make that choice.´

´Thank you,´Aere blushed, unaccustomed to such praise from her superiors.

Joan smiled and rose suddenly from her desk, making her way to the open window overlooking the far off bridge in the distance.  Though the steady hum of downtown traffic whizzed by just underneat her feet, Joan`s face seemed calm and relaxed. She took a deep breath and let the silence permeate the office around her.

´I must admit I have been following you for quite some time now and I´m quite impressed ` Joan continued, silencing Aere`s wandering thoughts and bringing her back into the present moment.

´You have a gift, Aereola, that few posess. You seem to have the innate ability to discern truth from fiction and find the voice that may not always be the most popular, but the voice that needs to be heard nontheless. Important skills that are greatly needed in the work we do here at Eve.´

 ´We´ve fought too long to earn our seat at the table to have it come to nothing, bickering over the finer points of feminism. We are all women, after all. Black, white, rich, poor—we all want the same things. And we need our story to reflect that unity.

´We consider oureselves a family here at Eve, a sisterhood if you will excuse the cliche. And in our literary endeavors we must continue to be a voice of one. There is no need for ´isms´ now—too many stories could confuse the children you understand…´

´I´m sorry´ Aere interrupted timidly, afraid of upsetting her boss on the first day of a lifetime´s worth of acheivements that had lead her to Eve.

´I´m not sure I quite understand what you`re asking of me.´

Joan turned away from the magnificent view, facing Aere and giving what was clearly to the both of them a well rehearsed smile. Though she had hardly wavered from the same rhetoric Aere herself had preached for years, something in Joan`s smile made Aere feel uncomfortable—or at the very least doubtful of her sincerity.

´I hope you will not misunderstand what our main mission is here at Eve,´she continued  `and so I will be more blunt.´

´As your time at Ms no doubt taught you, editing content sometimes requires making tough calls. It means including stories which may not be the most universally popular, but more importantly it means ommitting stories which detract from the larger more important message.

´Though our cause has been in the name of justice, no victory has ever been won without a few casualties. As such, I hope you will remember the silencing of our sisters over the generations and use their opression when editing content in support of the New Republic during this herstoric time.´

A gentle knock interrupted Joan`s soliloquy, causing her to look down at her watch and sigh. Despite the humid summer temperature, Aere sat frozen in her chair—unsure of how to respond. Before she could make up her mind, Joan extended her hand out in farewell.

´That would be my conference call!´Joan smiled again, her blue eyes mirroring the clear skies behind her ´I do appologize Aere, but we will have to continue this later.´

         ´Thanks for coming in today, and welcome to the Empire! I look forward to writing our new future together here at Eve Industries.`

Rice

Life comes from the earth and life returns to the earth.
Zhuangzi

The old man had been waiting, though not even the breath of the trees had begun to whisper of their impending awkening.

The sun had just begun its rise over the distant mountains, its pathetic attempts at ascension casting halfheartearted ombre streaks of saffron and salmon across the early dawn`s sky. As far as the eye could see were puddles--puddles and puddles and puddles of water holding in tiny pockets of moisture. Some far off pools reached greedily for the solemn peaks above, but were soon chastened back into their lowly existence by gravity´s cruel whip. It was the same gravity which had caused the old man, sitting on his porch that morning, to sink further into his chair as he looked out on his rice paddy fields and thought about the hopelessness of it all.

In his left hand he held a tea stained letter written in finely crafted Mandarin. On its yellowed edge the charred black lick of a candles flame slowly snaked its way towards the man`s blistered hands. It was a declaration he had recieved the previous morning, while sitting in the same position he now occupied. Unable to move since, it marked the first day and last day the man would miss a day of hard labor in the fields.

When the firey kiss finally became to much to bear, the old man allowed the last square of parchment to fall softly to the floor. It disentegrated faster now, until finally all that remained was a small pile of charcoal-colored ash. From around the corner of the porch, a rooster trepidly crept its way towards the man´s chair as if congnizent of the man´s precarious mood. Once deciding that the man meant him no harm, the animal moved closer--pecking at the sooty remains. It ate the bits of dust hungrily, its beak a loud click click tapping at the wooden floorboards. Like a well trained conductor, the sudden tapping seemed to send the rest of the world into position, an orchestra of birds and leaves and insects rising to greet the new day.

Not meaning to, the man jumped. It was the first time he had allowed the visions in his head to subside since losing himself in the illustrative power of the now-deceased letter. With great effort, the man rose-- the tendons in his arms and legs grew taught once more, pulling him towards the watery baptisms where he hoped to once again drown out the harsh realities of his lifes mistakes with the familiar anesthesia of a hard days work. 

It had been over twenty years, and try as he might to appear sentimental, he had rarely thought of it since. Like most things in life, it was simply another chore that needed to be done. Another unavoidable part of life—in all its past, present, and future grief.

There had been no room for her then. No work, and thus no life for her there, he had reasoned.  It was as simple as that—as simple as the promise of a word, an exchange of coin, and another empty carpet in their hut. And yet his wife, the ever cheery woman who had followed him into the fields since boyhood, could not bear with the parting as she watched the entirety of her genetic inheritance board that season´s crop heading for the city. Towards the new hopeful beginning every family in those fields knelt down that night praying for. Bound to no master, drenched to the bone in no untouchable luxury.

It wasn`t until he began coughing up blood that he started concerning himself with that fateful day so long past. Began searching for an heir with whom he could share the plenty he had acquired over a lifetime of sacrifice.

First he had dispatched a man to Beijing, since that´s where it had been promised she would be employed. When no trace of her could be found, he expanded the radius of his search to outlying villages and smaller cities. When still no news came of her whereabouts, he grew desperate—employing two more men to travel further south to Zhengzhou and Shanghai to bring her home. It had been months since he had heard news from his men, a full crop season had come and gone and he had given up hope on ever finding the lost girl. When the post had finally arrived the previous morning, a rare luxury over the past few years as more of his workers either died off or fled for the city, the seal of silence was finally lifted.

With a new sense of determination, the man walked swiftly to his shed where he kept his many farming tools. Pieces of hardened metal, extensions of his own blood thickened limbs over the years. Blood that, until only very recently, had become more important to him than the water he had looked after all his life.

At the bottom of a large chest of nets he found what he was looking for. Without looking back he turned the compass of his spine once more to his fields and began the well rehearsed balance act walking between tiny strips of soil in-between pools. Once or twice he paused to revel once again at the magnamity of his life´s work, but never more than a few seconds. Though he man moved with a sense of purpose, it was a purpose whose resolve was vulnerable to the passing of time.

When at last the old man came to the center of his fields, he stopped. Staring into the murky water, he placed one foot into its soft floor as his reflection became a disfigured blend of broken colors. Then another foot, then each hand as he fell wearily into the font of his absolution. Kneeling down in the early morning sunrise, he felt the familiar stance of childhood piety seep through his dirty clothes.

Far off in the distance a tiny spec of steel shot its way towards the man´s porch. It came out of nowhere, as they most often did-- the bright red bullet penetrating the great fortress of his earthly empire. At first it seemed to move slowly, as if taking its time to inspect the quality of the man`s efforts. And then all at once it was gone, winding once more between the mountain ranges ahead and out of his life forever. That was the closest they ever came, those mountains.

The man had never wanted it any differently.

Aestheticism

`When I came back to Dublin, I was court-martialed in my absence and sentenced to death in my absence so I said they could shoot me in my absence.` -Brendan Behan

For years I have been fascinated with the life of Oscar wilde, as many far more eccentric and creative souls than me have as well. He was an interesting character, full of drama and intrigue with scandal following him in almost every facet of his life.

Several years ago, when I was stuck doing menial filing jobs at my internship, I started to google some of my literary favorites. Oscar Wilde obviously came up, and soon I was reading article after article about his life. Interestingly, what stood out actually had little to do with him and more to do with his ex-girlfriend--Florence Balcombe. He had Florence dated briefly, parting when he left Trinity in Dublin and took off to study at Oxford. What surprised me most though about this woman was the fact that after dating Wilde, she went on to marry Bram stoker--the revered author of Dracula.

It always amazes me how literary powerhouses always seem to huddle together, and this was no exception. Stoker and Wilde actually did know each other, as they were both members of Trinity´s Philosophical Society. The fact that this woman could then ensnare the attention of two of the most prestigious writers of the time got my attention, and had inspired me years later now to write this set of historically realistıc letters that are, ultimately, still fiction.

The first is a letter Oscar sent to Florence after hearing of her engagement to Mr. Stoker. He is at the pinnacle of his vanity, studying in England and chasing after his many aesthetic pleasures. The second is a letter to her on his deathbed in abject poverty and obscurity in Paris. He has been through a lot of disappointments, had to suffer through conservative England and parting from his indulgent lifestyle and society. Basically, he is jaded and disappointed.

So without further ado, the letters.

To you, Mr. Wilde. May you have in reality lived with far less regret than I have written for you here when the end came.

___________________________________________________________________________

Florence,

It’s been almost a fortnight since I last wrote, and for that I apologize. Since our correspondence can only be completed through my dutiful persistent adulations of friendship, for this neglect there is no reprieve. And yet, were we to be but a stone’s throw from one another I hardly think there would hardly be a difference in the brevity and coldness with which I regard you now.

You will remember, I am sure, with great clarity the day in which we first spoke of marriage.

I can still see the image crisply in my mind—the way the thin arch of your brow rose like a question mark I would spend the rest of my life haunted by. Marriage, you said, had become too political. Had strayed from the natural purpose of man to enjoy this short life we have been given, through nonsensical sacrifice of the self and its multitude of desires. It was then that, after spending two of the most wonderful years in each other’s arms, you spoke clear and calm as a summer’s day and denied me the offer of your hand.

You can imagine my shock then when, not even a year after these fateful words I come to find that you have not only turned your back on these principals, but have all but become engaged to the former president of Trinity´s Philosophical Society, Mr. Abraham Stoker! And to think that you, my dearest Florence, could not even muster the self-decency and courage with which to inform me yourself.

Though I hold no qualms with this Stoker fellow, I can assure you that your original attitudes towards marriage were indeed correct. To think that such a woman as you, so ahead of her time could be so easily manipulated by dull conventions is perhaps the greatest grief our sex has to bear. Please, I beg of you, you are making a grave mistake. Cast aside this Mr. Stoker and make haste for England right away, I shall be waiting for you with more like-minded company. 

Yours,

O. Wilde

 --------------

My Beloved Florence,

The sickness has left me mad of my senses, and so I must write to you urgently while my mind is yet fresh and focused. I will strive to be brief.

I have no illusions that Bram and yourself were not privy to the trials in London, having heard the slander and propaganda piled before me. Nor to my sentencing to hard labor, for which I owe the ultimate breaking of my spirit. Though it has been three years since my release, I still feel the cracking in my bones to this day. The most recent companion of severe poverty and obscurity has, no doubt, further added to my unjust demise.

Alas, I digress. The rantings of an old lover are hardly cause for bringing fresh pain, and indeed it is to this end I wish to speak to you now. To address once and for all the issue of love and companionship, and the pain with which it has vexed me all these years.

Over the course of my life I have met many who have intellectually stimulated my faculties, envigorating my creativity to search for the newest beauty and truth. Many more have also found solace in my body, where nights of exploratory ecstacy gave way to the fondling of new forbidden arrangements—each satisfying different needs deep within my character.

And yet, as I sit here—my days numbered, my arms empty, having reveled in my fair share of earthly pleasures, I have yet to discover few moments of true joy.

Love is a strange and mystifying thing, Florence. Many philosophers have spoken on it, and yet all my years of studying have scratched but the mere surface of its power. I remember I used to marvel at your aesthetic integrity that summer day so long forgotten in our youth, when our love was at the end of its season--the power it took to walk away. In that same thread I would curse you, silently, for refusing to remain my muse and giving up your right to indulgence.  And yet now, as I walk blindly into the unknown, I realize with regret that it is I that has been the one walking away my entire life. But towards what, I frankly do not know. My chief philosophical guide has only served to exacerbate my own cowardice, rather than reveal my strength.

I should be so lucky as to have another chance at this life, to be able to admit my pride and chase the true happiness I was meant to have. It is perhaps the only true pleasure denied to me in this life, the true freedom of my soul`s eternal happiness. A future which, I’m afraid, is fast fading, and I have none to blame but myself.

And so it is with finality that I ask your humble forgiveness. For the stubbornness with which I allowed my pride to push away one of the great loves of my life. To you, my dearest Florence, I owe my every word. And I hope you will keep them close to your heart and remember me always, as I have always remembered you.

With warmest farewells,

O. Wilde