I wrote a story. A friend made a movie of it. I acted in it. He composed the music and played it.
My name is so.lo.war.
His name is Luca Balser.
This is the story:
On the Terrace of a Thousand Yellow Suns
I held the little life in my hand, reaching out over the wrought iron rail, balancing the little porcelain globe over the patio, over the soil that I had knelt in, ran my fingers through just that morning. For just a morsel of a moment, I could feel the pulsing heart beat enclosed in this life enclosed in this fragile entity. This beating drum pushed and pushed and vibrated against my little palm, making my hand quiver, my fingers shake. I held this little creature’s life in my hand. I held its fate and if I were to just flick my wrist—I would murder.
I had been bathing my glowing body in the spring sunshine for hours, bending and reaching into the cardboard carton next to me every few minutes, producing a little speckled object. There were freckles sprinkled across the façade of this thing. They were the freckles I wore across the bridge of my nose, a splattering of light brown paint, met occasionally by the corner of my crimson mouth, sometimes getting lost in the folds of my dimples as I let my laugh of feathers flow out of my mouth until the ground is white with a snow of down.
The round of the container of this growing baby fit perfectly into my palm. This one at this moment was different than the others and I subconsciously knew that if I were to drop it to the patio below, a little ball of feathers would be coughed out into a pile of shattered shells and little yellow suns.
The thought of such a simple birth and death within moments of one another made my own chest thunder at twice the frequency of the living being balanced precariously on my vibrating knuckles.
I had never really studied this white, freckled thing, the little yellow flight that it produces each spring, and as I held it to my flushed cheek, it felt like silk and its shape, its fucking shape was the shape of my own exasperated face. It was as pure as me. It was me and I imagined what it would feel like to float in mucus with my eyes closed until my little beak broke out and I emerged into the gaze of my mother. And I pondered this peculiar feeling, this warm fluid against my skin, my eyes glued together blissfully so that I was able to see into my own mind, so that I was able to roll my eyes back and look into this brain that had been so artfully crafted, enclosed in a hard case that quite resembled the one I held in my hand. Two things meant to protect. One easily broken and the other, also easily broken and with that, I flinched and dropped the life.
My mouth opened, a deep guttural cry escaping from my lips, no white down falling to the ground, no laughter, nothing but wailing and spitting and what felt like needles in my throat. I dropped to the wooden deck beneath me, forcing my face against the opening in the slatted rail and I watched the life descend and its heartbeat grew and grew, the thumping of bass from a bad stereo, pounding in sync with my own. I watched and watched and then it was over and it broke, shattered into ivory white pieces the size of my baby teeth.
Slowly the mucus began to leak running through the valleys of cracks between bricks and I sat sobbing, reaching my hand towards the murdered, praying that it would jump back on to the balcony, into my lap, and the little bundle of feathers would emerge, but nothing.
Where was the little baby covered in matted feathers? The blind child?
The yellow yolk slid out into the sea of suns and I realized that the baby had been long dead.