bellairet

United States

She/her
Asian

Good Morning, even if it's night

Message from Writer

Keep on keeping on.

Published Work

By the Dragon's Wing

Wingbeats draw breath from flattened lungs and spew forth 
the searing venom from our blood in a shower of sparks which land 
isolated on an outstretched palm 
and my fingers brush your manifestation of power, feel the heat of your 
breath race down my shivering spine and pool in the shattered bone
fire is lodged in the back of my throat as I mimic the shadow of a beast 
overhead, as I sputter and crackle in barely-suppressed flame
again I can feel the edge of your wing, the sharpness 
that lashed the very storm into submission 
and in my wishes I ride atop the clouds in a span of grandeur, 
membranes silhouetted in pulsing veins of spiraling scarlet, unfurling 
in midair and rising higher, higher until you and I are just 
talons against the biting wind and the glimpse of the brilliant sea
I think of this and soar with my eyes closed, dreaming of 
shrieking flame and reverential utterances...

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

Töregene

    Töregene heard the sound of feet on the grass outside her ger, signaling the arrival of a messenger. She did not lift her head, instead continuing to work on the new tax policy, ink blooming from her brushstrokes onto the paper. She silently cursed Ögedei, her husband. The Khagan. You drunkard, where did you go off to now? The collection routes still need to be revised; these numbers are much too low…
    She flicked her eyes upward, not hearing the customary rustle of robes as an ordinary messenger sank into a respectful position. To her surprise, the man before her stood stiff. A court official, she realized from his clothing. Lower ranked than herself, but still an official nonetheless. This was important business. 
    “Speak,” she intoned, leaning against the wall of the ger. The structure was situated in the center of Karakorum, the capital. It was one of the Khagan’s many homes in the city.
   ...

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

Töregene

    Töregene heard the sound of feet on the grass outside her ger, signaling the arrival of a messenger. She did not lift her head, instead continuing to work on the new tax policy, ink blooming from her brushstrokes onto the paper. She silently cursed Ögedei, her husband. The Khagan. You drunkard, where did you go off to now? The collection routes still need to be revised; these numbers are much too low…
    She flicked her eyes upward, not hearing the customary rustle of robes as an ordinary messenger sank into a respectful position. To her surprise, the man before her stood stiff. A court official, she realized from his clothing. Lower ranked than herself, but still an official nonetheless. This was important business. 
    “Speak,” she intoned, leaning against the wall of the ger. The structure was situated in the center of Karakorum, the capital. It was one of the Khagan’s many homes in the city.
   ...

Floating, Drifting, All the Same

Plunge now, tighten the roots that reach from sky to the bound seafloor, reel
in the new catch fresh from waves that 
break on the side of our white-stilled canoe. Gliding through the stars,
we call them stars, as they mirror the points 
of light above. Below? Are they the shafted bits of arrow aimed, perfect for the center?
How could we tell the change from ripple to north-blown breeze, how could we
tell one or the other to cease? Condemn the snatchers who chase
the stardust on an icy current, intent on purging them from the sea, 
thrusting them in the approximate direction of the eye of the hurricane. Be silent now,
break the water line ever gently, glide through the night. Already the roar
and spurn of the engine putters to a faraway whimper, keening with the tide. 
Call out your arms to the drifting, lost, illuminating flickering orbs and draining pallor
from the bordering sky. Release, release,...

Where They Should Walk the Sheet of Glass

There is a stretch of stomped dirt, sprawled behind the iron fence, still-eyed
like a forgotten murdered corpse. A garden, for the worms of many years past, inching 
under pebbles, each as gray, somehow proudly on display 
above a bed of dust. Yet now, a graveyard, perhaps, for the memory and no,
no bones to be buried from the worm. But burned by the relentless sun, ashes
may be found, scattered not to the deep, deep sea but onto that dead, dead body.

Barbed wire, twisted metal tempts the glint of the killing rays but also
the flash of the cut as well. Opposites may attract, and similar blades may murder, 
such is the law in the lawless land of the forever still. Where to from the tear in the gate?
A trek across the desert, all in due order. Spit from the dead man, all dried,
crusted atop mounds of dirt. Single set of footprints lead from the ghastly...

Hearthscape

Bread is a staple food. It is which our ancestors ground from the golden 
spoils of labor, rooted in the soil and crushed into powdered grain, that which
rides like dust in the light and settles, snow-white, on a well-oiled board. Nourished 
by the hearth and the flame, risen in a cast of iron, to a single, warm-centered roll.
Of the fire and the human heart, none knows them better. 

And yet. Who checks the ashes for the black-burnt bottom, scraped sullen into the coals?
This, which had been cared for so gently by labored hands, worked 
and kneaded and tucked to bed by a checkered cloth at twilight. Cherished, similar lullabies 
once reached their ears, just as surely as the the notes did sparkle
in the center of the pan. All that, burnt away by the roaring flame.

All sacrificed to the open hellish plains, and dropped from the mind as easily as the fire
tears apart its meal....

Hiatus

is a turn away from the board and the silence after a cymbal’s crash.
It is passed among the branches of the tallest trees, echoed by the darkened floor.
The air allows it to reverb through the clouds, and at this the blood in our veins
changes direction again. How long until the world becomes bored and spins once more,
idle in our absence? Spin, Earth, spin me round the stars and let me string my thread
through the planets, spin me away to admire my latticework.

A stillness that lasts no longer than death. When will the forest horn come calling again? 
Shall my ears fuse shut, leave me to the mercy of the soil, he who knows abandonment well 
and who may imprison me unfeelingly. It is not so bad to allow the ringing 
to bounce in my head, one pole to another, and never draw it out. None but a terrible siphon
could accomplish this, either. And...

Today

Terror by the eyes of the moon, and again
sutured by the caressing sun. Today, a day like another,
another mark on the calendar, another
vanished, faded into mist. Can you gather the tiny little beads back together
like you can drink from the crystal dew?
Instead of kinship with the youngest grass, can you try to reach the clouds?
Once, I did, in a dream. I woke up
to the fog being blasted apart by the knife-shaft
of the sun, stabbing at the earth again
again, and again...

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

And Then We Were Lost

The year that quivered on the edge of an era—that was the year that everything left. 
    First it was the leaves, dropping from their temporal tethers. Then, the sun, dipping lower each day until one morning, it vanished. And finally, it was the people. One by one, filing out of our lives with oblivious smiles. 
    Without them, the town withered. Silence hung in every street, clinging sticky to our backs. The sky seemed even grayer than usual, somehow. 
    While it rained, we stood in the graveyard, reading epitaphs in a language we no longer knew how to speak. 

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

And Then We Were Lost

The year that quivered on the edge of an era—that was the year that everything left. 
    First it was the leaves, dropping from their temporal tethers. Then, the sun, dipping lower each day until one morning, it vanished. And finally, it was the people. One by one, filing out of our lives with happy smiles. 
    Without them, the town withered. Silence hung in every street, clinging sticky to our backs. The sky seemed even grayer than usual, somehow. 
    While it rained, we stood in the graveyard, reading epitaphs in a language we no longer knew how to speak. 

The Way of Silence

Sparks that fly around the heart, the angel’s shriek of death, 
swordpoint hews the final truth from that last dying breath.
Again, the sun ascends its peak, the moon hangs bright and strong, 
never grieve for power lost, silence the mourning song. 

The shining lights are doused too soon, the plague allowed to grow,
brighter burning candles are the first ones set to go.
As bitter and impassioned as the loud are wont to be, 
the vengeful keep their distance and in silence they are free.

But no, the shifting cards are focused so on perfect form, 
a little lie is cut and shuffled into the open storm.
Demons are beheaded and their blood is sucked away, 
their ghosts drift silently, unseen, ignored for another day.
 

bare names

there are faces behind every wisp of light. every
shadow has a name, wound around fine strands of hair
and softening sharp edges.

however small of stature, however grand of fame, neither
the moon nor the sun lasts forever. and take away
the craters, erase the sunspots and fill them in with
standard caulk, and are they not the same?
brightly burning, lit afire
with purpose, reigning over parallel dimensions?

never declare superiority. greater men have fallen
into power and then away, for writing their own histories.
yet this, too, shall be forbidden, for who
is the rightful judge of greatness? in crowning yourself
you have ascended in status but descended in power, and so. you
will level out, and remain the same. as will they,
and i in turn.

no one can travel while remaining in place. infinity
is a concept, not a number, and it can never
be reached. likewise, nothing is definitive. shed the
glamour and hang...

cloud palace

tucked behind sunlit clouds, high above
a dusky palace rises into the air

burnished golden spires tear into 
the velvet sky and tether the wandering winds

hold my wanderings too, i’d love for
bits of mist to lace through my tangled hair

and keep me suspended in soothing currents
floating above it all

comforting lies are shaded by delicate
walls, woven of ink and shallow desires

hiding away from the sun, for the touch of a single
questing shaft of light disintegrates the clouds

then i’ll fall, through the weakening, barely-there lattice 
and through slipping waves of darkness that devour me gently

forever falling, forever turning on an indeterminate axis
palace, cradle me tightly
 

Inferno

Our view of the world, seen through a haze
Of smoke and mirrors, set ablaze
By wielders of the righteous torch 
That leaves believers parched and scorched

A fire starts with a single spark
That may not make a significant mark
But feed it souls bled dry with grief
And combustion will be a quick relief

Sweet roses, daisies, a thousand blooms
Withered old by toxic fumes
Those hungry flames, a raging blaze
Searing out the joyous days

Yet fire works both ways. 

Our view of the world, seen through a haze
Of smoke and mirrors, set ablaze
By wielders of ferocious flame
The golden days could be reclaimed

A fire starts with a single spark
That may not make a significant mark 
But feed it hope with faithful hand
And watch the truth spread through the land

Dried roses, daisies, a thousand souls
Had been torn with ragged holes
They cannot be brought back to life
But we’ll burn...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

From Afar

Dear Elsewhere, 

    Hey. I wonder, do you remember me? If I had to guess, I’d say you wouldn’t. That’s okay, though, because there was never a reason for you to remember. To you, I am a shadow, a ghost. It’s probably better if it stays that way. 
    It must have been years ago when you and I met. I don’t remember the specifics. Maybe that’s strange, but can any of us ever sense the exact moment something significant begins? Perhaps, but for me, the beginning of a story does not matter as much as the content. After all, some of the best novels I’ve ever read meander around in the beginning. So after a while, I stopped trying to recall where, or when, or how exactly I stumbled upon your path. That was alright, I thought. Sometimes in novels, side characters become main characters eventually. I used to sit down in the room you were in and read,...

White Knife Condensation

 it’s a white
It’s a white, white room I’m in
White and clean
So it’s like I’m sitting in the clouds or 
Floating drifts of powdered snow but
not really
it’s still too sharp to float on and
the snowflakes never fall and 
it’s not 
not really
there

it’s all in my head, but
The room has no door
Or if it does, I haven’t found it
In fact, it’s all completely bare
Except a little paper knife or
perhaps a letter opener
which lies at my feet
it’s a wicked little blade 
but what’s the use if
there’s nothing 
around
to open?

blank, that’s the word, where
The walls stretch up infinitely
I don’t know if there’s a ceiling
Though I’m sure there is a floor
And I know because I sit there every day
i’ve tried to climb the walls
but they’re slippery and slick with
sweat and tears 
but let’s just call it condensation
Condensation
smeared behind...

Gone Away?

What has happened to the days
of chasing lovebugs in the fields
of laughter, climbing into,
bouncing off a plastic slide?

I wonder, what has turned these eyes,
this mind, to something purged of hope
and light, and childish dreams we must 
have had?

Did we even notice when
the lovebugs disappeared 
and the fields melted down
and the smiles dropped away?
Until one day we just realized
that instead of running after
one another, hand in hand,
we were suddenly alone?
And there was nothing up ahead 
yet still, we were running
so we chanced a glance behind us 
saw our gunmetal pursuers?

When did the shining sky
above us when we spread our hands
and reached into floating clouds
catching them in fistfuls
Fall down? crashing, on our heads
it must have never made a sound
or else we would have heard it
we’d have caught it in midair
Instead, one day we looked up 
and saw not...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

From Afar

Dear Elsewhere, 

    Hey. You won’t ever read this, I know. Not because you wouldn’t want to, but because I’ll never send it. 
    It must have been years ago when you and I met. I don’t remember the specifics. Maybe that’s strange. I can’t recall where, exactly, or when, or how. That’s okay, though, because you definitely don’t remember anything. I used to hope that your eyes would find me whenever you turned towards my direction. I wanted to pluck up the courage to introduce myself, to walk over and strike up an easy conversation. But that never happened, and you never noticed me. Don’t get me wrong, I would never blame you for it. I’m not bitter at all. Just maybe a little sad.
    I wish there was a word for this kind of feeling. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was one, and I never looked for it. Do I even want to know what...

we can't all be phoenixes

 i kneel, head down, palms scorched raw
blood pounding stop this, save me, please
throat parched of all moisture, coated in sand
as i squeeze stinging eyes shut against your fury
fighting back tears of smoke

lie to me, blind me, hurl your rays at
my feet, so that i trip and fall and
can't get up
wrap your arms around my legs and pull me down
and i'll scream but no sound
just the roar of your fire and those sparks in your eyes

i'm dry, charred bones, easy to burn
one match, one touch, and then i'll ignite
but still, you wrap your wings around me
hold me close to your red-hot heart
and burn mine away
until i'm nothing, nothing
but ashes
 

cracked in the Dust

we are perfectly still, like the statues, our cousins
fashioned from a caring hand, visions of love and promises 
murmured tenderness sparkling in shining eyes
we remember, oh, how we loved those eyes.

we’ve never forgotten, even as
maybe those promises forgot us
promises that, as we stare lifelessly into your flat gaze
we now know better than to believe in.

we watch as you scrutinize us
sweeping over our tangled hair, knotted with vague shame
you’re taking in our filthy dress, smudged with carelessness
or maybe the force of being thrown into the dirt.

suddenly we are facing down
not covered in mud this time, but- is that dust?
and though only scuffed wood meets our eyes
we can still feel your fingers, rough on our backs.

we hear you exhale our deficiencies.

and then we are flying-
we think, yes, we know this feeling already
and so we’re not surprised when our fixed, unblinking eyes
flash over dust,...

Stillwaters

Deep under cloudless skies,
    under cloudless skies,
Still does the water stay,
    rippling where it lies.

Peace, war, they matter not
    neither matters not
If woes could follow us
    with them, we’d be fraught
Slip off the earthly pains
    anguish, be no more
Fly as white feathers drift
    down, breaking chains
Whisk over silver stars
    riding northern winds
Reach for their ghostly light
    shadows, or night’s scars?
Time, whether kind or cruel,
    frozen for tonight
Now, nothing, only us
    Us, and mirror pools

Calm, quiet, echoes are
    quiet, echoes are
Deep, under stillwaters
    ripples don’t reach far
   

Aural Insanity

ATTEMPT 1
Heart is racing hands are shaking
In a world of no one’s making
Jumping shapes with virtual stakes
Hope you don’t make new mistakes-

ATTEMPT 2
Heart is racing hands are shaking
In a world of-

ATTEMPT 3
Heart is racing hands are shaking
In a world of no one’s making
Jumping shapes with virtual stakes
Hope you don’t make new mistakes
Fuse into this pixelverse
Lights and colors-

ATTEMPT 4
Heart is racing hands are shaking
In a world of no one’s making
Jumping shapes with virtual stakes
Hope you don’t make new mistakes
Fuse into this pixelverse
Lights and colors interspersed
Leap according to the beat
Do not stop-

ATTEMPT 5
Heart is racing hands are shaking
In a world of no one’s making
Jumping shapes with virtual stakes
Hope you don’t make new mistakes
Fuse into this pixelverse
Lights and colors interspersed
Leap according to the beat
Do not stop-

ATTEMPT 6
Heart is racing...

Dreams of Yesterday

On the nights when time stands still
And moonbeams tease your eyes
Hear the sparrow’s muted trill
From fractured sleep, arise

Tiptoe to your gilded door
Reach for the rusted knob
Step away from familiar shore
Towards where homesick hearts throb

With hair fanned out by curious winds
Gaze up into the stars
Heed their whispers, distance-thinned
To paths that once were ours

We skipped along on secret trails
We flew through falling leaves
We laughed and splashed in crystal streams
We danced in hollow trees

Now look around, with mortal sight
We hide behind the veil
Our wings can never feel the light
For they are crumpled, frail

Where rising dawn hangs thick with mist
And shadows flit away
Know this was our land of bliss
But that was yesterday
 

Somewhere

Run-
Feet flying over waving summer grasses, rippling in the breeze,
leaping over rocky dirt and kicking up the dust,
bursting out into an open plain,
cleaving through the hazy air,
leaving a trail of trodden earth
and the fading whispers of the wind.

Escape the gray of black and white
for vibrant yellows, blues and greens
For the calling of the dandelions,
laughing along as we twirl among the clouds.

Stop waiting for a posted sign
that abandons us at crossroads
Turn away, unclench those hands
Let them open, palms up to feel
a weight of nothingness, a sight so vast.

Take off into this unfettered land
keep your eyes on the new horizon,
blazing far and bright.



 

Being Night

Quietly, the night descends
swooping in on silent wings
settling on the land
without a sound

ever still, its eyes stare down
watching over heedless ground
not one to intercede
nor give aid

if spoken to, it won’t respond
never turning to any sound
keeping to itself
words withheld

seemingly aloof, the night
stays for nothing, giving nothing
in return, seeking only
peace of being.