For my second assignment in my Asian-American creative writing class, I had ambitious schematics. The outline for this story is already 2000 words on its own, and it also contains two drawn flowcharts for easy navigation. I recommend checking it out once you’ve finished reading Decision. I wanted something beyond structural uniqueness; I wanted a story whose organization aided in coveying its message twicefold. What better idea comes to mind than the complex journey of life and the false freedom a pick your path story grants you?
Outline
This story has been formatted to accustom this web browser. Whenever you see the symbols “[[]]” with a question above it centered on the page, it is an indicator that you must make a decision. Head toward the next bolded title with your choice’s name.
When you come to be, there sits an empty tea cup in your hands. You let it slip from your fingers.
And it sinks.
It doesn’t sink as though it is being dragged down; it sinks in the sense that, once it reaches the same pond you are kneeling upon, it submerges. And as it disappears into the opaque, reflective water, you feel it will remain empty.
Kneeling upon a pond? It’s not something you remember yourself being able to do. Though, you can’t seem to remember much as of the moment. The water dampens the bottom of your robes. They remind you of solemn attire. How you know that, confoundedly, is beyond you.
In front of you rests a woman clad in yellow. A unique color. For an occasion like this (What is the occasion?) you’ve never seen anything like it. You’d already noticed her before at the blurry height of your vision, but you were too afraid to look up. Despite being lost, you know an innate wrongness consumes her. You’re sure it’s in your best interest to turn tail and leave without second question but, slowly and disastrously, your desire to know trumps your instinct for safety.
You look ahead.
She wears a garment similar to yours: single-cloth wrapped around and fastened with buttons at the hem. A length reaching one’s ankle. Open, baggy pants with a papery texture. A headpiece adorns her head, attached below it a veil to cover her face ending before her mouth. A teapot with another empty cup lazily lies above the water in front of her. It remains afloat.
She has black hair, and a slender, pale body.
She has black hair, and a slender, pale body.
She has
“Em, you waste your time studying me. Look elsewhere. Take everything in.”
She’s undoubtedly the center figure, the water to fill the missing space in your head, but you begrudgingly heed her suggestion.
It’s a tranquil expanse. Still and undisturbed, a landscape prolific artists dream about. There are walls around composed of towering mountains. Thick, lively trees line its hills, aiding its impenetrableness.
It’s a clear morning. Promising and vast, an ideal space for a sun to creep in. There are carefully placed lily pads, sparse so as to not detract from the water. Cluttered enough for you to know they exist.
Remaining seated on the water without falling through is an unworldly sensation. Each adjustment to become more comfortable spouts chaotic ripples. Contrasting, the water beneath the woman is still. You slide your finger in a line against it like a child first discovering sand, and it trails in a current against your movement. As your tracing routes further down, you notice a near-indiscernible disruption in the otherwise still water marking the tiniest break point of the pond into a falling river.
The low tone in the air changes, oscillating into a mantra. So it wasn’t just another idle sound you were hearing; the expected continuous shrill of summer insects. Take a look at your shoulder. There is a sculpted clay cat, gray with its mouth agape. It seems affixed to your being. Beads wrap themselves around its neck, a distinct wood as opposed to the monotone stone. It bellows reverberation.
What else are you carrying? An explorer’s pack on your back. White robes instead of her yellow. A unique color. You’d never seen anything like it for an occasion like this– Sorry, have you held that thought already? There’s a singular knife by your waist. You [[fear // hope]] for the moment its purpose is revealed.
But when will it arise? The reason for your visit eludes you like a dream you’ve immediately forgotten about the moment you awakened. Try as you might, there is no conjuring up your motivations.
“Do you have everything, em?”
You say no.
[[“Who are you?” // “Why am I here?”]]
“Your answers will not come easy. They say my name is Mạnh Bà. I couldn’t tell you if that’s right or not.” She pulls out a folded note from underneath her robe. “But for you, I am an obstacle.”
It’s difficult to follow her words. You’re zoning out as soon as they leave the air, but try. Try to pay attention. Listen to the silence between the words. They’ll ground you.
“Before you cleansed yourself in preparation for your pilgrimage, stripped yourself of your memories, you left yourself with this.”
Somehow, you aren’t surprised to learn your loss was voluntary.
“I will impart it to you on the condition we agreed upon beforehand.” She stows the answer away once more while raising her other arm out. “A showcase of your unfaltering will.”
And with that, the first strike is sent.
A glint of sunlight moving towards you warns you of something incoming. In a display of mastery you yourself are surprised by, your blade unsheaths itself and twists diagonally flat in front of your chest with a reversed grip. A resounding force, concentrated into a minuscule grain, presses against the steel, intently aiming for your heart behind it. You’re forced back while kneeling, posture straight, sliding backward in the pond like a flat board glides over a still.
As your momentum dies, you roughly leap to your feet. A synchronized line of ripples on the surface between you and her signals a tremendously quick traversal of water for it to fall flat at the same time as it did. Disregarding the speed, which would have instantly impaled you, you feel as though making contact wouldn’t be a wise decision. There’s something uncanny about that which was sent out. With nothing but a shortsword in your hand, suddenly the bout turns into a game of keep away. If you can’t get close, there’s little you can do.
So you run. The water clings desperately to your steps. It is like trying to run on sand, like moving through a pool leveled at your ankles. The lady’s extended hand twirls its fingers, straightening the pointer and middle. She speaks with an unbearable clarity– chastisements and reprimands– the voluptuous sharpness of single syllables. How magical it is that an entire language can be transmitted in direct, isolated clamors. Gradually, like an overburdened mother slowly stirring from her short slumber, two waves expedite themselves toward you.
The first one, low to the ground, requires a hop. Judging from the resistance against your sprint and the difficulty of getting up on your feet earlier– you need to make a decision now–, you doubt you’d be able to properly jump– NOW– over.
You’re barely able to leap over, falling into a roll. You complete the somersault, ending by kneeling on one foot.
The second one is a full tide. You wouldn’t be able to move out of the way even if it wasn’t about to crash into you in the following seconds. Dragging the knife, which was pressed down into the pond at the moment, up in a shoddy half-circle away from you is a struggle. It takes time for it to pry away the greedy claws of the water’s viscera, but the blade still makes it in time to bisect the subsequent wave, parting it around you. Drops rain down from the ends like blood would from a slash across the chest.
Keep going. You must keep going. You accelerate, bringing yourself to hounding speeds. She’s making another gesture with her hands. The first two were only manageable because of the distance between the two of you. It granted you more time to think. From here, you doubt you’d be able to react in time. As you approach, you decide to think less and do more. All that separates you is five paces.
You reach her; water surrounds you. The blade’s edge presses against her neck; there is a sharp prickling behind yours.
Tension as thick as the liquid you are standing holds strong, before terminating with a breath that isn’t yours. Water falls heavily for the next minute as the construct trailing you decays. You weren’t able to get a look at it. A smile peeks out from below the veil. She fluidly reaches into her hem to pull out the note. As she bestows it upon you, her voice chimes clearly.
“Remember, em. This is not a journey of mourning, nor is it a reminder of death. For people like you– like us– what comes after has always been on the horizon. We do not have the luxury of remembering a burden which we shoulder every day. You are here to change something much more permanent.”
You understand. The note unfurls between your fingers.
[[What is your reason for coming?]] [[Great Love // Great Bitterness]]
Bitterness
“Bitterness.”
You’re filled with clashing complicated concerns.
“Keep going.”
How can you find a balance in the contempt you feel for their lackluster; how can you find a balance in the sorrow you feel for their struggle?
When you look up from commemoration, she has vanished, likely sunken into the water. You don’t remember a thing about her other than the warm feelings she holds for you.
With her visage departed, it feels as though a weight has been lifted from your entire being. The entire plane undresses its painted blur. It is only after this moment you are aware of stone-cut stairs in the distance jutting through a forest, ending at an outpost extending from a monumental shrine.
You tread forward. Your cat sings. The water isn’t so hostile anymore.
—
By the time you reach the outpost, the sun has retreated back to its abode, resting to thanklessly nurture once more.
The building you enter is without walls, only fence posts arranged in a square around a level floor. A curved roof bends four corners, tile plating neatly assembling the structure. A pathway extends forward, directing you to the next portion of your journey.
Beyond the gates, red doors with gold embroidery tower tall as though fashioned to be used by giants. You know those doors won’t be opening any time soon.
Settle down, unload your pack, and prepare the mat already placed for your arrival but don’t close your eyes now. The altar against one of the sidebars gleams underneath the approaching moonlight. Your duties aren’t over.
You wrap a white bandana around your head. Kneeling down in front of the ash-bearing pot, three incense sticks flicker in the darkness like heartbeats disconnected and distanced. You pray. May their passage be final. The cat ends its hymn.
You lie down on the thin mat. The first day is over.
[[Day Two]]
Love
“Love.”
You’re overcome with sickly sweet subterfuge.
“Keep going.”
Recognition, guilt, and thanks, the medley of feelings that compose filial piety.
When you look up from commemoration, she has vanished, likely sunken into the water. You don’t remember a thing about her other than the warm feelings she holds for you.
With her visage departed, it feels as though a weight has been lifted from your entire being. The entire plane undresses its painted blur. It is only after this moment you are aware of stone-cut stairs in the distance jutting through a forest, ending at an outpost extending from a monumental shrine.
You tread forward. Your cat sings. The water isn’t so hostile anymore.
—
By the time you reach the outpost, the sun has retreated back to its abode, resting to thanklessly nurture once more.
The building you enter is without walls, only fence posts arranged in a square around a level floor. A curved roof bends four corners, tile plating neatly assembling the structure. A pathway extends forward, directing you to the next portion of your journey.
Beyond the gates, red doors with gold embroidery tower tall as though fashioned to be used by giants. You know those doors won’t be opening any time soon.
Settle down, unload your pack, and prepare the mat already placed for your arrival but don’t close your eyes now. The altar against one of the sidebars gleams underneath the approaching moonlight. Your duties aren’t over.
You wrap a white bandana around your head. Kneeling down in front of the ash-bearing pot, three incense sticks flicker in the darkness like heartbeats hand-in-hand. You pray. May their passage be comforting. The cat ends its hymn.
You lie down on the thin mat. The first day is over.
Day Two
You dreamt of [[songbirds standing on the gates of a forlorn house far, far away from here. // dewdrops glistening on flowers placed over a patch of recently upturned grass.]]
It’s a raging afternoon. Shaking and intense, the air irritates lavishly. The grand entrance peers down on you, taunting your calm patience. You wait.
In the meanwhile. you brush down your gray robes and gather your belongings. The incense at the altar still burns despite the time that elapsed. Its fragrance hazily spews from its embered midpoint.
With a deep groan, the entrance grips its chest and pulls it open, the doors unclasping to allow entrance. Celebratory music coming from string instruments is faintly produced from its interior. It conjoins with the praying of your statue in harmony. Your steps echo off of the gravel pavement as you make your way in. Once inside, the doors groggily shut themselves off.
A knife comes at you from your left.
Your left hand is only able to move the blade partly from its sheath at your hip to deflect the blow that would have surely bisected you. The aggressor slinks back into the shadows, being tugged by an imperceivable force. When all that follows is silence, you cautiously allow your tool to return to its shelter. Anxiety backs your every step in.
Sunlight illuminates the room from lined windows slightly below the ceiling. Pillars, as tall as the doors that preceded it, stretch down in two lines. Mats uniformly spread themselves out on the cool marble tiling. At the very back of the room, where windows end and candles are all that’s left to showcase the golden relics, a series of statues ordained in alignment bear into your soul. Two doors lead to another room beyond this one.
“Xin chào em.”
Stepping out from the brief, obscure section between sun and candle light is another person.
An innate wrongness consumes them. How can the same phrase used to describe two different people be so accurate yet mean two different things? When you saw Mạnh Bà, you desired to know more. When you look at this figure, you wish to know nothing at all.
“My name is Chuyển Luân Vương.”
The sound of steel falling on tile resounds through the hall. They step out of the heart of darkness and the curtailing emptiness finally releases you from being stuck in possibility.
“To get to them, you must make it past me.”
It’s you. But it’s not you. It’s another version of you from another life path. Life paths. A vast trove of experience lies in just the way they carry themselves. You can see the other self that would’ve cherished more of your time together. The self that would’ve deserted them even more than you already had. The self that properly conveyed the complicated, impossible gratitude they deserved.
“Ready yourself.” They bind something tightly around their forearm. “There is no winning. There is only what comes after.”
You do as he says and fix your stance. Bent knees. Eyes forward. An arm extended. The knife points toward them. Keep yourself flat. It leaves little option for them to approach from.
They are bristling resentment. Endless irritation. The injustice of knowing every other way this could have gone and being unable to do anything about it. And they are coming for you.
Vương does a sideway hop and completes a butterfly kick, flailing legs bent behind with the intention to twist and push. You’re briefly entranced by the execution before you notice the inertia of the leap being fully put into a thrown blade. You shift your shoulder back to the left and feel the wind coursing behind the razor. It stops where your body once was and immediately retracts.
You notice the blade is attached to a rope. It’s a frightening rebound, the speed at which it goes. The snap of a band doesn’t even begin to compare. With an impact like that, you’d presume there’d be some time to recuperate but because it missed its target Vương is able to swing it behind him and back toward you once more in an overhead arc.
Wholly unprepared, the serrated edge is able to clip your arm as you react far too late to its wake. A tear appears on the sleeve of your robe.
“Consequences.” The rope coils around his foot. You clutch the torn cloth, too aware for your own good. “How have you bore them?”
[[With Heart Aching // Through Real Outlook]]
Through Real Outlook
With a snap kick, the rope flies out once again. It pushes its edgy sibling to greater heights. Your head swivels quickly to prevent it from flying off.
You push in with the reeling off the rope. If you watch for the opportune moments and move at the same time it does, there is only the subsequent attack to worry about.
Move forward. There is no time to dwell on what could have been. As long as you don’t think about it any longer, you’ll be okay. Deflect. Move. Dodge. Move. Dodge. Move. Def–
The knife coils, making its way from around the pillar, and strikes your rib. A galeforce, stemming from the impact of this blow, spins dust below your feet. You’re knocked off your feet, barreling toward a wall. Your shoulder slams into another nearby pillar instead, ending your flight short, as you slump down with a gasp.
[[Feel. You can’t put it off any longer.]] [[Happy // Accepting]]
With Heart Aching
With a snap kick, the rope flies out once again. It pushes its edgy sibling to greater heights. Your head swivels quickly to prevent it from flying off.
You fall back with the reeling off the rope, retreating behind a pillar. Look for an opening, there must be a period where you can move in.
There is only silence as Vương rests his assault. Your chest tightens. You’ve never found it this hard to breathe before. You want to hide away until it’s over. Until everything’s over.
The knife coils, making its way from around the pillar, and strikes your rib. A galeforce, stemming from the impact of this blow, spins dust below your feet. You’re knocked off your feet, barreling toward a wall. Your shoulder slams into another nearby pillar instead, ending your flight short, as you slump down with a gasp.
[[Feel. You can’t put it off any longer.]] [[Wistful // Depression]]
Happy
People always think they’re going to make it through unscathed. It takes the smallest thing to set them off once again.
Go back.
[[Accepting]]
Accepting
You stand, firm and tall, despite the egregious wound that shakes your foundation. Hobbling up, you resume the stance you held at the starting moment.
Pain cannot stop you.
They look at you. You look at them. Their eyes swirl, life paths whispering like vices into your ears. Yet the possibilities are no longer maddening. They instill you with proper duty, a push that spurs you to continue treading chaos like a guiding guardian. You will make it through this.
Vương sends the rope dart spiraling your way one more time and, this time, you don’t move. The edge nicks the center of your forehead, leaving a fresh cut.
“I accept this answer, em.”
They shift before your eyes into a tall man draped in gold garments, fitted with its own headpiece and veil. You’ve never quite seen anything like it. They yank the rope from the circlet in the knife, detaching the two, and walk up to you with it presented, holding the blade toward them.
“Your ceremonial knife is looking rather beat up. Your ancestor would likely appreciate a finer instrument.”
You reach out confidently to take hold of the new steel. It shimmers in the scorching sunlight.
“Head through the door. Rest once more. Once night draws her sleepy curtains, you’ll be able to see them.”
You thank Vương and head to the entrance. Once inside, a rest site similar to the one prior meets your eyes.
The joyous music has stopped. Your cat continues to recite its mantras. Assembling your belongings is difficult when you’re shaking with [[fear // excitement]] for the meeting to come.
You wrap the white bandage around your head once more. The blood from the cut on your forehead seeps into the fabric, sticking it in place. Lighting three incense sticks, you pray the same prayer you did before.
Tomorrow is the final day.
[[Day Three]]
Depression
You stand, weak and cowering, despite the egregious wound that shakes your foundation. Hobbling up, you resume the stance you held at the starting moment.
Pain shackles your freedom.
They look at you. You look at them. Their eyes swirl, life paths whispering like vices into your ears. Yet the possibilities are no longer maddening. They instill you with deep sorrow, a kind of sadness that makes its way in waves to fill up every nook and crevice in your body before dumping itself out like waste. You will make it through this.
Vương sends the rope dart spiraling your way one more time and, this time, you don’t move. The edge nicks the center of your forehead, leaving a fresh cut.
“I accept this answer, em.”
They shift before your eyes into a tall man draped in gold garments, fitted with its own headpiece and veil. You’ve never quite seen anything like it. They yank the rope from the circlet in the knife, detaching the two, and walk up to you with it presented, holding the blade toward them.
“Your ceremonial knife is looking rather beat up. Your ancestor would likely appreciate a finer instrument.”
“Your ceremonial knife is looking rather beat up. Your ancestor would likely appreciate a finer instrument.”
You reach out confidently to take hold of the new steel. It shimmers in the scorching sunlight.
“Head through the door. Rest once more. Once night draws her sleepy curtains, you’ll be able to see them.”
You thank Vương and head to the entrance. Once inside, a rest site similar to the one prior meets your eyes.
The joyous music has stopped. Your cat continues to recite its mantras. Assembling your belongings is difficult when you’re shaking with [[fear // excitement]] for the meeting to come.
You wrap the white bandage around your head once more. The blood from the cut on your forehead seeps into the fabric, sticking it in place. Lighting three incense sticks, you pray the same prayer you did before.
Tomorrow is the final day.
[[Day Three]]
Wistful
You stand, quiet and resolute, despite the egregious wound that shakes your foundation. Hobbling up, you resume the stance you held at the starting moment.
Pain is an expected byproduct.
They look at you. You look at them. Their eyes swirl, life paths whispering like vices into your ears. Yet the possibilities are no longer maddening. They instill you with hungering melancholy, a pondering filled with hopeful moments that make you weep and tragic times that make you laugh. You will make it through this.
Vương sends the rope dart spiraling your way one more time and, this time, you don’t move. The edge nicks the center of your forehead, leaving a fresh cut.
“I accept this answer, em.”
They shift before your eyes into a tall man draped in gold garments, fitted with its own headpiece and veil. You’ve never quite seen anything like it. They yank the rope from the circlet in the knife, detaching the two, and walk up to you with it presented, holding the blade toward them.
“Your ceremonial knife is looking rather beat up. Your ancestor would likely appreciate a finer instrument.”
“Your ceremonial knife is looking rather beat up. Your ancestor would likely appreciate a finer instrument.”
You reach out confidently to take hold of the new steel. It shimmers in the scorching sunlight.
“Head through the door. Rest once more. Once night draws her sleepy curtains, you’ll be able to see them.”
You thank Vương and head to the entrance. Once inside, a rest site similar to the one prior meets your eyes.
The joyous music has stopped. Your cat continues to recite its mantras. Assembling your belongings is difficult when you’re shaking with [[fear // excitement]] for the meeting to come.
You wrap the white bandage around your head once more. The blood from the cut on your forehead seeps into the fabric, sticking it in place. Lighting three incense sticks, you pray the same prayer you did before.
Tomorrow is the final day.
[[Day Three]]
When the sun fades and the full moon comes, when midnight descends to tuck the land under her blanket, you move through the set of doors you once came from.
The shrine is filled with torchlight. The mats have disappeared, and the room has shrunken to the size of a small apartment. Aligned statues still rest against the wall, but they fight neatly into an altar with flowers, paintings, and a colored portrait.
There is an open casket. You already know who’s in there. Someone you [[despise. // love.]] Taking your pack off, you gingerly empty out its innards. Bundles of false currency, printed cash. It’s for them to barter while they wait. A fake, plastic phone. They were [[alone // social]] when they were alive, so they can find something to do with it. Toy cars. They’ll get bigger when sent down, it’s only an error in translation.
And your knife.
You turn to look at the inside of the casket. You expect to feel something holding you back but Mạnh Bà and Chuyển Luân Vương have done a fine job preparing you to let go.
You place the blade above their stomach, moving their hand to its palm. Who knows, maybe they’ll be jumped by evil spirits like you were ambushed by Mạnh Bà earlier.
Once all of the offerings have been filed in, your cat no longer sings. You shut the cover firmly, and a great heat begins to well up inside the container. It shrinks into a pot you can carry, falling onto the rectangular, white-clothed table below.
You take it and begin to retrace your steps. Out the giant doors, open for your ease. Through the shrine extension, incense sticks reach their end. Down the stone path, jutting through the forest. Back onto the still lake, lilypads long shifted.
Hours pass in this travel, enough time for the blackened sky to turn into a cold chill. The water, reflecting your black robes, mirrors the birthing blue.
You open the pot– gray, monotone soot is all that is left of your vibrant time together– and pour it out onto the still lake. It sinks and disperses, a once bundled-up package of memories fading into clear obscurity.
In time, they will complete their journey, falling back down through the river to continue their process anew.
In time, you will come to heal, moving forward changed but better.
And when you eventually see them, someone repeating the process for you, there is a lifetime to think about this:
What will you say to them?
Artwork my talented classmate Isabel Li made upon finishing Decision.
