"Carcass of a Star" is one of the first pieces I wrote when I began to seriously pursue writing as a lifelong endeavor. Since its conception in 2016, it has become one of my favorite works, and has even, to my surprise, won an award.

Anyways, enjoy. :)

Eli stood as he stared straight up into the night sky. He viewed a great beyond, dotted with subtle freckles of light here and there. Silence was the accompaniment of the occasion, and every now and again it seemed his mind could place patterns in the way the stars hung, creating the illusion that the vespers were connected by faint lines. He knew, however, this was merely his eyes playing tricks on him. The sky was a black canvas, and, the longer he looked, the deeper it appeared. He remembered his teachers in high school science class saying that some stars had died out millions of years ago and that the light we see in the sky simply hasn't reached Earth yet.

It was a melancholic moment; to think the brilliant light of a star could merely be the grandeur of a glory long gone.
​
Eli lowered his head.

He told himself he wouldn't think of her; he told himself he would forget. He would come outside, look at the stars—put it in “perspective.”

No.

It was futile.

Eli sighed deeply as he walked across the weathered boards of his back porch to the door. Locking the door behind him as he entered, he sunk into the recliner. The old cushions seemed to swallow him whole, casting him into an abyss shadowed by the darkness of the room around him. He had no words; loud emotion enveloped a silent man.
Turning on the TV was useless; he couldn't focus. He tried calling her. Once. Twice. Four times...

Nothing.

Even the stars live in the past, he thought to himself, remembering how close they were at one time. His stomach tore and writhed; her smile made him anxious. Her hazel eyes were akin to the stardust illuminated by a distant sun. She was a spectacle: a marvel that danced around him when they walked the historic district. Nothing about her was commonplace, but everything about her absence was. The days without her voice were deafening.

The air was stagnant.

Eli raised from the chair and walked down the hall. The scuffing of his feet made a scratching sound as the rubbed against the aged carpet. He changed into more comfortable clothes, then went to bed. Another day had gone; another day had been wasted. He lay for a while, then slumber took him. A chilly autumn night, once more: alone.

​But even worse: once more, mundane.

There is a deepness and unsung clarity to this quote. Over the past few weeks, I have been reading Joseph Campbell’s magnum opus, “The Hero With A Thousand Faces,” and it is odd just how much this single book has caused me to grow as a writer and overall as a storyteller.

​I have always been a lover of stories; I have always believed in their power. They move us, teach us, and cause us to grow. Stories are inherently and inextricably human, and you probably couldn’t imagine your life without them.

So what makes a story “human”? And just what does it mean for a story to be “human”?
When you read a tale of heroism or extravagance, you might read this and think “How am I anything like this hero? They’re so larger than life!” And if I told you that these heroes are not so different from you or me, would you believe me? Would you believe me if I said that these heroes and heroines are all a part of the same archetype—the same human spirit and psyche?

I must admit that, as a writer, I do.

Stories are things that have the power to transcend the contrived boundaries between humanity and yet, deep within them, they hold the keys to our very essence. All peoples, when moved by a tale, will weep at its beauty.

The above quote is a favorite of mine, simply because it captures the message of Campbell’s book so well, and I think it's so wise because often times we don't strive for the things we desire because we're afraid of failure. In a sense, our lives aren't so different from that of the hero who journeys into the cursed cave to find his sacred treasure. No. The heroes of myth and legend, in many ways, are not so different from us everyday people. While we will indeed never journey to obtain the Golden Fleece or wrestle the wild man Enkidu, we still have two things that the heroes of ancient tales possess: We have the fear of the unknown and the proclivity for courage.
Indeed the unknown faces us, its visage abysmal and grim. We know that our desires lie within, but darkness is daunting, isn’t it? But with only a little courage does the hero solve the riddle, escape the trap, slay the beast. When one’s virtue supersedes their self-preservation, that is true courage.

So, then, how are you like the heroes of ancient myth? Easily put, you are kin in that all humans struggle, and all humans possess desires, loves, romances. The heroes of ancient times may seem so alienated from the common day, but the truth is that they are not. The protagonists of these age old epics are merely hyperbolic archetypes of what it means to be human.

​Go, bravely into the cave, for there is thunder within you.

It is the destiny of the hero or heroine to undertake the weight of hardships within a story. But it is the journey to the crisis that determines the essence of the resurrection. Only birth has the power to spite the fangs of death; only birth can crawl from its jaws, unscathed, and thusly, the only way to overcome the conflict is to be renewed.
It is the resurrection that overcomes—not just death—but the World as a whole. In the ways of tarot, the Fool begins his journey unscathed and innocent, and, even if a bit jaded or even cynical, he still begins with no knowledge of the machinations that lay to snare him. The crisis looms before him, and he walks evermore to the edge of darkness.

When I speak of the climax of a hero’s journey, I don’t merely speak of the climax proper, though that is the easiest to distinguish, but I rather speak on the points within a tale that causes the hero to change. A “climax” entails many things and can also be called the “twist” or “turning point,” but any name denotes the same effect: it is the point in a story where the hero amounts to his characterful purpose within the realm of the narrative. It is here where he must decide to live or die, and it is here that he must rise to the challenge.

​But it is impossible for him to do so at first. As the tarot of the Fool cannot stand against the mark of the World, the hero of a story must be molded into the instrument of the antagonist’s bane. He must die, and be reborn, for only in the act of self-abandonment can the new overcome the old—and with the emergence of the new, evil finds itself undone.

The resurrection of the mind, body, spirit, or self is not given to the hero, for if it was, the hero would not be such. No, it is through great courage that the hero undergoes this change. It is selflessness and virtue, for when ones virtue supersedes their self-preservation, that is true courage.
​
But what exactly does the term “resurrection” mean in this context? It is the acquisition of the “treasure.” The hero faces the antagonist—he faces the great evil—and fails. He dies sometimes, but that is not always true. What counts is that, in this moment, he is inadequate. He needs one more push to excel to greatness. It is in this time that he finds the Sword, he unleashes hidden magic, he ascends to godhood; it is in this time of dire need that he finds who he truly is. We are not so much different than the hero in this regard. Surely there is no Sword to be given, no magic to abound, and we are dreadfully mortal. But we still remain forever able to find our true selves lost within the fears of the darkness of our minds. We may not live in the lands of fantasy or legend, but within us lies the same courage, the same strength, the same will, the same hope; within us, we are similarly human. It is within ourselves that, though we’ve not the magic of the hero of myth, we contain within our capacity the makings that make him what he is. And as long as we face the World with these qualities, despite our trials, we can always grow—we can always be resurrected anew to face the evils of the world. The light of the hero of myth is grandiose for sure, but within him abides, courage, love, hope, strength, faith, and so on.
The hero is grandiose for sure, but if you look closely—if you looks deep within, you will find that, perhaps at a turning point in life, you too are quite the same.

"Moontalk" is a story I wrote in 2017, which I never really did anything with. It is the last bit of literary fiction that I ever wrote, so it is a slight return to my roots to post it here.

Enjoy, and feel free to comment. :)

William F. Burk

Cold.
Alice cupped her hand over her lighter to spite the breeze and light her cigarette.
Sound waves pulsed from the Masquerade, beating against the walls of the small venue, sickly begging to spill out into the atmosphere. Atlanta lights blinded the night sky——the very eyes of God——from Alice below; she peered skyward.
Black. She thought. But, almost blank.
Tree branches swished in the frigid wind, adjacent to the sidewalk. Brown spots littered the ground along their roots, dancing——writhing——under the strings of the gale, crunching under the feet of the people going in and out of the shack-like building.
Dead, too?
She heard footsteps; a young man approached.
“You know, the concert is inside.”
Alice took her hand from her pocket to push her bright blue bangs from her face.
He was still there.
“I’m aware.” She replied.
“Well, it’s a lot warmer inside,” he said as he stood beside her.
“I know,” Alice flicked ash from her cigarette.
“What are you doing?”
She exhaled smoke mixed with moist breath, then watched as it dissipated into the air.
It’s gone—just like that.
“You here alone?” he lit his cigarette behind his hand. “You got a boyfriend?”
His hot smoke poured into the air as he exhaled, then was gone.
You too, huh?

​“Yeah, I do.”
“You need another one?”
“No.”
Alice could see the faint light of the crescent moon plastered above the haze of the city of Atlanta. Only the moon—a giant rock—dared pierce the visage of the civilization below; only the moon dared speak among the deaf noise of the lives of monotony; only the moon would audaciously preach to man in his primal language.
I remember it. She smiled, gritting her teeth. The times--
She could remember the times before: Like Christmas as a child, the blatant lies of innocence made manifest in a fat man in red.
She sighed, then inhaled.
But why was it that way?
She looked into the abysmal above.
Such a deep dark.
“You wanna come to my place after the show?”
The beacons of an airplane pierced the black sky.
“Airplanes.”
“What?”
“Moving.” She puffed the last of her cigarette. “An airplane means people are moving.” She exhaled. “Going places. Like, business trips. Or going home to family. Or moving to a new place. Or going on vacation. Somewhere nicer. Warmer. Or more colorful. Etcetera. Etcetera.”
At least they’re moving.
“So, do you want to hook up...orrr?”
Alice dropped her cigarette onto the coarse concrete and silenced the embers beneath her boot. Bass thumped, the lifeblood of her heart in a dire rush to escape the confines within.
“Sometimes,” Alice sighed, only breath escaping, “sometimes, I feel——not everyone is a success, ya know?” she looked out into city beyond, the lights of offices in the distant skyscrapers—--empty offices. She looked at the tree branches. Empty. Them too? “Some are failures. Just walking—--walking failures——and,” Alice put her hands in her pockets, “what if I’m one of them?”
There was no reply.
Alice looked around.
No one.
The sounds of the concert inside still carried on; cars flew by. It was a white noise, a rampant waltz to nowhere.
Alice looked up at the crescent moon; she didn’t smile back.

​The idea of the adventure of a hero is not one unique to the realms of myth and fairy tales. I am currently reading Joseph Campbell’s masterpiece, “The Hero With A Thousand Faces,” and I must admit that the profound nature of this book is eye-opening to say the least. Before opening the book, I would like to have believed that I understood the concept of a “Hero’s Journey” and what it entailed for characters in my books as they moved like chessmen across the board of space and time that is the plot of the story. And, now halfway through the book, I would also like to believe that I understand something more about stories.
And I would also like to believe that I have encountered something much more profound.

​The “Hero’s Journey” affects us all, whether in the vastness of one’s life completely, or in the smallness of going to the grocery store. And the reason for this, I believe, is because the idea of this Journey is rooted in our abilities to choose. Even when one rejects their destiny, the destruction they have wrought is their creation, and theirs alone.
The Journey is all around us, an omnipresent force which moves the gears of the clock of destiny to chime to the time of the hero to begin again and be born anew. But the bell tolls for all, not just Theseus, and humanity’s destiny (and the destiny of the individual) resides in their unique keenness to hear the chimes of the seemingly supernatural, all-encompassing, subconscious forces of the world and mind.
So how then is the common man akin to the man of myth?
The answer is rather simple, and the answer is this: you have the ability to choose. Think about your choices every day, for the clock is constantly ticking, awaiting to chime its beckon for one to be summoned to the destiny of their life. Or perhaps it merely chimes to the destiny of one’s day, one’s singular hour. Destiny is a fickle mistress in that, though she is a commander of paths, she lays in bed with the autonomy of Free Will.
So, watch your life. You may be surprised to find that your “Hero’s Journey” lies everywhere. No matter how large. No matter how small. Listen well, for the bells of adventure beckon merely for those who hear.

​Though I am largely a fan of strategy games, I am not very good at chess. I studied chess for short while, but instead of improving in my knowledge of the game, the experience gave me a rather interesting insight into the world of writing. And, as I stand now, I fully believe that the art of crafting a story is a lot like the science of playing chess.

​“How, Will?” You must ask. “How is telling a story anything akin to two players moving chess pieces vindictively across the rows and files of the chessboard?”

​And the answer lies within the question, for all a story is composed of is two forces, two objects of willpower, making moves across a board in hopes for a victorious goal.

​Sit with me here and imagine. Have you ever been writing an arc, a chapter, or a scene and stopped to think: “Why isn’t this working? Why am I not moving towards my desired goal?” And thus the writer, whether they know it or not, sits at the board, ogling the pieces before them, pondering as to why their decisions up until this point are not working, when in a sudden in a whirlwind of epiphany, they think “Of course! If I do this, then it will work!”

Just like that, the writer is no longer merely a spinner of ideas or characters, but a strategist of the storytelling art. As the same way a grandmaster moves his pieces to his designs, the writer places their characters to create certain effects. The characters dance upon the board—upon the plot in a magnificent play to move toward the end goal.

The writer desires the checkmate, or, the end of the story.

But how do they do this with so much against them? And who, then, is their opponent?
The opponent of the writer remains one object, be it the the World, the Psyche, the Self. The writer fights against the mind, in a glorious duel to uncover the World within.
And so, for every brilliant move, there is an equal counter-force. This, is the exact way that the story is like the chess match. The writer concocts his plot by moving their pieces to the common goal of finality, just as the grandmaster moves their pieces to the common goal of checkmate.

How does this—how should this—change our mentalities as writers?

Well, it’s rather simple. If we think more about the utility of our characters, we will see more about their quality to the plot and why they are important. Likewise, if we think of the plot less a series of events and more a strategy, it gives us the ability to take away the intimidation that it sometimes presents. After all, it is merely the concoction that results from our strategic decisions along the writer’s journey—the writer’s game. And lastly, if we think of our end goal as checkmate, it implies one thing particularly.

It implies that we must be aware of the goal (the ending) and thus it gives us a goal to play our pieces in favor of.

I have been thinking about this analogy much lately, and I believe it is a strange one, yet equally refreshing. And though the World, the Psyche, and the Self strike against us, we must know that the strategy is in our hands, and, as long as we can play our way to victory, the art is eternally free.

​Once I had drafted my first novel (which is currently in the revision stage), I felt rather proud of myself. I had set my mind to a project and actually followed through with it. Though I still never spoke about the accomplishment to anyone other than my friends or by a singular “I did it!” tweet on Twitter, the experience brought an unlikely revelation my way.
 
That is, I realized just how many people shared my goal and just how many people had story ideas exactly like I did.
 
Mankind is a creature intrinsically drawn to stories; stories exist in our everyday lives, our every moment. Actually, take this time to imagine a world without them. Yeah, sure, no one could write a book, but also, you could never talk about your day, either. You could never tell someone about a time when you were younger, or about a great grandfather that they will never meet. And, of course, you could never hear Karen complain about how she had to speak to the manager at McDonald’s. We as humans have the art of telling a tale bred into our souls, and life without them would be quite difficult (and perhaps unfathomable).

A friend asked me something the other day that I feel captures my ideology on this subject. He simply asked me “How do you write?” Though he himself is an aspiring songwriter and was mainly referring to poetry, the purpose of my message still stands. The thing is that, if you want to write——if you want to focus on telling stories or writing poetry——you must change your psychology. When I started writing, I thought a certain way, but now I don't think that way any more. The very way that my brain functions isn’t the same as it was when I began writing. As I said before, man is innately predisposed to storytelling; however, I do not believe that man is aware that he is such. It doesn't come immediately. Thankfully, you just have to work at it——and, I believe, anyone can. Stories exist all around us; they are a constant in nature and a product of the very flow of time itself. As long as things are able to change, there will always be stories to depict those changes; as long as conflict exists, there will always be stories of how they were resolved (both ending well and ending tragically). But the eye of the writer must be able to detect these subliminal clues; it must be able to point out the hints and determine where the story lies within them.
 
One of my favorite quotes, by William Faulkner, will do well here, I believe:
    
“A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination, any two of which, at times any one of which, can supply the lack of the others.”
 
A writer indeed has those three tools: observation, experience, and imagination.
 
You must train yourself to be observant to little things. The world around us is begging to be seen in a different way; it is begging to be found as it is, and not as it is merely seen. Likewise, I read books all the time where a writer explains something so small in such a brilliant way. That's the Writer's Observation at work.
 
Experience is a bit more concrete. Experience is known, where observation is acquired. You can inherently write about what you know and have lived through, mainly because you are the only one who wields that perspective, and you are the only one who wields in that particular way.
 
Imagination is the strange one, mainly because it's abstract. Imagination is a mixture of wit and creativity. It's the place where a writer becomes an artist and twists things to his liking. In the hands of imagination, the universe is but a tool of the mind; it is but the hammer that collides onto the red-hot metal as the writer forms it into something brand new——some foreign mutation of what it once was.
 
None of these three are promised and sometimes they are merely given. All around us, there are things for us to say and things for us to hear. We must simply know when to speak and when to listen.

As a writer, I found the foundation of my own style only recently. The fantasy genre is much more than merely stories about heroes, elves, and dwarves. As a genre, it includes a specific set of characteristics; as a form of literature, it represents a realization that wells deep from within the human condition. Fantasy——and fantasy, in particular——is the Escapist’s Genre.

The very rise of the fantasy genre sprouts from despair. For my example, consider Tolkien’s The Hobbit. Published in 1939, the classic tale of the adventure of Bilbo Baggins came onto shelves during the eve of what would quite considerably be the largest war known to humanity. More so, the story arrived merely two decades after what was, at the time, the greatest war the world had ever known. The world faced depression; the world stared into the mirror and perceived their own mortality.

And thus, people wished to find a way out——to another world, another time.

​To write fantasy is to seemingly write a paradox through a jagged spyglass. The world of the story must be unreal in some way. In contrast, it is the story’s realistic nature that captivates a reader. While the readers read to escape their surroundings, the readers secretly read to find themselves within the tale. So, while it is true that one wishes to leave the real world behind, it is just as true that one wishes to find shards of the real world in the place that the tale takes them to.

Along this vein of thought, the fantasy genre is comparable to Plato’s Analogy of the Cave. Imagine a person whom, throughout the entirety of his life, faced the back wall of a cave. And, as Plato puts it, there is a light that shines into the cave from the mouth, illuminating the back wall. People walk by the cave on the outside, casting shadows upon the wall for our prisoner to see. And, he sees nothing but these shadows. Given the only experience and knowledge he has perceived throughout his life, he would believe that these shadows are the “real” world and would not know that they are, in fact, merely the shadows of something else.

In certain aspects, fantasy stories follow this idea.

The writer creates a world, yet he can only make sense of it with what he knows and what he can fathom. One cannot write about something they do not cognitively perceive; creativity is only useful when it surfaces, not when it is dormant. So, then, the writer of fantasy, though crafty, must in some way or another cast shadows upon the wall for their reader (the chained man) to believe. This form of writing is, at its root, a type of trickery. It is a ploy by the hands of the writer, the Puller of Strings, to fool the reader into believing in the shadows: To make them care about non-existent characters, in non-existent places, doing non-existent things. With the reader always carefully in mind, the writer must piece together a mosaic of life and imagination, a collision of the real and the unreal. And therefore, as writers, we must watch the wall of the cave from the mouth, carefully observing the shadows that the world creates——and we must mold them to our liking.

Over the past few weeks, I have been going to the local Starbucks on a fairly consistent basis. Given that I have been stopping by for a drink quite often, I have become quite friendly with the majority of the employees. I enter the shop, order, then joke around with these people as they make my drink. To be completely candid, it is a bright part of my day. On my off days, I bring my computer and work on my stories. Sometimes employees on break will sit and talk with me for their short time.

This coffee shop experience is comparable to the endeavor of the writer. The journey of the writer takes place when one enters the “Eternal Cafe.”

The Eternal Cafe, however, is not a place one can reach on foot or by car. The Eternal Cafe is a state of mind. It is the mentality of the writer as he attempts to transcribe the words of the World. He enters the Cafe, and around him are people. They are but faceless phantoms, mixtures, entering and exiting the ethereal terminal. These phantoms will not speak unless the writer speaks first, but their faces appear, ever there, in his peripherals.

​They all have a story to tell——but he lacks the time to tell them all.

The baristas work behind the bar, and the writer talks to them. As they converse, they tell the writer a story:

They give him a hint.

A quality.

A name.

A face.

These ghosts——these spirits——are what we call “characters.”

They embody us. They embody others. They embody themes.

They are the creations of our mind, molded from the World around us.

And that is what the writer has done, for the Eternal Cafe is but the sentience of the writer; it is his vigilance——his watchful eye. He is aware and catches the spirits as they go by; he is unaware and bumps into them. Some take hold and become people he knows quite well (if not completely), and some disappear——lost between the chasms of his mind, swept away by the muses.

The Eternal Cafe has only one table. One seat: The writer’s inevitable destination.

He sits at the table.

He must.

Beside him, is the Self: his heart, mind, soul, spirit. And, sitting lazily in front of him is the World——not the World as he sees it, but rather the World as it truly is. The conversation he has with this entity (whether we call it God or the Universe or whichever) is the essence of all true writing.

It is the purest form a writer can embody.

The Eternal Cafe has a plethora of entrances, each with a myriad of signs pointing us toward its doors. The World is ever before us; the phantoms ever walk our minds. We, as writers, must learn to perceive these things. For the single table beckons us, and the World has much to say.