LNH20: The Wonderful, Worrisome World of Writer's Block Person #6: "Is This Loss?"

Page one.

First panel: Drew Nilium is dressed in an orange-and-silver costume. 
They stand on a ruined battlefield, books lying all around at strange 
angles. They stand next to a great and complicated cage as lightning 
flashes and thunder crackles overhead. They confront a set of enormous, 
looming figures, covered entirely in strange, technological armor.

Second panel: Drew points to one of the figures, and declares something 
boldly, something honest and fierce and angry that we don't get to hear.

Third panel: The figure gestures, and the cage opens. Drew stares into 
it in shock.

Fourth panel: Drew rushes in and
there is no one there
the battlefield comes apart
the books tear themselves apart
the dream ends

Page two.

First panel: Drew Nilium jerks awake, still in their costume, into a 
world where the sun is shining. Already halfway out of bed, they grab a 
backpack with someone in it and skedaddle.

Second panel: Drew arrives in a brightly-lit yet somehow sedate medical 
office, where an aide takes the backpack and they are left to wait.

Third panel: Drew sits on a vinyl-padded sofa, and a doctor comes, 
talking to them quietly. They lift their tear-stained face, and nod in 
acceptance.

Fourth panel: In the bedroom, now darkened, Drew places a pair of 
candles atop a credenza, where they burn in remembrance. Next to them, 
in bed, lays another figure, sad but peaceful and content.

Page three...

First panel: Drew Nilium lays in the soft bed, in the normal room, in 
their costume, unable to sleep as the candles softly burn. The other 
figure gets out of bed no, no, don't, don't go, please, turning to exit 
the room.

Second panel: Drew stands up and there is no one there with them, no one 
lying there where she should be. They turn towards the light - what's 
happening, why, it's already too late

Third panel: A **tragedy** is a genre of drama based on human suffering 
and, mainly, the terrible or sorrowful events that befall a main 
character or cast of characters.[1] Traditionally, the intention of 
tragedy is to invoke an accompanying catharsis, or a "pain [that] 
awakens pleasure," for the audience.[2][3]

Fourth panel: It's over
Gone. How?
Empty spaces
It's all still there but she's not, it's empty
I TRIED
The figure dissolves
I FAILED
The space dissolves
The costume dissolves
And we dissolve
The dream ends


Fourth page


Page four.

First panel: Drew sits up

Second panel: Drew goes to check

Third panel: Tragedy

Fourth panel: A set of four smaller panels:

   First panel: Drew sits up

   Second panel: Drew goes to check

   Third panel: Tragedy

   Fourth panel: A set of four smaller panels:

     First panel: Drew sits up

     Second panel: Drew goes to check

     Third panel: Tragedy

     Fourth panel: A set of




There are people there to catch us.

To take us home.

We tell her. It hurts so much. We tell who we can. The phone falls to 
the ground.



Page five.

One very large panel. In the middle of a large, sunlit room sits a very 
large egg - large enough to fit a human inside. It's purple, mottled 
with spots of sickly gray and webs of deep black.

Page six.

First panel: The egg watches anime.

Second panel: The egg goes to a movie.

Third panel: The egg cuddles.

Fourth panel: The egg cries in the bathroom.

Page seven.

Inside the shell, there is not a person. In a chrysalis, the body tissue 
of the caterpillar breaks down, a cellular soup that is built piece by 
piece into a butterfly.

Inside the shell, there are so many people, and we hold her hand 
desperately.

"You know, that butterfly thing is kind of a cliche," she says. "Even 
the science-y cell metamorphosis version."

"Oh my god, sweetie! Seriously!?"

She laughs, like a bell, like the sweetest chimes in the world. (Is that 
what it sounded like? It sounded sweet, that's what matters.) She tells 
us, or maybe we remember that she said: "You can't live the live someone 
else chose for themself. If anything happens to me, I want you to be 
happy, you understand? Don't carry it alone."

And we'd said "I don't think anything's going to happen to you. But if 
it does, I promise, I'll do my best to be happy."

And now it turns out that's a harder promise to keep than we thought!

"Too bad! That's not my problem anymore!" She laughs again, so 
impossibly sweet. "And I know you can do it. I believe in you."

"I know you do. You always have."

Page eight.

Just to hammer it in, the egg watches a movie she picked out about 
reincarnation and relationships and how it's important not to cling to 
an idealized image of someone who's gone. Okay, we get it already!!

Page nine.

Yet still there is a hole, a great sucking emptiness, where once there 
was light and color, fun and kindness, intelligence and style, a sharp 
tongue and someone to help. And it aches. It aches terribly, and it may 
never stop.

Does the egg dare hatch, under these circumstances? If its shell cracks, 
the pain and fear will rush in, and fill a heart. Does that heart have 
the courage to bear the pain, to let itself feel the full, terrible 
extent of it?

Page ten.

First panel: The egg, sitting in a cloud of gray mists, begins to 
rrrrrrumble, the ground and air shaking around it.

Second panel: The egg rumbles harder, sending waves out thru the mist, a 
tiny, golden crack appearing at its very tip.

Third panel: The crack spreads rapidly, becoming a network of glowing 
lines, the mists swirling around to force their way inside.

Fourth panel: The egg bursts open with a blaze of light, releasing a 
hundred purple butterflies!

Page eleven.

The heart that was willing to love with its whole self is not just 
willing to bear the pain, but yearns to. For grief is, itself, love. 
Love that refuses to quit. Love that continues in defiance of death. In 
defiance of loss.

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Drew Nilium