Oskar Leonard's Blog, page 4

The Cat

If you’re following me on Instagram, Threads or Facebook, then you might have seen an excerpt from the unconventionally formatted short story ‘The Cat’ on your feed this week – if not, don’t worry, because in this post you can read that short story in its entirety! It’s from my upcoming collection ‘Purgatory, Fangs & Rabbit Trails’, which focuses on short stories concerning afterlife, whether that’s purgatory, vampiric second life or godly interventions in varying forms. This story falls into the last category, and I hope you enjoy it!

The Cat

There is a cat on my face. It is sleeping.

Indeed.

I don’t want to wake it up.

You won’t.

How can you be so sure?

She has been sleeping for a long time now. You will not wake her, little one.

Little one?

All beings are little, to me.

I’m not as small as the cat, though.

Not nearly as small, no.

Yet you still call me little?

It wouldn’t be true to call you big, little one, not when one such as I am looking down at one such as you.

Looking down, still?

Yes. Always down. You are so small.

But I thought I was on your level now. I thought… I thought this was it. The big one.

Even if we stand upon the same ground, I am looking down at you.

And you’re looking down at me now?

Yes.

You can see the cat on my face?

Yes.

Can you take the cat off my face?

Can you not?

I don’t want her to be mad at me. Cats have claws.

You should have no fear of mortal injury, now. Your flesh is as mine is—ethereal, eternal. Unblemished.

You got rid of my freckles?

I did nothing. You were brought to me, after you… took your leave.

You can’t even say it, can you?

It does not need to be said, between us. We are both knowledgeable of the incident, through different eyes.

‘The incident’?

I refuse to speak any further of it.

Is that emotion that I’m detecting?

You are mistaken.

No, no, I’m sure that I heard a flicker of guilt behind those stoic words of yours.

You know I could do nothing.

I know. But I also know you wish you could have done something.

Let us speak no more of it. You are here, now, and in remarkably good spirits, too.

Did you mean for that to be a pun?

No.

Too bad.

Is there a reason for your positive mood?

I have a cat on my face.

You do. She is everything to me.

Frankly, I am offended.

You are a different everything, little one.

Now I feel like you’re saying it on purpose.

I do not know what you are insinuating.

I thought you knew everything.

That is a common misconception. I can see everything—that I wish to see. I can hear everything—that I wish to hear. I know everything—that I wish to know.

You don’t wish to know what I’m insinuating?

That was a jest. I thought you would appreciate it, in your good mood.

Funny. Yeah, I like it. You having a sense of humour is good, y’know? You should keep it.

I will try.

Can you move the cat?

Your form has physical aspects to it still; you can interact with her, as she interacts with you. You can remove the cat from your own face.

I don’t want her to hate me.

She won’t hate you.

But she’s sleeping.

She won’t wake up. She has slept through some of the greatest and most terrible events in your history.

…I still don’t want to move her.

You would be able to see me, if you removed the cat.

…

I see. You are afraid.

I am not afraid! Who said I was afraid?

I did.

You’ve still gotta work on that sense of humour.

It is normal to be afraid, little one.

There you go with the ‘little one’ stuff again. I’m not little, okay?

To me, you—

I get it, I get it. You’re like, bigger than my possible imagination and all that.

That is not what I was going to say.

What were you going to say?

To me, you are small. That is all.

I think you’re lying.

I am not lying to you. I think you should remove the cat from your face.

I think she’s comfortable.

You cannot be comfortable with a cat on your face.

I didn’t say that, did I?

Fear is a normal reaction. She was scared too, once.

But not now?

Now, she sleeps. On your face.

I noticed.

A place from which you should move her.

I don’t think so.

I have prepared for you. You should find the surroundings to be comfortable. Familiar.

I don’t really want familiar.

You don’t wish to be reminded of home?

No.

I… did not anticipate this. I did not think your home would cause you pain.

That’s alright. I didn’t either, until a second ago.

Is there somewhere that you would like to see?

Elsewhere. Anywhere. Nothing that I know. Nothing that I’ve seen before.

I understand. It shall be so.

I mean, you’ve seen everything, right? Everything you want to see, and all that. I haven’t. So just make it look like some place that I’ve never even thought of. Some place I couldn’t name. With different colours and sounds and fucking wallpaper. Don’t make it the same. It can’t be the same.

I understand.

Do you?

I sympathise.

Right. Because you can’t empathise. Because you’re so fucking big.

I can make myself smaller, if that would help. I had assumed you would want to see the image that I described for you.

… yeah, you were right. I don’t want you to change.

Even if it would make you more comfortable?

Look, how do you have the fucking time to do this?

To do what?

To be here. Talking to me. Looking at me with a cat on my face. Don’t you have like a herd of other people around here somewhere?

They are content. You are not.

I am fine. Look, you should just go and check on them. I’m sure someone will need you for something.

You need me, for this.

I don’t want to move the cat.

Would it be easier for you if I moved the cat?

Yes! That’s what I’ve been asking for this whole time.

I do not understand. You will see the same scene, whether I move the cat or you move her.

But if you do it, then it’ll… I don’t know. It’ll be different. If I have to do it…

You are afraid, and this is the form in which you need your comfort.

Has anyone ever told you that you should be a therapist? Because I think you have an amazing career ahead of you. You could charge top rates, honest.

You are using humour to deflect from the situation at hand.

Keep going! You’re getting better with every line.

…I am going to move the cat.

…okay.

She is going to continue sleeping.

You’re sure?

I know this.

Okay.

You will see a scene entirely different from your home, which your eyes have never seen before.

Not like some creepy shit from a horror movie, though?

No.

Okay.

And you will see me.

Yes.

You are prepared for this?

I… no. But I guess it’s gonna get worse the longer I put it off for.

It will not get easier than it will be in this coming moment.

Okay. And you didn’t catfish me, right?

I don’t understand.

You didn’t lie to me, when we were talking? About… you?

I did not. I told you what you wished to know, little one.

Please stop calling me that.

Are you ready?

Just do it. Move the cat. Make sure you don’t wake her up.

She is sleeping.

…you wanted to help, didn’t you?

I cannot interfere in such things, not in any meaningful manner.

You couldn’t even talk to him?

No. He belonged to another.

Okay. But you wanted to?

You know this.

I… yeah. I know. I just wanted to hear you say it. To make sure.

Little one, your name was etched onto every celestial body, written in my guilt—my regret. My wish to change what could not be changed, and cannot, now, ever be revoked. I am sorry. It was beyond me to interfere.

But you watched.

Yes.

You stayed with me.

Every moment.

Until the end.

Your last breath.

And you waited here for me?

Until you came.

Delivered, right?

Moving is not my place. Keeping is.

And now we’re here, right? The end of forever.

The start of eternity. I’m going to move the cat now.

Yes. Do it. I want to see you.

You will.

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My 2024 In Review – Poetry, Fiction & More!

Happy New Year! It’s a fun coincidence that New Year’s Day this year happened to be on a Wednesday, so I decided I’d shake things up a little bit with a post that explores what I’ve done throughout this past year.

Books

I’ve released two books this year, one of them in a more unconventional manner than my usual releases. Chained Soul, a dystopian novel taking the form of an imprisoned man’s journal as he tries to remember who he is and why he’s been locked in a facility, has been released up to Part Twenty-Nine right here on the blog (you can start at Part One by clicking here!) as well as on Tapas and Wattpad, and the full version including the ending thirtieth part will be released in 2025.

The second book that I released this year is the novella The Horse Who Fell in Scorland, which is available as a free eBook on Smashwords (and some other platforms like B&N) and a print book or Kindle eBook on Amazon. This novella is a short fantasy tragedy, as you may have guessed from the title, which follows Duke, the King of Ardenic’s prized warhorse, as he carries the King into his war on the neighbouring country of Scorland, facing battle and hardship for the very first time.

Blog Posts

Speaking of the blog, did you know that this year, I’ve written 41.4k words in blog posts? That’s more than any previous year, and you’ve graced me with an amazing 210 likes, which I couldn’t be happier with. My most popular post this year was the poem ‘Science Fiction’, a neo-Victorian romance imbued with hints of Frankenstein and body-snatching. You can check that out below!

Science Fiction by Oskar Leonard July 31, 2024 Publications

But my poetry has strayed a little further than the blog in 2024, as four of my poems have found homes in publications this past year.

‘The Matter of the Chest’, a poem covering three time periods in my top surgery journey, was published in Issue I of These Writers’ Voices.‘There Are No Bears in Ormskirk’, a poem celebrating the slightly chaotic student house I lived in during my final year of my undergraduate degree, was published in the Varsha 2024 Poetry Collection by Active Muse.‘My Girlfriend Plays Metal Gear Missions in Her Head to Sleep’, a poem inspired and informed by my partner’s video-game-based mental escapades and extensive Metal Gear knowledge, was published in Vol. 01 of Giant Robot Poems: On Mecha-Human Science, Culture & War, Vol. 01 by Middle West Press.‘Pile of Parts’, a somewhat gory poem taking a perhaps alternative view to the idea of rebirth, was published in Issue #1 of Pen&Quill.Beta Reading & Proofreading

This year, I’ve been fortunate enough to work on over 100 manuscripts through Fiverr, both from authors I’ve previously worked with and plenty of new faces too! I also took the step of adding a page just for my beta/proofreading services on this website, and I’ve been transitioning towards spending more time on these services – and being able to offer them to more authors – since I graduated in July. I’m already helping out authors in 2025 (and we’re only one day into the year!) so I’m excited to see what this new year brings.

And that’s all from me for now! I’ve got some plans for 2025 already, which I may mention in next week’s blog post, but ultimately, I wish you all a very happy New Year, and I can only thank you for your support throughout last year.

To Misplace a Monarchy

Another fantasy poem this week! It’s time to take a closer look at the concept of rulership and governance in this fantasy world that we’ve been exploring over the last few weeks–maybe even a careful interrogation of the concept. I hope you enjoy this week’s poem!

To Misplace a Monarchy

How exactly has G——-,
our dear, dear G——-,
managed to misplace its monarchy?

In such a statement,
I, of course, refer to G——-
as the symbol of our country.

Such economy of concepts
must be allowed, dear readers,
for there is only so much ink.

Yet, to return to the crux
of the issue, we are ruled,
led, guided by our council, now.

Our latest king lies in a grave,
an ornate and beautiful yet fixed
abode, suitably situated in G——- Park.

He was, it can be said loudly,
a great man. The council cannot deny
us the telling of such truths.

But there is no heir. We are now,
all of us, led by an amalgamation
of those who wish to be in charge.

Is this better? That is not for me
to say, nor would I dare to say anything,
even a word, against our dear council.

(Yet they are an interim council,
let us not forget–even if it may seem
that they all wish for us to do so.)

Twelve unelected men, drawn to their positions
by the want for power, not any word or voice
from the people of G——-.

This is a statement, not an opinion;
in the same vein, our latest king,
dearly departed, was not chosen by us.

But there is a quaintness to a bloodline,
don’t you think? It speaks to a history
that we have all forgotten; lost memories.

War, blood, violence. Before a bloodline
can be situated, it must win the right
to situate, often brutally.

It would be a shame if such an event
were to occur again–yet how interesting,
to be a part of living history. The possibility!

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

The Skulking Guardsman

This week, I have got another fantasy poem for you from the collection we’ve been building up across the past few weeks, but this one dances a little closer to the actual project I’m working on which these poems form some of the world-building for (I don’t actually know whether they will be included in the final project or not yet, as an aside, but I hope you’re enjoying them nevertheless!).

The Skulking Guardsman

Behold, the height of sophistication
according to our fiendish brethren–
the shared latrines at the delightful,
thrumming establishment,
The Skulking Guardsman.

Lost your lover? Not to fear–
simply summon Klaraz-Syn,
for a night so sultry and dear
you’ll never miss them again.

(Such is the usual form of these…
rites, shall we say–not exactly
elegant and refined, nor perfectly
poetic, but we must all make do.)

Is your boss an insufferable prick?
Is your husband a horrible old d–

Well, we need go no further into that,
but regardless, there is something quaint
about these inscriptions, something odd
in that they are not as we might expect–

The legends, we all remember–or rather,
I hope that you remember–do not describe
beings rising from the depths of Hell
through the medium of latrine wall scrawlings.

No, we are used to stories of scrolls,
found in the deepest caves, or yellowed pages
in dusty books, uncovered in libraries
or crypts–so how, then, do we explain this?

It would not be for me to say whether these
modern rites are true or forgeries–after all,
none can claim to have checked, with the current
legislation bestowed upon us by that grand council.

But… Well, I have some degree of foresight,
dear readers, so I will leave you with one last rhyme.

Luzz-Oly, Luzz-Oly, for the best of times,
for the worst of times–when you need care,
when you need help–love, protection, crimes–
Luzz-Oly, Luzz-Oly: he will be there.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Even Gods Must Sleep

Interestingly, even though I’ve posted quite a few of these fantasy poems now, this one was actually the first that I wrote. I guess that makes it quite special in its own way, and it’s also a little longer than some of the others, but in a sense, it’s the starting point for all of the other poems that I’ve been posting from this collection, week by week, so I hope you enjoy this ‘beginning’!

Even Gods Must Sleep

Once cathedral, now ash-
fitting, dark matter to dark matter,
ebony and stone to crumbling remnants
of saintly cries, chants, hands raised,
begging for all manner of gods to keep
the flames from enveloping the G——- monks;
they began with their current devotion,
the miser, the herald of austerity,
to whom they sang in monotones twice a day,
every day, for five years since the changing
of the monarchy, and public belief.

But his thin lips remained sealed,
so thinner fingers scrambled over texts,
locked away, not yet burnt as the decree demanded,
remembering the ecclesiastical passions of years past:
the cat-faced goddess they once praised,
with her shimmering gown and talon-hands,
who was still blessed in the shadow-halls of thieves
and others acquainted well with the night;
would she answer the newly-devout, her old flames?

But her eyes remained closed,
so the collective turned upon each other,
rescuing personal prayers from hidey-holes-
a loose floorboard, a wall crevice,
a pouch hanging from the neck, near the heart,
a locked box wrapped in a moth-eaten robe-
within these spaces were the old ways,
the family rites, the personal saviours,
and each was called to, in contending chants,
as beards were singed and hands blackened-
none could leave, of course, not until
the deities’ uncaring was truly confirmed.

But the gods of their families remained unfound,
and as beams came crashing down, weak stone
giving way to the crunch of supporting wood,
the screams rose in their nonsensical tones,
no longer giving thanks or beseeching aid
from the unseen, but begging anything of anyone,
mortal or immortal, touched by the heavens
or cursed, as most are, to live and die on the ground;
would any answer the call of the most holy,
those who had dedicated their lives to beings
that would not save them in their time of need?

If only the structure could last-
if only a loose bolt from the sky
had not fallen on such a dry night-
if only the great ones had not
fallen asleep at an early hour-
if only the pails of water, thrown
more for personal morality
(look there, I tried to save those
men of the cloth, I truly did,
and doesn’t that deserve a drink or two?)
than in true hopes of rescue,
could quell the fiery beast
devouring the cathedral, piece by piece.

Now, it is ash, fallen stones in an arrangement
that could, in a manner of speaking,
be still called a place of worship-
they did not have to move the charred remains
far to the G——- graveyard, after all.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Unknowledge

This week, we’re continuing the collection that I’ve been covering over the past few posts with my fantasy poems, expanding on this mysterious world in a somewhat interesting and perhaps meta way in this poem, ‘Unknowledge’.

However, I do also have a small announcement – for about three years now, I’ve been offering beta reading and proofreading services through Fiverr, but the rather woeful looking page about it on this site was hidden under a sub-menu and somewhat undeveloped. But no longer! A fancy, newly-designed page has now appeared! Feel free to check it out, if only to judge my website design capabilities.

But enough of that–on with the poem!

Unknowledge

Do you, friend, remember the founding
of our fair city of G——-?

No? No, I cannot say I do either–
I cannot, you understand.

But if you do not remember,
and I cannot remember,
then what are we to do?

We shall ask the G——- Monks,
of course; their knowledge is…

Burnt. Rather burnt; more ash
than paper, their libraries.

Not to fret! We have those
in their place; their literal place,
by which I mean our fair council.

But to be granted an audience with them…
Well, it is only criminals who get the pleasure.

(And their wonderous courtiers,
no longer called as such.)

Are we among those privy to such
a meeting? In the first case,
and the second, I hope not.

Then what is a citizen to do?
It is quite simple, my friend: invent.

G——- has not a history,
not in living memory.

But we are living–you certainly are,
so the duty falls to you.

These walls, no matter which side
of them you lie on, have given you
a name–an identity as one of a people.

Who you would be without, before, beyond
G——-, that is for you to decide.

And what G——- was before you…
Well, there is another decision for you.

Away; create!

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Welcoming Dawn

Another week, another fantasy poem! This is another one from the collection that I’ve been writing, which this time focuses on sunrise and a rather nice ritual-esque occurrence that happens within this setting, so I hope that you enjoy it!

Welcoming Dawn

The children gather on the wall at dawn,
having slipped from beds, rags and silk,
to tip-toe past the sleeping cats,
whispering to each other, as they join the ranks,
of butlers skirted and nannies confounded,
so that they may come to the wall.

N—- and H—–‘s young skip from outside,
taking well-worn routes in rock to climb–
the gated passageways are sleepily guarded
by suits of armour wishing for bed,
stamping their boots against the cold
of G——- before the sun’s debut.

The Spiritside scamps are last of all,
trudging across the L—— Bridge,
a great detour from their clustered streets–
for there is only need for one bridge in all of G——-, yes indeed, just one,
but, as clockwork, they arrive and scramble.

Upwards, upwards, all of the young rise
until they startle the roosting pigeons
atop the crumbling stone guarding their city,
swinging their legs away – always away
from their home, looking out to a horizon
blotted by a thickness of dark trees–

But see, how they turn golden!
How they burn with the dawn,
how the road between them is revealed,
pale and broad and extending eternally,
and hear the children cheer and giggle–
and hear the stamp of boots on the stairs.

Scatter.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

Cats & Dogs

A bit of a fun one this week! This is another poem from the fantasy collection/project that I’m working on, but as you may have guessed by the title, it’s got a pretty specific focus – or rather, two! I hope that you enjoy this poem.

Cats & Dogs

Whoever, do you think, put all the felines,
stretching themselves out on heated cobbles
as they wish during the height of the afternoon,
in G——-?

Was it the same individual who placed among them
their four-legged rivals, those charming dogs
who beg, so kindly, for scraps from those
who cannot spare any scraps themselves?

(They find a morsel, in any case,
because no one can resist those canine charms;
some of us, I believe, could learn a lot
from the charisma of these devious, lovely animals.)

Surely not; surely there are two individuals,
who detest each other–they must, I’ve decided–
and are at odds in both their general personalities
and their liking and disliking of the animals.

Then, whose side are you on, dear friend?
Do you take the offered paw of the stray dog,
or do you pause to admire the slinking cats–
or do you love them all, so equally?

Do not lie; we all have favourites.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

The Grey Gawker

This week, I’ve got another poem from my slowly unfurling fantasy world for you, and this one lends itself a bit to the mystery that you probably weren’t even considering (if you’ve caught a couple of these) – who is actually writing these poems? Not in the meta sense that I’m the one coming up with them of course, but more of a ‘who is the narrator?’ sort of deal, which I hope you find interesting as you read this week’s poem!

The Grey Gawker

The Grey Gawker is the single trusted source
of gossip, and sometimes other newsworthy items
such as news, in G——-, and for good reason:
it speaks plainly, yet with a hint of humour,
and the good little mortals eat it up.

They don’t need to see the face of the editor,
the ‘M.N.’ who delivers news of their fates
on any particular day, week, month, year,
with a witty word and a commissioned comic,
to know that M.N. is the one to listen to.

The one to trust, to pay a penny for,
to pass around of an evening, or a morning,
when sat at the dining table; anywhere
that company is to be found, you can be sure
that The Grey Gawker will make an appearance.

Some say it’ll still be around long after
G——- has descended into dust and gloom;
some say it will outlast even Hell,
and the devils who, for now, pay it no mind,
unless they’re dancing in the L—– R—-.

A verdict hasn’t been reached, as of yet,
to the particulars of The Grey Gawker‘s
promising longevity, but when that wonderful,
intellectual, silver-tongued, trustworthy
and ravishing M.N. decides, you will know too.

And knowing will cost you only a penny.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)

This is Worship

Some interesting context for this one! So, this poem is continuing the series that I’ve been uploading over the past few weeks of fantasy poems that are slowly expanding the worldbuilding of a project that I’ve been working on. However, this poem also takes inspiration from Worship, an entirely unrelated poem that I have also previously uploaded to the blog. It’s a sort of reimagining/extended/mixed-up version of that poem, which now fits into the bigger picture of this fantasy world, so I hope you enjoy it!

This is Worship

She tends her altar quietly,
fingers moving under candlelight,
before the moon reaches centre stage.

It is not forbidden-
G——- is so open, these days,
to devotion of any kind.

Yet private practice feels
so much more intimate,
as she clasps her hands.

Her eyelids close,
the crimson sigil still bright,
painted in lamb’s blood.

Well, if she is a lamb,
to his flock, and he is a shepherd,
of a congregation of one.

(The guidance scripture, yellowed
beyond potential imitation standards,
asked, rather politely, for lamb’s blood.)

(As her rooms are nestled above a bookshop,
overlooking the prim square of inner-city greenery
that is D— Park, a lamb was unavailable.)

The chant is a sweet nothing off her tongue,
so very sweet, as if she is kissing it
into the ear of a lover.

This is her nightly ritual, and this
is her reward: her glimpse of him:
a pleasant horned face, brilliantly red.

This night, he has no words for her,
but the pleased softness to his eyes,
the crinkle in his face; it is enough.

Her offering is only devotion,
her words the only sacrifice,
loving in their regularity.

This is worship.

If you enjoyed this, click here to check out some of my poetry collections – free ebooks available as well as print books on Amazon!

(You can also tip me on my Ko-Fi page if you’d like to support an author!)