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# Haiku × Fiction
April 1, 2023

Kyzak • Ampy • Giles • Michael Miele • Corvus

## Introduction

Oh, haiku. That most oversimplified form of short poetry. What's often reduced to a simple counting of syllables stems from a flexible exploration of senses and sensation, unencumbered by metaphor and too many words. But what can this loose form teach us about writing fiction? What lessons can we take from this structure and apply to our works? And, on that note, what lessons can we take from fiction and apply to haiku?

On April 1, 2023, six writers set out to investigate this. After constructing haiku from two concrete and contrasting images, they used that as inspiration for building prose. The prose similarly leaned on those images in order to set a mood, evoke emotions, and draw the reader in.

## Giles

Sunlight warms old tile Fragrant leaves spill from moist earth The air is clean, quiet.

A mote of dust floats lazily in an unseen breeze, rocking to and fro before landing on a patch of warm, moist earth in a clay pot. The pot holds a bush of thyme, green and vibrant and alive.

The mote is alive as well. It is a mold spore, a tiny speck containing the instructions for constructing something sprawling and complex and terrifyingly alive. It feels the moisture, the warmth, the latent promise of nutrients in rich earth, and decides to grow. Small tendrils reach out, questing for sustenance, but meet unexpected resistance.

The thyme, quiet and unassuming in the kitchen corner, is a towering incumbent in its pot. It has molded its environment, roots establishing solid footholds in the earth, and prepared its defenses. The plant is inundated with fungicidal oil; the subtle aroma of fresh herbs belies a ruthless biological weapon, an impenetrable wall in the soil beneath.

The spore's tendrils meet the wall, wither and die. It searches in other directions, scrabbling for purchase in this suddenly hostile land, but finds nothing. It is hemmed in.

Still, it tries. It does not know how not to. It struggles and searches and reaches in increasingly desperate directions, until the meager food value it has managed to gather depletes, and then it dies.

Thyme stalks sway in the unseen breeze, and the sun is warm on its leaves.

## Kyzak

“I’m a pill-pilled Ibeycel”, I thought-vomited, and I heard them laugh through my headphones, the sweetest sound in the world. I felt a heady sense of accomplishment; the mark of a joke landed (if you can call that a joke) was a comfort as warm as a pillow fresh from the dryer.

But a problem arose as I reached for the ibuprofen: there was only one pill left. It rattled in the child-safe bottle, forlorn and forlonely. This was a huge problem, actually, because what I felt could only be described as a two-ibuprofen headache.

I stood up. “Hold on, there's only one left, I gotta go get more of The Ibey.”

“Yeah, there's only one left in this one, too,” I heard them commiserate. “How does that even happen when you take 'em in pairs?”

“Ibuprofen gremlins,” I concluded, and I put my headphones down on my desk. Instantly, I was alone in my own bedroom, and they were alone in theirs, removed from the ephemeral space we occupied to circumvent the distance of seven states and a time zone. The steady whir of the tower fan behind me was a comfort when I was drifting off to sleep, but in this moment, it was a harsh reminder that my mind often fled to places my body could not follow.

I couldn't raid the bathroom's medicine cabinet fast enough. I sat back down at my desk and picked at the foil seal on the fresh bottle while I waited for them to come back. They were taking longer than usual; must have stopped to get water. I tapped out a rhythm on the pill bottle, just to focus my attention on something, anything.

Finally I heard the familiar creaking-closed of their bedroom door, as I'd heard it hundreds of times, and gave them a kiss as I visualized the exact moment they'd put their headphones back on. Judging by the gasp of faux-surprise, I’d hit my mark, as usual. I'd had plenty of practice.

“Itadakimasu!” I said (ironically, I promise), and we took ibuprofen together.

## Ampy

Avery glanced at the gloves on the counter, decorated with flowers and lemons, as though meant to bear the fruit of their labor. Yet there were no flowers, no fruit trees to tend to in the small 5th-floor apartment downtown. Indeed, the only bit of greenery in the place was a small artificial plant that tried its hardest to bring a bit of verdant cheer to its corner against the cold, white walls of the all-too-cramped space. A rare sunbeam snaked its way between the building-facing window into the room, the providence of just the right time of day and season, but not enough to nourish a real plant—they’d tried, often enough.

Avery sighed. Why had they even bought the gloves that day? Perhaps it was what they represented—the promise of a new day, of the time coming when they would prove useful. Perhaps they were a reminder of what they were working for, saving up for a place to call their own, away from the cacophony of noisy vehicles and noisier tenants. Perhaps it merely pleased them to see something bright and colorful in the limited comfort of their personal space, something that would endure, like the artificial plant (like them), in any conditions.

But until then, there they sat, potential energy waiting to be unleashed upon the unfortunate weeds who would dare infest their garden-to-be in the yard-to-be outside their new house-to-be. And despite it all, they gave Avery something to smile about.

## Michael Miele

Flash of red, perched quiet Waiting patiently For rolling clouds to pass

Red streak across my window, and I had to find out why. So little color these days that it was impossible to ignore. Peeking through the blindfold slats, I saw a cardinal. Bright red and still in the only green tree for miles. Somehow it had known.

Clouds, great and terrible, rolled across the sky. I could feel the pressure shift as they passed the house. Dark enough to mute even the brilliant red of the cardinal. It would not budge from its perching place. I shouted and banged my hands on the windows, and yet it would not move.

The deluge was quick and merciless. The tree was shredded in seconds. Rain collected up to the glass’s pane. Through the waves of the water, a single flash of red took flight. Unharmed.

## Corvus

stringing chirps lone cricket silenced -- night cold breeze

Cluttered noises cursed distracted days, yet night's loaded burden deals out an uncomforting lightness. Little to grab on to but the bursting forth of strange barren symphonies with long rests of nothing in the darkness. Small winds bleed out a near imperceptible howl, conveying a chill in continuity before the soloist takes up the rest.

One insignificant actor made important in a light moment sends strands into the dark silence before exhaustion breeds the futility of furtherance. The cricket is alone, and stops as another weathering wind ends this section of the show.

## Renga

In addition to the haiku × prose workshop, a few attendees participated in a three-way renga — a game of chaining haiku among poets.

### I

Torn and calloused Lines of age Made young again in playful splashes Water climbs arms willingly no room for soap in the ocean the age of work cleansed from the skin --- plopped into depths

### II

Silverware rests on the rims of plates as empty as the room invoided persons ghosts of the mundane hunger unsated Passing through, no trace Stagnant air whipped By uncaring fans

### III

singing insect weathered by the night --- faded silence Weathered by the night Shining resplendence To light a path home Tired feet drag through tired grasses silent crickets wait

If you enjoyed this zine, you can pick up a PDF version here.

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