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Karl Kristian Flores Biography

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“Withhold your trust from the critics, the scholars, the writers, the award-winners, the showrunners, because they will write about crime and decorate their art with crime, and it will bring you to tears, but identification of a burning building does not extinguish a fire. Knowing what is right doesn’t make us right. It makes us responsible.”

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“But he played music so loudly he could not hear his pain. He stunted his growth beneath a bass that decorated his aura and lyrics that hardened the glass parts of him. He was indeed an autumn leaf dipped in concrete. He wanted sound, any sound but his own thoughts. Ears that needed songs louder than the mind were ears afraid of what they might hear inside.”

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“But imagine,” said Mars, “being a comet. I want you to imagine a divine force in someone that pushes them through the world, infinitely, in each choice, melting barriers in its own perfect path, out your mouth, out from your hands, across countries, through rooms—” “—through terror—” “—past regulations—” “—past people—” “—every time—” “—every day...” “Their life would go so much further,” continued Mars, “so much—as if absorbing hundreds and hundreds of years of ordinary life experience while still their real age. If death is no secret, why do we hunch? That doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t get the hunching! We retreat even when we always know the most favorable thing to do. If you took every risk, you’d have everything. You’d have all that was all.”

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“How do you know how you are if you wear the same things as before?” she asked. "You have to shake your life until you rid yourself of everything you thought you were. You will shiver during the transition and then replenish with non-identity. After that, you’ll see clearly. What does that mean? Well, you may have to move out of this country. Build your closet from the ground up. Befriend those you despise. Take a left. Trade different things, you see? One must refresh themselves. Stay current with the needs of our soul.” “The adventure isn’t real though... like, people don’t actually do those things. It’s very romantic, but it’s not true. People don’t actually do that.” “What in the world? Do you know your history? We are anything– anything!—we are... in medieval times, kings would behead their brothers. Rulers would commission the most talented artists in the world to paint their bathroom ceilings. People have defeated mammoths with sticks. People have loved. People have killed the innocent to hurt the guilty. Waited until dawn. Mocked death. Staged coup d'états. Go further in your emotions and convictions. Increase your tolerance for extremity. Life can stretch.” “I think you’re mad,” giggled Andrei, shifting his feet. “Like a comet,” she stared with a firm jaw.”

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“People acted how they looked like. The reactions of the world to one’s appearance were an invisible estimation of one’s perception of themselves. The beautiful and the hideous each got treated a certain way—experiencing wildly different kinds of years. The beautiful were told phrases the hideous never heard. The beautiful struggled more with envy, while the hideous spent more time practicing courage, for things never easily bent their way. Every person accepted how they were treated and sank into that role. It showed in the way they sat. How their heads turn. When they spoke. If they spoke. Mannerisms were then not a matter of individual personality, but collective decree. Andrei would notice in a stranger all the things their body did, memorize them, and project them imaginarily on a different person. The imagined transference would never work! It seemed odd, like a miscalculation, to visualize a gorgeous Adonis walk with his head down and fidgety fingers the way a shy man did. There was undeniably a pattern of traits between strangers, courtesy of the strangers they meet.”

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“Live like a comet. An unstoppable rock through space. Travel with so great a speed that there is no time or desire for explanation. Live. Live without brakes," she said. His heart raced. Andrei shifted his gear to second. This was his key. The spine of an upstanding life was character. If all else was rid of, that was all a human had. The decisions in one’s own identity was like the wardrobe of the spirit, as discussed by Mars and Andrei. If a human being was fearless, she told him, they would act on all the things they desired. They would speak all the thoughts they were afraid to say. This pulled them closer to the sublime and away from obvious lands. Their life would gain access to moments of intimacy that were never far— only camouflaged. There was no one Andrei knew who lived like that. Not one. The comet was the most optimal way of life. Nothing could stop the person who decided to nail their foot on the gas. No interaction, rejection, weather, or obstacle of any kind would arrest them for too long. Everyone else had delays and was set back by their excuses. “Tea?” she asked. “Please.”

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“The reality of life on sidewalks is it was a lot easier to imagine grandeur than to actualize it. There was no ceremony to any given second. There were patches of gray concrete. Moving machines. People who looked impossible to interrupt. So much unconquerable space in the air. It was as if an alien species dropped a smoke bomb poisoned with monotony and anywhere a man goes, he suffocates in idleness along with every element in his immediate universe. The most important event to take place was the red crosswalk signal switching to green pedestrian travel. The closest chance of romance was playing at 5:30 p.m. in the theatre. Happiness was making it to one’s destination without embarrassment. Nothing appears achievable to a singular, puny ghost who is not aided by alcohol, a camera team, or a cheering crowd—only more sidewalk and sky.”

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“What a vibe! Do you wanna walk with me? I’m headed this way.” “No,” said Andrei. “But thank you.” David shifted his arms and laughed. He did not expect rejection. David considered himself friendly and a young man of great energy and there could be no possible reason why anybody should deny his invitation. “Oh, why not?” “David...” Andrei started on an effortless admission. The comet knew exactly how he felt and did not measure his blow. It was fair this way, so he locked his eyes kindly on David and shared: “I do not want to walk with you. There’s nothing wrong with that. We don’t need to be friends. And this is okay.” “Oh. Did I...say something bad earlier?” “Mate, it’s just who you are. And who I am. I don’t want to pretend that it’s pleasant to be with you.” “Dude, that really hurts me that you said that, Andrei.” “What can we do, honestly, David? Lie instead? That’s how it is. It can’t be changed. It’s nothing on you—just the both of us combined Not every person we meet is right for us. If we treat everyone like friends, nothing is earned, you know what I mean?” “Alright, dude. Whatever. That’s totally your choice, so all good. But that literally makes no sense, so.” Andrei looked down the road, which he owed, and not David, and so withdrew. “Then let me make no sense. Cheers. Good luck with everything.”

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“The shouts continued to sound at the bus stop across the street. A shirtless man wearing a backpack was going around and grabbing women, stumbling here and there, and yelling with hostility. Everyone at the bus stop backed away. A group of able-bodied humans paralyzed by violence seemed incomprehensible. But that was the smoke bomb of monotony entering terrified lungs, lungs alive but too shocked to act. They were afraid of getting harmed themselves to rescue those who cried out in front of them. It was amazing that regardless of how much anger was in someone, the character they might have, and what adventure films they had seen, their body did not want to move when a monster ate in front of them.”

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“Life was never about survival. For a long time, it was proposed that all living organisms shared a single purpose: to survive—but this was not the appropriate case for humans. Survival was all along but a secondary basis to man, while attendance to life was the first. One must secure something to survive for, as the cells of the straightforward body will, regardless of permission, do their job. Men do not breathe without air first around to inhale. A sailor cannot know his passion for sailing without an existing body of water. Similarly, a man can only survive if there is something larger in him that lives—not a beating heart, but a moving one. If he only “holds on,” prolonging preservation and supervising health, there is nothing in that lingering lifeform to endanger or threaten. And since no system of security can defend from death’s next play, there is no use in mortals wearing armor. The essence of chance had loitered since the beginning of time, anticipating a being who adhered to its expressions. The human priority is one’s comet.”

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“The children who played the Scorpion game in daycare knew the point. Before the beach, Andrei walked past a group of little boys and girls through the front window. He spectated their game. The kids were placed within a circle marked on the ground as a boundary. One blindfolded child played the Scorpion. And then the Scorpion violently tagged each student they found, eliminating the group one by one. The game would eventually end. The Scorpion would eat everyone. Andrei watched the children choose their mortal dance and run carefully in all directions. Then the circle of watchers applauded the child who won— that was, the timid, clever boy who had laid down patiently on the floor, away from the Scorpion, as still as a manhole cover. The unseen kid held his breath in the name of survival for the duration of the game. Though there was one player who moved unlike the rest. Bless that spirit who dared to dance teasingly in front of the Scorpion, inspect the circle to learn its space, had fleeting looks of love with other bugs, and was the only one to know what it felt like to belt their endangered voice in a loud, delightful cry toward the heavens. The dancing crier was killed. But the shy, certain statue of a boy died twice.”

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“Is there not genius in the villain? In the criminal? A magic born in the beginnings of the tiniest of rebellions? When I think of someone who has to create a masterplan to rob a store, the valor of a pirate, or a malicious CEO trying to tear down competition, at least they have a point of view. They are uninhibited by the parameters of previous motion. They are electric imaginers. And they make their money by thinking. The originality of a criminal’s thoughts requires a freedom so rare to attain—and from there, brilliant masterplans, blueprints, trajectories, and other devices are employed. No one owns them and they defy odds with every offense. To have the mind of a criminal, but the heart of an angel would be ideal, but who promised ideal? It’s too bad the cleverest of things were corrupt and have made us call geniuses stupid. Maybe it’s circumstance, maybe it’s hereditary, but the greatest criminals have the creativity and courage like no other.”

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Book:The Goodbye Song
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“Life is as uneventful as looking up right now and staring at your space. How dare men advise courage! It’s imagination we need. Our battlefield is not one of swords and smoke, but of quietness and boredom. If you attempt something extraordinary, it is by Latin prefix, ‘extra’, and no one will understand that part until it happens. And oftentimes, you can’t defeat the quiet with muscle, strength, or toughness, because the thing you are holding is too fragile and could therefore be consequently lost by your tight grip. You must therefore work the other muscle: faith”

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“Oh, what the ocean did to a man. How unmatched it was. One could competitively build a giant castle made of sand or even hire architects to construct a true castle by the shore made of rocks and furnish its enormous insides with crystals. Yet plop him closer to the sea and within seconds, he will yield and feel as dumb as any other measly man lost at land.”

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“Andrei felt that this day with Raphael, while short-lived, was the equivalent of being Raphael’s friend for many, many years. Nothing could, of course, replace time devoted to another. They would have enjoyed drinking in the desert, taking a road trip to Arizona, a good street fight or two—though this required time which they did not have. But in an immeasurable sense, one true conversation and a friendship were the same. The heart asked its only ever test: Did you give me away? Ah, good. The correspondence of souls begged for existence and never for “longer.” Raphael’s departure did not depress Andrei, but immortally fed him. He may not have Raphael to speak with, and Raphael may not have Andrei to sit down and talk to, but they had spoken. Given. Lagers in the desert, the fantasy of an Arizona escapade, and bar brawls were already offered between their looks, heart allowance, and exchange of truth. Certainly, one wants those years, but they don’t need them. That’s the beauty of the real. There was no such thing as “enough” of someone or “more” or “less”—there were only happenings.”

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“Andrei looked down at the wet sand and watched the waves advance closer to the land then fall backward. Each proposal, the water took a new shape, like the varying flame of the candles back at the church. The ocean approached him briefly, saluted, and retired in casual speed. Its transient withdrawal marked different contours on the earth, spreading its foam in this place and that. And there it was, the universe showing mankind once again that nothing belongs. People go, places change, and time continues. All they had were their moments. And some of those moments turned into memories. And some of those memories hurt. And depending on whatever the pain was, that was what differentiated one person from another.”

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Author:Karl Kristian Flores
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“The pub. It remained the only place in the world that had not evolved into anything more sophisticated. The buildings rose, the towers hit never- ending growth spurts, the concrete sidewalks turned to polycarbonate glass billboards, and the cars drove people. But the pubs—the pubs with their gritty melancholy—endured time. No matter how advanced this species grew to be, the human heart was never short of confusion and in need of the rugged, little lullaby of alcohol and alone time.”

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“People carry too many memories on their back and after a while it gets too hard to walk. The poets say you get stronger, but the scientists say that overworking the muscle deteriorates the muscle. There had been sensations Isaac wanted to feel, people to meet, and places to see, but the torture one had to endure to get to any one of those points required three to five suicides.”

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“I wish I hadn't met you in the rain: it comes every winter. I wish you hadn't told me your favorite wine: I've become a drinker. I wish I never showed you my hidden birthmark: It looks back at me at night asking where you are. I wish I hadn't read you my journal, all the pages praising you, It's corrupted now that I can't tell if I write for me or you. I wish I hadn't told you my daily routine: it's not mine anymore. I can't enjoy 11:11, my favorite song, a birthday cake, or a concert tour. I'm not afraid of the future, it's the past that takes a while.”

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“I tried to book a flight to her mind, but I’m not on the list. And now I’m terminal: I’m breathing brandy. I’ve incorporated another tally mark on my wrist. I get my vitamins in: colored capsules I call candy. Life is just a bunch of dashes— Interrupted sentences with no finish line. But at least if you wet your eyelashes, You can get a cinematic look in life.”

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“Dear Alien, Thank you for asking. Here on my earth, unlove is among the deepest loves to give a person. It touches us in a way no other pain could reach. For as long as breath comes, the possibility of heart correspondence may come too. For the rest of our lives, we are left with the unknown, sailing in a sea of doubt contaminated with hope - scattered and shattered over nothing that mattered. In the world of unlove, fire thrives from the cold. After they've left, our brains speculate how that person is doing. Departure never really exists. It's almost like leaving a person ensures you'll always be with them. Hope I answered your question. Mine for you: how is she? Curiously, KKF”

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“Sometimes, in their wide-eyed, ashamed, fanatical temperament, their humanity spills out in a discomfort that is nearly frightening. But, we all harbor some form of innocent strangeness that we keep to ourselves—our fears, our obsessions, our questionable sanities. They are the reasons why we do things— routes we take, instruments we learn, and CDs we buy. It sounds like honey, but I’m not just being an essayist here. I do believe it. And it’s the truth because today, I’d like to share my strange with you.”

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“And she said goodbye to him and closed the door, not to pressure the inhabitant to evacuate, but because doors would not be doors if they stayed open, would they? Andrei walked down the corridor, lifted his hand and clutched the air in front of his chest, as if grabbing a part of his spirit, and privately threw it in her direction, saying, “Here’s some of my soul forever, somehow, yes, for you.”

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“Her limber body swayed as though in time to an orchestra and in a way that showed she ate well, and ate all kinds of things no one could tell, like veal or fresh figs in the sunshine. She had the kind of face that made one cry. She drew salt water out like sheer chemistry. The chemical reaction was usually the same sentiment—the world saw the little shelf bone under her eyes, a sharp nose, precious jaw, two moons for cheekbones, and so was deeply confused and upset that there was no metal armor attached to her body to protect her. People had cried fearing all kinds of possibilities—that a piece of hail might cut across her cheek, a drunkard might break her nose, or a car from nowhere would crash into hers and shatter her skull entirely. But no case of that happened. She remained unblemished. Watchful cars slowed down for her as she walked, drunkards sobered at her eyes, and even hail made way for this little human.”

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“He eyed her fingernails, painted bright blue. Her wrists smelled like peppermint and she said her name was “Stella.” Andrei was impressed by her femininity, the subject of which was a dangerous thing. When some men are exposed to a certain kind of woman, they become so absolutely entranced by their iridescence that they would do anything to be around them for longer. Lie. Linger. Kill. It was a pure, wild attraction, that started from a collarbone, that would make a man agree to rip out his tooth if only to hear a woman talk again. Lastly, she had these devilish eyes exclusive to brown and only ever sometimes encountered. Those types of eyes were so dark they had death in them, but were framed with such sweet, narrow eyelids that took death, swirled it in a sizzling adorableness, and communicated a dangerous, impatient capability for sex. It seduced men throughout history—what lived behind the mischievous, delicate, hickory fire.”

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Book:A Happy Ghost
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