Death’s Roommate.

Hey it’s been a while.

Here’s a writing prompt I thought of. I think I unconsciously stole it from the grim adventures of Billy and Mandy. Whoops.

Right now, Reggie’s life is going great. He has an amazing girlfriend, and things are going better than ever. He’s about to get a promotion in his job, and he even cut carbs out of his diet! He’s hitting all his fitness goals while also getting plenty of sleep!

Only one problem though, Reggie’s roommate. Now Reggie has no problem with his roommate; quite the opposite actually, Reggie loves his roommate. His name is Kyle and he’s fantastic; he always washes the dishes, he never leaves his stuff around the house, and he always pays rent on time. Since moving in six months ago, Reggie has hardly had to talk to him at all, which wasn’t a bad thing. Reggie was more of a introvert anyways.

Reggie was indebted to Kyle. When his previous roommate disappeared suddenly, he found himself panicking to make his mortgage. Reggie was frantically posting ads on craigslist and in the newspaper but no one called. Reggie was approaching desperation when Kyle called. Kyle offered to pay for 3 months rent ahead of time, and had no problem with the house rules or deposit.

All of this sounds great! Right? Well, one catch: Reggie was pretty sure Kyle was death.

Not a figure of speech, literally. Kyle was pale, with black hair and black eyes. Obviously that’s not a judgement, normally Reggie would never look at a pale person and think to himself that the person looks like death incarnate. But Kyle literally looks like a walking corpse. His skin is so pale it’s translucent. When Kyle talks you can actually see the bones in his jaw moving like he’s some sort of terminator puppet.

He’s cold, too. Not emotionally, literally. When he walks into a room the temperature drops dramatically. Reggie thought he was imagining it, but when he found himself wearing his winter coat while the thermostat was set to 80, he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.

Oddly, Kyle was a pleasure to talk to. His eyes were nearly like black holes, so you really felt like he listened, you know? They just sucked you in.

Kyle worked at a hospital tending to the terminally sick. He made them more comfortable as they slipped away. Reggie once complained about his job as he was talking to Kyle. Kyle only squinted as Reggie described the drudges of tax audits and water cooler drama. “Do you ever feel tired or drained at work?” Reggie asked,

“No” Kyle replied brightening, “It’s when I feel the most alive”.

“Doesn’t it depress you seeing people die?” Reggie said dumbfounded.

Now this was the moment that Reggie finally felt that his odd suspicion was founded on something real:

Kyle said softly, “Oh no, they’re going to a sweeter place Reg, trust me.”

The “trust me” wasn’t a friendly profession of Kyle’s faith. This trust me was a fact loaded with challenge. Somehow Reggie knew that Kyle didn’t just have an idea of where these people were going when they died. Kyle knew. Kyle’s been there.

Kyle talked about death like it was a local restaurant he went to frequently that served the best corn-dogs.

Kyle loved corn-dogs.

“Kyle” Reggie asked with bristling curiosity. He couldn’t take it anymore, he had to ask. He had to get it out so he could just move on with his life, there was nothing else to it, “are you like, the grim reaper?”

“Oh, yeah. For sure. Didn’t you read my application?” Said Kyle, with aplomb.

“Your. . Application?” stuttered Reggie.

“Yeah!” Kyle’s hand shimmered, and there appeared a crumpled piece of paper.

Under “occupational history” Reggie read “grief counselor, mortician, grave-digger, obituary writer, manager of the dead, grim reaper, angel of death, god of Hades etc, etc. . .”

Reggie nearly choked as he said, “I don’t think I knew that about you.”

“That’s crazy! And I didn’t know you played racquetball!” Death exclaimed, “we’re learning things about each other all the time!”

“Yeah.” Said Death’s roommate.

Aplomb is a great word.

Momblog.

 

 

 

 

A Conversation.

One thing that I’d love to work on in my writing is telling a story through dialogue. To me, that feels like a really hard thing to accomplish. Whenever I’ve attempted to describe how a character of mine was feeling I would always just describe it through essentially their own mind. 

I’d think to myself, “oh Reggie is angry here at this part, so I’m just going to say he’s filled with rage”. That just seems like the logical thing to write, but obviously that leaves out an important element to writing: The reader. Does that make sense? When I say, “Reggie was filled with rage”, that leaves no room for the reader to draw his own conclusions based off of my creative work. 

Sometimes you need to do that, but sometimes it’s better to show rather than tell. I could say, “Reggie’s eyes blazed”, or “Reggie slapped Frank in his face with a rubber ducky”. You know, real righteous indignation. When you write about what the character is doing physically it leaves a little bit more room for creativity, both on the part of the reader and writer.

So, with that being said for literally no reason, here’s two guys talking in a prison. 

One of them is visiting the other:

Victor Winslow gently tapped his hand against the table in patient agitation. A thimble was fitted perfectly to his pinky, and it clanged softly with every tap. His eyes were glued to the door where the guards would be admitting the prisoners into the rest area. He breathed deeply. A bead of sweat ran down his right temple. 

The man was lead in after a few minutes by some guards. His hands bounced against his hips due to his restraints. His eyes were slits, buried by his furrowed brows. When the guards sat him in front of Victor he seemed surprised.

“You’re not my brother. What do you want?” The man said, biting off the sentence angrily. “He’s supposed to bring me some cigarettes. You got cigarettes little guy?” The man’s eyes scanned Vic greedily, and rested on a small bulge in Vic’s jacket, “Did you hear me guy? Are those for me?” The man’s voice sounded a little softer, pleading. He pointed with his restrained hands at Vic’s coat. 

Vic’s hands shot to the outside of his breast pocket. He fluffed his jacket quickly, attempting to hide the contents of his pocket. The metal inside it bounced heavily as he adjusted himself. “I don’t smoke.” 

“Then what do you want?” The man exclaimed importantly. “I don’t got time to sit here while some kid stranger stares at me.” He tried to throw his arms up in agitation but the restraints stifled him. 

Victor’s hand shook violently. His voice quivered, his eyes watered, “You don’t know who I am?” He said shakily. 

The man in chains shrugged with piercing anger. Not dignifying the question with a verbal response.

“You killed him” Vick whispered. “It was barely a year ago, and you can’t even remember I was there.”

The man’s eyes widened. “You’re the guy he was with. You threw me in here. This is your fault” He yelled. “That old man just needed to hand it over” he boomed like a cannon.

“Sorry I didn’t remember you” He smirked,  “You look like even less of a man up close”.

Laughing, the man signaled to the guards. 

Victor leapt across the table, forgetting the steel in his coat. His bony fingers closed in an iron fist. He smashed it bloody against the larger man’s face until the guards tore him away. 

Victor wept.

He tossed the gun away outside the prison.

Something like that I guess. 

Momblog.

A Love Story I Never Wrote.

I’ve been listening to a LOT of Lana Del Ray. 

Us super-fans call her LDR. No we don’t I made that up. I have no idea, but on her newest album it says LDR so… There’s that. 

It makes me want to write flowery sentences about love and stuff, so, disclaimer I guess. . . 

I dunno suck it I’ll write whatever I wanna write about.

Thank you so much for reading my blog, seriously,

suck it.

I had an idea for a story a while ago about a man writing about a girl he had fallen desperately in love with. He’d been travelling in Paris and had hired her as his tour guide. They spend the entire day together travelling all around the city. She takes him to the Notre Dame Cathedral, Sainte-Chappelle, The Eiffel Tower, you get the idea. 

They end the day together at a cafe. She stays for a long time and they chat about nonsense and life. She’s charming and funny, and he’s enchanted. He’ll write from his perspective about how stricken he is, how much of a fool he is, how miserable he is. He has to leave in a week, but all he can think about is how he needs to spend more time with this beautiful tour guide. 

My idea would have focused on the man’s passion. He’d write about her piercing eyes and genuine smile. It’s hard for me to describe it, I think it sounds like this:

I am writing this in a hope to appeal to my own reason. To somehow exchange this hopeless adoration for any other misery on earth. To trade my unfounded, unwanted, and unknown love for slow death would be a sweet deal. I’ll die when I leave this beautiful city. When I first arrived two days ago I didn’t see color, only black, white and grey. I found the color in her eyes. I found the beauty in her voice. I am a man on fire. Miserable and hopeless. She’s awoken such passion in me that I doubt before this week I was ever truly alive. When I set foot back home in America I will be worse than dead. I’ll be a man who experienced true life, true love, who’s soul was finally set free and then forced back into it’s iron cage.

I’m mad and wretched. I try to write the words to describe the feeling, for which there are no words.”

I was thinking about tragic love I guess. The man knows he has to leave, and that she doesn’t even know how he feels. Because obviously he’s crazy. Who falls in love with someone they barely know? Their tour guide? That borders on crazy obsession, right? 

So the story goes on, he hates himself, he loves her. She’s oblivious, as the man wishes for oblivion.

He does the thing he knows he shouldn’t do, he seeks her out. They explore more of the city together, then they simply talk and get to know each other more as friends. They connect on a genuine level. Then he has to leave. He fights every passionate instinct he has to stay and confess his affection to her.

He just leaves. 

I dunno, I just like the idea of someone feeling super strong emotions towards another person to which they never reveal it. I think it’s romantic. He resigns himself to misery because being rejected by this woman he loves would destroy him.

God, I need to stop listening to LDR. These ideas are whack.

But you read it so suck it I win bye bye. 

Photo by Anthony DELANOIX on Unsplash

 

 

The Melody Man.

Today I sat in a chair for a couple hours and listened to someone speak. I wasn’t listening to what they were saying. Instead I was imagining a story where people who couldn’t sleep would go to a huge auditorium. They would spend lots of money, if not their whole savings to go to this place. This place would only be open at night. It would have soft velvet cushions. There would be warm milk or hot chocolate in the cup holder.
The people would sit down and listen to a man on stage. The man’s job was to make them fall asleep. He was very good at it. His voice was melodic and it dripped with honey. Every word he said tickled the ears of the sleepy audience. He said nothing. He said it well. He said it with enthusiasm.
The people would do their best to pay attention. They wanted their money’s worth. They would tune their ears, and sit up in their chairs. They wanted to know what the melody man was saying. They wanted to glean from this charming speaker.
The more they paid attention, though, the more out focus the man became. The more they listened the harder it was for them to focus. The man was trying so hard now to get his point across, but his point was always out of his own grasp. The man didn’t mind that though. His voice was flowing silk; he liked the sound of it.
The audience drifted on the river of silk into a sweet sleep.
The insomniacs would snore.
The talking man would continue talking until every single person was asleep.
Then he would talk some more.
*
*
*
Needless to say I wasn’t paying attention to the speaker tonight.
He made me sleepy.

Drifting: The Pillar (5)

Read part 4 here Drifting: Glass. (4)

I don’t know why I kept going. I was so close now. The sky was eclipsed by a new tidal wave after every strike of the drum. At the top of every swell I looked towards the source of the sound. Clouds. I only ever saw clouds and wind and waves.

My ship maintained through every wave, but with every shattering blow of the drum I lost some courage. The sky was dark and frightening. Clouds were encroaching everywhere; fastening to my clothes and clinging around the ship. Every time I rose above the swell of an enormous tidal wave, a bigger one was always behind it. I was a spec of dust that floated atop the granite of a colossus.

Every time I rose to the top of a wave I could only see fog and clouds. These waves brought me higher than any bird could fly.

The air was weak in my lungs. It made me gasp.

Closer and closer I came to the source of the sound. I was starting to think that it was a spirit. Some invisible force beneath the waves. . . . Once the fog cleared a bit, however, I finally saw it.

There was an island far off in the distance. It was as round as an eye, surrounded by sand and rocks and gravel. Trees grew inland with no order or reason. Some were tall and old and gaunt. Some were just beginning to take root; eager and strong. A pillar rose out of the island. From the very center of the eye. It was black as darkness itself and cast no shadow. It was as if the sun avoided it, for fear that the pillar would steal it’s light. It was taller than the height of the greatest tidal wave, and continued on well above the sky itself; reaching into the stars.

I knew immediately: This is where the hammer falls.

Far above, where the sky touches the earth, the top of the pillar could be seen. As I breached the top of the highest wave, I could see it. At the top of the pillar was a massive hammer. It floated with no handle. It was a massive bulk of stone; floating above the pillar. With every strike the earth shook, and a shock wave ripped through the air and the waves exploded again and again.

The pillar was being driven into the earth like a stake. It must have been a microscopic amount, thinner than a hair. The hammer was unrelenting nonetheless. It struck with excruciating tempo. And with every strike the earth gave way a bit more. Cracks had already formed as the pillar pushed deeper and deeper. Diamond and coal, gold and bedrock, all was the same to the pillar. It broke it. It melted it. The Pillar felt nothing. The pillar was harder.

Suddenly the fear hit me. The darkness enveloped me like a sudden fog. The pillar was all I saw. The hammer rose and fell, and with every thud it pierced my heart. I was standing. Now kneeling. Now on the floor of the boat. I thrashed and hid my face, yet the darkness still cradled me with it’s menacing grip. The pillar was stamped onto my eyelids. Every blink a new strike. Every pound of my heart was a pound of the hammer.

The boat turned with alacrity. We zoomed down the cliffs of a wave with such speed I nearly rose in the air. The rigging of the boat wrapped around me as if to brace me from the force of our escape. The air returned slowly to my lungs, and the darkness slowly receded as we sped away from the island.

I can see it when I close my eyes. The darkness. The hammer.

My pulse will forever remind me of the stake that pierced the heart of the earth.

We sailed on.

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

Drifting: Glass. (4)

Read part 3 here: Drifting: A Gift. (3)

The sea was a gentle rising valley. My ship was a slender invader, a feather, running faster than a gazelle. It never slowed. Even among the giant sweeping swells of the ocean. Even when the wind died to a whisper. The valley would swell to form mountains as far reaching as the sky, yet I did not fear the ocean. We simply sped across it, up and over, down and through. Never slowing. Home was calling, and I could feel it.

A few days had passed since I left the giant forest. It had pained me to leave, but I knew that it was not my place. I wondered if the Father Tree would think of me. In the eons he has existed I would be as insignificant as a blade of grass in this valley of water. Yet, I hoped he would remember me. I would remember him.

Upon the peak of the highest mountain, I saw nothing. Nothing but sea. My hopes often would rise and fall just as the waves of the sea. It was mid-day when I had reached the top of the oceans swell. Then I started my decent once again. The sun was hot against my back as I shot down the water ramp. The ship softly burrowed against the soft water. Cheerfully speeding down the massive ravine. I grasped the boat eagerly, and stared down with no fear as the mountain of water flew past.

With a yell, we reached the bottom of the great mountain. That was when the ocean flattened out again. No longer was I sailing through a valley, now it was a window. Wherever I looked down in the water I saw a world of ancient shifting darkness. The water was clear, clearer than air itself. Yet as far as I could see, I only saw one thing, the deep abyss.

We barely caused a ripple in the glass as we continued on. The sun was now cool. It settled behind my back. My vision began to blur as the sky darkened. I still had the hope that on the horizon something would appear. I could feel the sleep on me, and after hours of staring into nothing, I submitted to it.

Waking, staring, sleeping. I brought myself to the front of the boat every day to peer ahead, and search for something new; some sign of land. The boat continued to cut through the still water. Days on days nothing changed. No more sweeping vistas, no more giant mountains. Only glass. At first I was glad for it. The sky was clear and the wind was a brushing breeze. Over time, though, the glass cut into my mind. It seemed that the ocean had lost it’s fierceness. I no longer felt like a strong sailor; skating across the sea with careful respect. I now felt like a trespasser: A man who was not welcome to even see anger or ferocity. Only a mask of glass, with nothing but darkness below.

More days would pass. More and more glass. I would talk to the sea, with no response. I would sometimes throw pieces of wood from the boat, or leftover meals into it, to attempt to get some kind of response. Nothing.

I had finally reached despair. I lost my will to steer the ship, and we simply stopped in the water. The sun just continued on. Pressing forward cheerfully as always; above the glass, below the glass. And soon, everything was glass. I crept to the front of the ship, as I did every day. I peered off across the glass. My face was turning to glass; just like the sea.

Nothing, more nothing. Always nothing. Never changing. Glass. Glass. Glass. I peered down at the frozen water for hours. Glass. Days. Glass. My heart became a stone, and I sank to my bed day after day.

After nearly a month, I was still a slave to hope. I would crawl out of my bed every morning still. I was not looking for land anymore. I was just looking for the glass to change. My mind was broken. My heart was a rock, but the hope; the terrible hope; brought me back to the glass.

A microscopic ripple.

Did I imagine it? Was it there? Did my mind finally betray me? Was I hallucinating? My hope was callused. It did not want to start dripping again.

Another ripple. Barely visible. It was thinner than a slice of paper, but I saw it. Again and again.

The hope began to flow. I willed the sails to go forward full bore. On wards toward the ripple. It was getting stronger now. It was a pulse. The life of the ocean was returning.

The ripple was now turning to a rhythmic drum. The ocean’s valley’s were stronger than ever. I screamed with delight as we plunged down the rolling waves, only to rise again and again. They only continued to get stronger.

There was no storm, only the ripple. My delight soon turned to curiosity. The ripple was only strengthening, yet there wasn’t a cloud in sight and the wind was as light and pleasant as always. My curiosity continued to grow, until finally something new happened.

I heard the cause of the ripple. It wasn’t the ocean waking up. It wasn’t life returning to the glass. It was a quiet drum. A barking, groaning, violent yet distant drum. It was shaking the very earth. Once I first heard it, it only got stronger. I was sailing towards it fast. Before the day was over I heard nothing but the shaking booming drum. I could plug my ears and hum a loud tune, but every ripple brought a new beat of the drum with it. Louder and louder until it felt like God himself was striking the earth over and over again with a hammer. It shook my bones and thrashed my eardrums. All while the pulse of the sea grow to monstrous size.

Little did I know: I would not see God, but I would see the hammer.

Photo by Matthew Clark on Unsplash

Drifting: A Gift. (3)

(Third Part, read part 2 Here.)

I climbed barefoot. The bark slid gently beneath my feet and scratched my calloused toes. I lifted myself eagerly from branch to branch; gliding up to the top of the massive tree. I felt no fear of falling. The tree was holding me just as much as I held it. The thought comforted me as I climbed. I was very high now, where the branches became thin and flimsy. I rested there and gazed out towards the sea. I was looking for a sign. A sign that someone was looking for me, that maybe I would be found. I had done so every day for the past two weeks since arriving on the island. I saw nothing.

My routine on the island was a simple one. I scavenged for food and explored. I survived solely on the fruit of the trees and the water from the creeks. There were no animals on the island. None that I could see. It was always silence, yet this did not frighten me. The trees kept me company. Their massive branches tilted towards the sun during the day, and continually gave me shade. I journeyed to the Father Tree’s base at least once a day to speak to him. I felt that he enjoyed the respect I gave him, and I felt like it was necessary. It was his island, and I was his guest.

After continually hoping someone would come to my rescue, and seeing that none had come, I had finally made the decision to leave. The Father Tree seemed to know before I even told him. There was sadness in the air, but also contentment. When I finally turned my back on the Father Tree for which I knew was the last time, a great hope welled up in my soul.

I strode back to the beach with determination in my veins. Once I caught sight of the shore, however, it melted to despair. My little lifeboat was gone. Taken away by the rising tides. Never to be seen again. I was stranded. The trees still whispered happily to each other. I bitterly thought they were mocking my distress. I kicked a rock and bit my lip as my toe surged with pain. I yelled and sat on the beach hard. I covered my red face as I cried. My adventure had just begun and I was already lost forever, with no hope of return.

The Father Tree must have heard my cries. The trees were not mocking me, but joyfully comforting me. I just didn’t see it. The roots were growing before my very eyes close to the edge of the beach. They erupted from the ground with fury and force. They jutted from every direction and interlocked together, pulsing and fusing in fierce beauty. I could see it forming. The hull sharpening to a point, the wood beginning to glisten as if it had been oiled ten times over. It was not plank and nail, but root and thorn. Once the boat was fully formed it was raised above my head, the keel gently brushing against my hair. It was laid gently in the water, with a powerful mast with great green flowing sails. I hopped inside and ran my hand over them, softer than silk. I could see the knots of age within the boat, a history only other trees could appreciate. It was brand new, yet I knew it was made from a tree much older than me; whose spirit was still happily residing inside it.

Inside the boat there was a small room, lit by the same orange flowers from the island. It had casks of water and fruit growing on the inside. There was a small cot in the corner with fresh green sheets, and a small desk with a pen and ink.

Back on the deck another wave of panic hit me. I don’t know how to sail this, I thought, but as if in response to my sudden frustration the sails unfurled, and the ship pointed itself towards the open sea. I turned the rudder and the boat turned exactly where I wanted to go.

The only question was, where did I want to go?

Home I thought, wherever that is.

I turned back thankfully and gazed at  the mysterious island. Dusk was settling in, and the island was beginning to light up, as if saying goodbye. The Father Tree was a beacon of life, shining brighter than all others. I turned away with tears stinging my eyes.

The wind picked up in the sails as I glided away from the island. Heading west.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

Drifting: The Forest (2)

(Read Part 1 Here. )

The stranger said nothing, but I could see he had much to say. He was a proud island. Smooth rolling hills gave way to fierce and rigid mountain ranges. The forest was mighty and ever present. The trees were green and smooth, with the smallest tree being taller than any building. Their branches extended far beyond their bodies, with flower buds sprouting everywhere, yet they were closed, as if they slept while the sun was shining.

From where I was standing, I could see where the widest and tallest tree stood. It was a Goliath, ever watching the island. From wherever I stood, I could look up and see him, gazing down at me; judging my every move; seeking to understand. I only dared to look up a few times. I felt insignificant. I was insignificant.

The densest and most wild part of the forest stemmed out from that one magnificent tree. He was the father of this brooding island. His children dominated his flanks, and their seed spread to the rest of the island. They all stood, proud like their father. Ever watching, but swaying in the wind, while the Father Tree never wavered. While they were rooted in the island, he was rooted far below. The island was his, it was grafted to him at the beginning of the age.

I was a ghost in a forgotten land. I hovered from the lifeboat to the sand, and from the sand to the forest. The sun was climbing already; I had not noticed. The trees were bathing in it’s light, and I bathed in the shade.

I had all but forgotten my dire needs in the shock of my present discovery, but now the thirst clawed at my throat again. I could not fathom that this threatening and strange place could be my savior and solitude. At once, though, my needs screamed all the louder, and I heard a faint sound: A stream.

At once I fell into the stream and opened my mouth to drink. I gulped it into my stomach till I could barely breath. Even then my body was tempted to forgo breath, and inhale the sweet cold water; just to taste more on my broken and bleeding lips. . . I stood. Alive.

The trees swayed. The wind no longer furiously shook their limbs, but still lightly caressed them. I walked deeper into the forest. The creaking trunks had made some space for each other, and for travelers to walk beneath their shade. Their roots ate the soil hungrily, and drove deep into the hardened ground. I had to climb over some and jump back to the dirt.

Deeper and deeper I went. My body fueled by nothing but an ever present desire to discover. To get to know this strange land, this forest of whispers. The Father Tree could be seen in the spaces between the fingers of the trees. He judged me.

There were fruits hanging from the vines of the ancient trees. Growing so far down from the branches that you did not need to climb. They were soft as plums, with a fuzzy skin. When I bit down I was surprised and overwhelmed by the lack of juice. It was sweet and creamy, like a custard. I grabbed two more and greedily devoured them.

I walked on. The silence within the trees assaulted my senses. Nothing but the slight brush of wind along the tree branches, and the soft tread of my feet against the soil. The birds were quiet today, or there were no birds at all. Dawn had come and gone and they did not sing a cheerful tune. No sound of the world waking up, for this world was always asleep.

No man had walked this land for a long time. My footsteps would remind the trees of a long forgotten age. I could not speak, I could not yell for someone. The silence had drowned out my voice.

I stopped to rest from walking, for I had been walking for a long time. I was now approaching the foot of the Father Tree. He was frowning down at me now; intimidating me with his massive presence. I could hear my heart-beat amidst the silence; screaming for something other than the sound of my own body, my own feet, and my own trembling uncertainty.

I started my long trek around the Father Tree. As I stood near him, I could feel his ever deepening roots searching the lowest parts of the world. The tree was taller than the sky itself. Perhaps he wanted to meet the stars.

As the sky darkened, I was still not passed the tree. I wondered if anything lay beyond it, or if this was the end of the earth, and the Father Tree blocked the way to heaven itself. My wondering was false, though, as finally when night was deepening, and the stars were again greeting me; the father tree was at my back.

I could hardly see the stars above me, as they were blocked by thousands of gently rocking branches. Yet, as darkness had completely shrouded me, and I was fumbling in the dark, the blossoms on every tree opened in a sudden flourish. Bright green light erupted from every petal. They had become shards of glass, reflecting the sun they had absorbed during the day.

As my eyes adjusted, I gazed back at the Father Tree. His blossoms were brightest of all. His proud and powerful demeanor gave way to a bright and cheerful warmth. They looked up to the stars, and they were children of the stars.

I continued, the blossoms lighting my path. I don’t know what I sought, but my spirit led me on. Survival was no longer my concern; curiosity was in my heart. . . I followed the trees, and they led me to a small clearing, and when I saw where they led me, I gasped in surprise. There was a house.

Small and bright it stood. It was round as a trunk of a tree, with bright orange petals shining all around it. This house was not built by a man, but grown out of the ground. It was as much a tree as the trees around me, and it was alive just as they were. There was no door, but a thick sheet of vines covered the entry way. I parted them and stepped inside. I was not greeted by anyone. There was no fire, yet the house was warm and welcoming. The same orange petals bloomed along the top and sides of the inside of the tree-house. I could see a table and chairs, with a cot in the corner. The same creamy fruit was growing in patches near the walls. Casks of water were stacked near the food. They were of the same craft as the house around me; they were grown straight out of the ground. They were sealed completely, with no cork. I would have to prick them open with a knife or a rock, which I was loath to do, as they seemed just as alive as everything else around me.

I wondered if I was invading some hermits home, the lord of this wild and magical forest. Yet I did not think so. This house did not belong to anyone. It was a gift to lost souls. A place to rest, and carry on.

I thanked The Father Tree, and drifted to a peaceful sleep.

Photo by zhang kaiyv on Unsplash

Drifting: My Friends (1)

I awoke with the sea breathing heavily on me. “Wake up” it said. I don’t know why. The stars were still brightly weighing the sky, scattered like dust. I lay on my back. All the better to view the sky rotating around me. My arms hung limply at my sides, their strength sapped from rowing. They no longer worked for me, they decided the work was meaningless. I told them “row to safety” but in the vast ocean, safety doesn’t exist. So instead of work, they rest. They accepted their fate, and so have I. I sobbed weakly. My tears would mingle with the salt of the ocean. I could taste them on my lips.

The water lapped curiously around the boat. I ignored it. I was surrounded by the shell of the lifeboat. My only window into the world was directly in front of me, the sky. As small as I felt, i only had to close my eyes and the sky would be gone. Powerless as I was, I could ignore the sky, just as I ignored the waves.

While the hunger had left me, the thirst had pressed on. I only hoped the thirst would leave me as well. It was a selfish comforter. It nagged at my stomach and dried my mouth. The furious thirst only wanted to be quenched, yet I could not obliged it, so it punished me. Powerless, I drift, and I want.

I could hear myself murmuring. Murmuring to my friend the sky, to my grudging companion the sea, to the fear gripping my soul. I asked for forgiveness, I whispered for help, my reply was the wind, and the stars melting into the horizon. I told them farewell, I hoped they’d return.

Steeped in bitterness I awaited the rising sun. His bright gladness only made me suffer more. The heat of the day blistered my lips. I could not stare up any longer, I had to face the sea, or face down and cower before my rivals.

The sun is honest, it does not play favorites. The sun will shine no matter what, and it does not listen to your prayers for shade or respite. It’s responsibilities are larger than your whining. It needs to grow, to nurture the land, to give life to all before it has to travel to other lands, to spread its warmth again. The sun doesn’t mind if you seek shelter, but it cannot hide itself from you. The sea is a different matter.

The sea is fickle. It plays on your desires, it hears your prayers. It sweeps you up in its arms, and makes you its friend, only to dash you against the rocks. It will swallow you whole after gently rocking you to sleep. One day it will rush you to safety, the next it will bar you from returning home, and laugh as it glides you to uncertain oceans. . .  Right now in the calm, smooth ocean, the sea and I were friends. I would gently slide my hands into the water, and feel the cool liquid against my sun-baked skin. Water would continue to brush the side of my boat warmly. Threatening to jump right in and sink me, but today it showed restraint; even playfulness.

I strained my eyes to see in the distance, which I did often during the days. Always to be disappointed with the same: Ocean, as far as I could see in every direction. My strength to hope dwindled every day; yet not matter what, the light where the sky and the ocean touched always gave me the slightest brimming hope.

My heat stricken body could take no more, I drifted into a broken and exhausted sleep. Only to be awoken again in the night, by my rival, the sea, and my friend the sky, greeting me, “Goodnight” it said.

“Goodnight” I said, and after four days and four nights of drifting, I thought I would sleep a bit longer this time, perhaps for all eternity.

The sea had different plans. I awoke again, after a long time, to a sound I had not heard in a long, long time: The breaking of waves against the sand.

“Hello” I said to the stranger.

Steve Irwin: The Legendary Hunter

I should have done this on Wednesday. “Writing prompt Wednesday” Alliterations get more CLICKS.

Today’s blog is a writing prompt I got from Reddit.  Here it is:

The hottest show in the afterlife for the past decade: Steve Irwin wrangling all sorts of supernatural creatures.

“G’day, I’m Steve Irwin, and this is Legendary Hunter. Today we’re travelling way back to ancient Greece, where the first Gryphon came into existence.

“The mythical Gryphon is a creature with the body and back legs of a lion, and the front legs, neck, and wings of an eagle. It stands about ten feet tall, With some Gryphons of history became as large as a two-decker bus! Crikey!

“In the lore and history, Gryphons primarily resided in central Asia. So today, we’re travelling the planes of existence, and observe the ancient Gryphon in its natural habitat!

“As we all know, travelling the planes of spiritual existence is no joke. That’s why when we jump out of the plane, we always double check our parachutes and our beacons of disaperition. You have to make sure everything is in working order before taking a trip out of the realm of the dead; as we all know, we might be dead, but getting stuck in the spirit realm of central Asia for half a millennia may not be fun. Let’s go!

“We’ve just touched down in the redwood forest near the Himalayan mountains. While there are plenty of other forest regions close to this area, the mighty Gryphon loves redwoods. Redwoods are massive trees sometimes growing as much as twenty-two feet wide, and three-hundred feet tall! Amazing! Gryphons settle their nests high up in the trees, generally with a good view of the surrounding area so they can hunt.

“Now we’ve been watching this specific spot for months in anticipation of the Gryphon hunt. There’s a twelve foot tall monster that lives within a mile of this location, and he’s our target today.

“While i’m not what a Gryphon would usually eat for food, I don’t want to get anywhere near it’s razor sharp talons and beak. But rather than just tell you about it, let me show you!

“Now I can’t wrestle a Gryphon without it tearing me to shreds, but we’ve set up a giant cage with some of a Gryphons favorite food in it. So hopefully, this magnificent beast gets hungry and we can get it restrained. Let’s go see if we’ve caught anything!

“Would you just look at that! We’ve got ‘em! He’s just picking apart at that meat like there’s no tomorrow. See, he’s content now, but as soon as he’s finished with that meat that boy will get angry. Gryphons are highly intelligent creatures; most likely, he walked willingly into that trap knowing that he could break free with brute strength. Even though we’ve got spirit rated cast iron, that Gryphon could tear through it like butter.

“While he’s busy, let’s just look at those massive claws. Gryphon’s claws are three times larger than a Harpy Eagle. That is to say, they grow anywhere from eight to twelve inches! Crikey!

“Not only do they have the other-worlds sharpest claws for it’s size, it’s wingspan can range anywhere from thirty to thirty-five feet across! It’s massive hind legs allow it to jump over thirty feet while running! I wouldn’t want to be running from this beauty!

“Now as I said before, I’m not what this magical beast would usually eat. So we’re going to go ahead and release it from it’s cage, and catch a glimpse of this beautiful Gryphon return to it’s nest! Would you look at that! Amazing.

“Wow, what a beautiful mythical beast. We got the glimpse we were looking for. Now let’s go back home, WOOHOO!”

Music plays, outro. Some undead commercial comes on about living with how annoying your loved ones can be after they’re dead.