They will tell you that you are safe in the world, and you are sometimes. The cities have only people to worry about. Though they can be frightening…it’s the least frightening thing that I know of in this world. The truth is the things that watch you from the forest, that you can never see are more frightening than anything that exists in humanity. Some of them used to be human. They have fallen from who they were to become something else.
The swamps and rain forests have their own life, their own creatures…and those are tales for another time and place. I want to talk to you about the forest, and the things that should not be. The things that watch you…that you never see. In trying to find peace, so many venture out into the forgotten places. This leads to so many deaths.
People have no idea what awaits them in the trees. It is better that way. Those of us that await amongst the foliage enjoy the ignorance…I once was human. Now I feed upon the stupid. I eat those who come out thinking the woods to be a safe place. The foolish ones. There are those who know about me. So much so that they have made even speaking of me taboo.
I am what they fear that they will become. They feel the possibility as they come closer to where I make my home. The smart ones retreat back to their cities. They understand that the evil man does to each other is nothing compared to what the forest can bring them.
Then there is the ones who have the touch of fae to them. They fear nothing in the wood, for they understand not to challenge what they cannot see. There is rules after all. We can only feed on the ones that come looking. Those we can take freely. The divine will not protect the stupid.
Sometimes, being eaten is a kindness…I went looking to see what was looking at me in the woods outside my cabin nearly two hundred years ago now. Transformation was educational. Now I teach those who come seeking…
Would you love me
if I paint myself
to resemble the child
you wanted me to be?
plucking away each
of my differences
making sure I was just
the one you planned me to be ?
The paint is peeling,
perfection an illusion,
not reality…
I cannot make myself
fit the dream of who I should be.
If I paint myself to fit the world
I lose the colors I was given at my birth,
And darkness settles in…
smothering my mirth.
the stones are poking
so painful today,
the box is broken
under my head.
I was laid down
and told to rest
in place filled with
glass from my memory
grounded.
perhaps it was supposed to be
soft silt for me to lie,
but due to the chaos of my broken life
shards of stone and hatred
are poking painfully
under my head.
Don’t know what is Eating at me, Clawing into my soul… Opening up my Memories at the end of the knife. Pretending that I will be Okay after all is Said and done… Eventually.
the news speaks of another death, a child found in tragedy, and the thought begins that society is breaking down.
perhaps it is but the symptom of the design, a disease of the collective mind. darkness seeping from each corner , so the only ones that see the ones that suffer, are the childlike.
*Note that this started as a short story and is now a teaser for a novel Serena is working on.
Another job, too many this year. It seems like I have taken so many bright lights across the river. Each one so unique, but all humbled by the sight of my river craft. It is never what they expect. Some expect a religious experience, heaven or hell. That is not my domain. I am a simple guide. Taking each one from the last moment in physical form to a transition point in a more spiritual place. The river that divides the two is my home. Glistening, it is the tears of grief that the gods cried when their children forgot them. A proper divider in my opinion. Myself, I have been called many names… Reaper, Charon, Death… Or my favorite is Apocalypse. I am not a god, nor even a mortal creature. The name for what I am has been forgotten nearly as long ago as I was created. And I am fine with that. For naming something gives you power. I have grown accustomed to the freedom of anonymity. Once the mortals pay for the journey, we move quickly. No, it has never been as the stories about me go, my payment is not coin. I have survived on either story or true emotion. Some are too afraid to give me their stories. Those are the ones who end up trapped. Haunted by the stories they cling to. Innocents, pay with the grief of those who are left behind. I prefer not to take the joy of life from them. Still, even though each is unique, I didn’t expect what I found that day! Most of the other creatures left are mortal…. Mostly human. The angelic blood that is left is so watered down that most have forgotten that it even existed. The few actual angels remaining are immortal, so I am not supposed to see them. Yet, there one was. Somehow an immortal being had died. Angels are genderless, not in the absence but instead because they are true Hermaphrodites. I found myself staring into her beauty and feeling a sense of impending disaster. Her snow-white hair, ashen skin, and ice-blue eyes were all so very compelling. Add in soft white wings and she seemed almost unreal. If one of the immortal beings could die, what did that mean for me? For the first time, I considered refusing to ferry a soul across. There was nothing to force my hand, the choice was always mine. Finally, I sighed. “Tell your story to cross between, or do not, and here remain!“ It was the same thing I told everyone, though at that moment I found my desire waning for the story that was about to flow. I remembered every story, from the first to the last. It felt like I was doing a disservice by hearing the story of this soul. It was my catastrophe. For in her story I lost myself and the will to be impartial. The angel hesitantly looked up at me. I believe that she was as worried about what her death meant as I was. Immortal beings were not meant to be able to die. Their bodies healed themselves more quickly than most were able to be injured. Her story would be one that would shake my world. “I was given to the protection of the innocent. It was my nature, so when the divine stepped back… It was what I decided my job was. I have served as a caretaker for thousands of injured innocent. The children called me Frosty the Snowman. The ones who sought to harm the innocent would face my wrath. The children sang songs about me. I had created a safe place for those who had been hurt. I was pleased that I was able to use my magic to freeze those who would hurt the children. They would try to run. Lock themselves in panic rooms and the like. It didn’t matter. I could see them and their guilt, no matter where they hid. I have been doing this since society began. I became so very overconfident. I did not count on the pieces of faith that still remain. The last child I sought to protect was being chased by a creature who understood darkness. He has demons in his employ.“ I saw the sudden fear as the Angel trailed off. The fog that passed across her face. “Only the divine can kill the immortal… And demons are but fallen angels. Each of the immortal is a shard of the divine. I had forgotten that. And it cost me… And those whom I was protecting.“ She was lost in tears. She did not want to leave the children… I could see it. For the first time in my experience, I was torn. Though I was nothing more than a guide, I wanted to play god. The river was divine in origin, a connection to the creators. “How much are you willing to give up? What is most important to you? There is a way, but as with all magics… There will be a cost.” I warned. Her reaction was knee-jerk and emphatic. “Anything! For the children.“ I sighed, knowing what I was about to offer would be regret for her later on. Still, having warned her I offered her an option that I would never have offered to another. “Take this cup, and scoop out some of the divine tears. Drink, and should you be found worthy, then your life will be returned to you. Though it will not be as you expect it. The cost will be paid.“ There was no hesitation as she reached the cup down into the dark water. I couldn’t be sure what was going to happen, but I could guess. I was no longer an active participant in this tragedy, and for that I was grateful. As she drank, she began to change slowly. First, warmth to her coloring, then the air about her began to chill. There was a growing luminescent glow around her. Growing to a crescendo much like an orchestra, peaking with her turning a crystalline white, then in an instant, she fell apart in a pile of snow on the deck of my ship. The pile sat there, unmoving, for what seemed like an eternity. Then almost lazily a small wind funnel started lifting the snow. I watched the snowman form. I was not sure where the hat and pipe came from, but with magic, it was not something that I really needed to know. “The magic returned the life to you, it granted the wish in your heart to return to being Frosty. Be cautious, for you are still vulnerable to that which the divine made. I wish you good stories until we meet again.“ I dismissed her to return to the world of the living. Every now and then I hear about the snowman and the protector of the lost and broken children. Whether she regrets that choice, that I will only discover should she again come to me for the ride into the other side.
They don’t make handcuffs like they used to. Magic was once a true skill, but anymore even a child could break free of the flimsy craftsmanship. Dale sat there mourning the days of vaudeville as he held the broken cuffs. He had planned this show for months, and replacing the cuffs would be the proverbial straw that broke the show. So many things had gone badly, he was beginning to doubt that he would even make opening night.
Stage magic was a dying art. He knew getting the audience would be difficult. Still he wanted desperately to try. With malfunctioning props though, he felt the doubts creeping in. ‘Just one show,’ he found himself silently wishing. ‘If only I can do just one perfect show! It would mean everything!’
From the darkness of the theatre, that he believed was empty, came the wheezy voice. At first he startled, afraid that he was imagining it. “And what do you offer, for the one perfect show?” Searching the seats, Dale was surprised to see a small wizened man sitting in the first row.
“Who are you, come closer! I thought myself alone. If I spoke, it was only for me. ” He clarified the point as if the thought was scandalous somehow. His mind decided that he had spoken the thought. It was after all the only way it could have been heard.
Laughter rang across the theatre as the man stepped up to the stage. “What’s a name matter, I asked a question. What would you give for your perfect show? Pretend that you imagined me, and then answer! You never know, perhaps the universe will hear you.” His crackling laugh roughened his voice, making it hard to understand.
Dale considered the question. He ran it over and over trying to figure out if he should answer or not. Finally, seeing no reason why he should not answer, blurted. “Anything. I would literally give anything.” The little man smiled.
“Granted!” The man vanished. Dale awoke with a start. The theatre was empty! Sitting next to him was the antique handcuffs he had been so lucky to find. He shook his head at the weirdness of dreams, and continued to rehearse. Opening night was but a day away.
Two days later….
The audience was excited. Word was the show the night before was perfect. All of the tricks had been masterful! The Great Amazing Maxioff (aka Dale) was a superb showman. The lights in the theatre lowered and the curtains were drawn… To display the corpse of the magician who had apparently passed on.
Pattimouse 