A short piece based on this prompt (I take no credit for the original idea):

Very few people in the world are born with unique, strange abilities. Yours is the ability to hear the music of people's souls.

---
An Unheard Song

You take a break from tending your flowers and straighten up, stretching in your neatly grown home garden. A couple strolls past on the street, laughing quietly between themselves. You pause, then you hear it. A soft, happy hum - almost like it's from a fairytale - from one of them, and the sound of excited, energetic guitar riffs from the other. You smile to yourself, and bend back down to tend to your plants.

You've had this gift since childhood. At first, you thought everyone could do it.

"All you have to do is listen," 10 year old you insisted six years ago as you concentrated on your mother's gentle lullaby, one she seemingly couldn't hear, to your bemusement.

Once you got older, you realised that this particular ability of yours is unique - not quite a curse, not quite a gift - just a part of who you are.

The fine details of every soul's song vary as the soul ages, as moods fluctuate and as people grow and change, but it always sticks to the same song, the same instruments and atmosphere, the very defining energy of a human being. When you first met your best friend, her soul's swinging and courageous choruses harmonised perfectly with yours. The reverb and gentle dream like world of your soul melded perfectly with her grand and fantastical one to create another moving song when overlapped. You'll never forget what it sounded like the first time you met.

Since then, both of your songs have grown and developed, but still harmonise in peace just like the very first day. You've been friends for seven years now, and you still remember her song perfectly even though your families have moved miles apart.

The next morning when you return to your front yard with a book and a cup of tea in your hands, there's suddenly a new sound in the neighbourhood, unlike any song you've heard before. It's a quiet melody, with hints of flute and the gentle twinkling of wind chimes, and completely out of the blue. You place your things down and follow the noise, tuning out the others of the neighbourhood - the jazz and the metal and the piano, every soul emitting their own unique songs into the universe.

You nod at the neighbours you walk by - you can recognise each and every one of them by song alone. But this time you don't stop and chat. Instead, you focus on the new song, tilting your head and following it into the small woods at the edge of the neighbourhood, where flowers bloom and trees tower towards the light blue sky. The music grows louder and louder in your ears until you see a teenager sitting alone amongst the grass and the bushes - a young boy - about your age.

"Hello?" You ask curiously and he looks up, startled, nearly falling back over into the ferns.

"I - Sorry." He stammers back nervously, hurriedly getting to his feet. His eyes and nose are red and cheeks smudged, and he quickly wipes his face, turning slightly away.

"Don't be sorry. Are you alright?"

He shrugs and you sit down cross legged amongst the grass, inviting him to do the same. He reluctantly settles down again and begins picking at the dirt beneath him. There's a moment of silence between you, and you wait for him to speak.

He takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes again, still not meeting your gaze. "Sorry. I just come here a lot. My parents aren't ever home. I just like this place."

"That's okay. I like this place too."

His forehead scrunches questionably, but he nods, and you lean back, still hearing his music all around you - soft and lonesome and calm.

You return to the woods almost every day afterwards, usually finding him there taking walks amongst the trees, humming to himself. Soon enough, weeks pass and you fall into a routine with him; telling each other stories, picking flowers and studying the plants growing there, laughing and recalling weird childhood memories and embarrassing moments.

As the days pass, he smiles more, laughs more, and begins to talk about his achievements in school, his love for playing the piano, his dreams for the future.

Although you can still hear the music of the rest of the souls not so far away in the neighbourhood, you start listening for his, and his song begins to sound comforting and familiar and safe, like home.

"I got a scholarship to this music school," he announces one day, as you two sit in the same spot you met several months ago. He beams as he plays with the grass, the unbridled excitement reaching his eyes.

You hug him and tell him how proud you are of him.

Later that afternoon as you two head out from the forest, the sun going down, you realise that the song in his soul has changed since you first heard it many, many weeks ago. Instead of a stranger's lonesome, almost melancholic tune, you hear threads of happiness intertwining in and out of the flutes and chimes, a certain hopefulness for the future. You smile to yourself.

"What?" He asks curiously as you two split off at the crossroads.

"Nothing." You reply. "I just want to say, I'm glad you were at the woods that day. I'm glad we met."

He smiles and nods gratefully. "Yeah. I'm really glad too."

DD Writing Prompt Series 
In which I choose one piece of art from previously or currently featured DA's daily deviations as a prompt, and write a short story/piece inspired by it.

I take no credit for any of the artworks/pieces chosen. Credit will be given and all rights of artwork content go to the original owners and artist(s). Used for personal writing/recreational purposes only. 

boat by 0BO

--
A Life Regiven 

The scent of putrid water fills his nostrils, the humidity clinging to every inch of him as he guides the boat into a relative stop with immense difficulty. It floats silently against the dead machinery before him. The skeleton of metal towers several dozen meters high, a twisted, long abandoned ship left to rot in the waters.

He heaves the heavy backpack off his shoulders; it clangs as he drops it to the floor of the metal boat. With one swift movement, he retrieves the cord and swings it forward; it latches perfectly onto the rusting propellor in front of him, and he attaches the other end of the cord to the boat.

It takes a few minutes of ruffling to find the blueprints, crumpled and slightly waterlogged sitting at the bottom of all the equipment. Sketches and scribbles detailing the making and building of a now outdated prototype of a robot - the A732-V. His very own invention. His shoulders sag for a moment as the faded sketch of the metallic figure seems to come to life before his eyes.

Missile right this way, sir. Do not worry sir, I will protect you. 

The last words of the long gone robot echo in his mind as he brushes the papers to the side, following the cord’s guidance and leaping onto the propellor. It creaks underneath his feet as he pulls himself onto the abandoned wreckage.

He removes a screwdriver from his belt and gets to work on one of the proximity sensors attached to the shell.

Like hell he would ever let another directed missile get close enough to him or his companions and wipe them all out again. He shakes his thoughts free of the carnage in his memories, concentrating instead on what’s in front of him, and the slow, steady dripping of water from the rusted metal arcs far above. The sensor before him has long since given way to layers of mould and rust, but he kneels determinedly in front of it, chipping resolutely at it in the semi darkness. It’s broken off ten minutes later as he gently pulls the wires out of the hollow shell of the ship. He places the device in the pouch on his belt and continues crawling deeper into the wreck, listing off pieces and devices in his head like a shopping list.

His metal arm, crudely made but well polished, clangs against the side of what used to be the ship's inner cabin wall. He waits for the sound to echo into silence before he begins to take apart the control panel, hands gentle and precise as they cut away at what’s needed.

It’s only two or three hours later that he takes a deep, shuddering breath, finishing his scavenge of the ship with his body aching in exhaustion.

He wipes down the oil and moisture on the metal parts of his makeshift body, keeping the surface as clean and low risk of rusting as possible.

As some of the last rays of sunlight fade from the swampy belly of the wasteland, to be replaced by cold moonlight, he heaves himself back onto the roof of the ship, carefully unlatching hook and cord and leaping gracefully back onto his boat. It rocks slightly in the murky water as he lands on it, depositing his findings into his backpack. Taking the metal rod from the bottom of the boat, a makeshift oar with a plate of metal hammered into it, he pushes his boat away from the empty hull of the ruined airship. It takes a good amount of movement for the ageing motor to finally start up again, spluttering weakly into life and guiding him through the deep, oily water.

He unfolds the papers again and stares down at his own hand drawn documents, depicting every instruction needed to build a A732-V. He sits down with a sigh, floating past the silhouettes of towering, long abandoned ships, ominously shadowed all around like a ghost town. He stares at the tiny microchip taped safely to the inside of the boat. It’s barely the size of his thumb, burned and singed, but still - hopefully - holding what’s left of the memories and consciousness of his old bot. The bot that sacrificed its own life to shelter him from the blast.

“I’m gonna build you once more buddy, gonna keep trying, no matter how many places I gotta rip apart to get your parts. And listen, I won’t let those bastards hurt you ever again, hear me? I promise ya.”

There is no response but the eerie quiet, and the continued slow dripping of contaminated water, falling down from far, far above.

A/N Couldn't sleep. Was listening to M83’s Junk which inspired most of what’s below.

TW: Death

Last of Time

"Lost memories, faded pictures…where did you all go? 
Old memory, from the limbo, from the night.”
-Sunday Night 1987 (M83)

Tendrils of space reach from all sides, trailing gently, assuredly, as he sits gazing at the never ending expanse before him. They had sent him too far. He tries to understand the eternal consequence of a miscalculation, an accident. He was once their star pilot. Now he’s nothing but a ghost, a phantom limb, never to return. Things lost at the edge of space are inevitably forgotten. People too.

He looks down at a single tattered photo tucked under a tangle of wires on the dead control panel. He removes it and stares at the smiling faces of him and his friends, frozen in the past many, many months ago. The photo is long faded by time, the edges slightly tattered and worn. He runs a finger over it slowly, a weak smile twitching on his lips. On the control panel there is only one device that still works, running on the last legs of batteries. With a slightly shaking finger, he presses play.

Hey how are you doing man? It’s been forever since we saw each other. You remember the old primary school playground right? They tore it down a few days ago. I know, tragic right? And I thought maybe we could go visit it when you come back. 

His chest clenches and he sits there unmoving, not making a single sound.

What's up? Hope things are good out there. They opened this new ice cream store a block over, you’d seriously love it. They have the weirdest flavours, that’s always your kind of thing. Gross. But that’ll be the first place we go, promise. Hurry your ass back here. 

The voice falters into static as the device runs out of power at last, the lights blinking once, twice, then nothing.

He breaks it off and clutches it to his chest, fingers grasping the hard edges of the small communications recorder so hard it begins to hurt against his skin and bones.

With a final resolve, he returns to the back of the cabin. It’s all routine, muscle memory. He quiets his brain and lets his body do the work. He runs a hand gently over the suit.

Several moments later, he is floating outside, held delicately by the curling tube, an umbilical cord tethered to a lifeless mother.

He feels each gentle breath in and out of his lungs. The world collapses then expands around him. The distant stars blink indifferently back, dots of light perhaps long perished now. Time melts into nothing. Fading stars, supernovas, black holes. Elements clashing and seething and burning, but it’s all so impossibly far, everything so impossibly cold. God must be the universe itself.

The cord keeps him gently connected, but he lets himself float freely, slowly closing his eyes.

The memories, they wash over him, every small, insignificant word, laugh, joke, touch, smile, all of which begin to expand bigger, stronger, brighter, more than the universe itself. The memories, they push and pull like an ocean tide. He sees their faces, hears their voices, and lets it all overwhelm him in one single moment. He clings desperately to each moment, only to feel them evaporate slowly away from him. He prays for just one more minute, one more second. Just to have it all back. He swears he will never let go again.

Can’t wait for you to come home. Tell me when, I’ll pick you up. See you soon man. 

The End of the World
A/N: A short story I wrote for my creative writing class last semester. Thought I'd post it.

This is the end of the world. The morning mist rolls over the forests, stretching towards the horizon. I stand at the edge of the cliff, staring out at the landscape; it’s like a pastel painting carefully traced out in front of me, not quite real, but just well done enough to appreciate.

Enough time has that most of the last traces of civilisation have been grown over, swallowed by nature. The will of God, as the voices say. Soon, the earth will forget entirely of the human race. Weeds and vines have curled over the cracked concrete and twisted metal, and serene animals step over the hidden roads beneath layers of soil and roots, grazing quietly and happily.

I sit cross legged at the edge, a ball of clay in my hands. It’s what I’ve been doing since the very start, sculpting statues out of clay. I have long since lost track of time as everything melted into continuous eternity, but still, I try to preserve the human race in the careful features of each sculpture, each curl of a finger and sweep of a brow. Each new day I would create a new one, and the next morning I would let it crumble, and simply start again on another.

I carve the finishing touches on my latest one, a tall, smiling woman who gazes solemnly over the rolling valley stretching out before the cliff. I pick my way back to my bed in the grass at the top of the hill, and walk past it down another curved path that leads into the valley. The trees tower beautifully above, their arms criss-crossing the light blue sky. The sunlight filters tentatively through the cracks and pours over the forest floor, warming my back as I continue deeper, picking a quiet spot in a clearing, surrounded by small, lightly coloured flowers.

I cross my legs and wait. Soon enough, the animals begin to appear.

In the beginning, they were tentative, scared, uncertain. They can sense everything that is within me - thousands of years of human history in one body. But eventually, when I made no sign of hurting them, they came, one by one. And now, wherever I go, I can always simply sit down and let them come to me.

I place a gentle hand on the fawn who makes its way over to me and nudges me on the nose.  A bird flies and flutters and lands on my shoulders. A squirrel scampers down from one of the trees and rests next to my knee. There is a compassionate beauty to everything, something I wished I could have someone to share with. I know that I hold an infinite amount of lives within me, that I am countless and boundless, composed of the start and end of humanity and everything in between - but still. There is something simple about having a ear to listen, a body to embrace. The animals come and go and I watch the sun rise and begin to fall. I stand up and feel them return back to their homes. A few of them follow me, matching my step, until I reach the edge of the forest again and begin to climb my path back up the hill.

In my time here, I have walked miles and miles towards the horizon. It never ends, and I can only imagine how much more I will see in the future. It doesn’t matter, because I have forever. For now, I return every night to my bed in the grass on the hill, the highest hill in the valley area. There, the grass is soft and the flowers wave gently in the breeze every night. Behind me, the sun sets, casting the sky into milky shades of yellow and orange. I lay down in the cool grass and close my eyes; a light wind flutters through my hair, and I let myself slowly fall asleep to the sounds of birds singing gracefully in the distance.

I see the very end again, how extinction came not in fiery explosions and catastrophes, but in a quiet and serene night. I remember the voices who told me, in my sleep, that it was time. By the next morning, every human had vanished. Every life gone. The plants and flowers and vines grew faster and faster that day. I watched how they overtook gas stations and shopping malls and apartment suites, bringing them back to the earth. I was just a young woman before, but the next day I awoke with the memories of every human life in me. I was the last and only relic, a living memorial of humanity. And I was left here to guard the planet forever.

Every night I sleep I dream. I don’t dream of new stories or imaginary worlds, I dream of memories. In my dreams I relive every part of the human race, the experiences of every one who has walked this planet before. In that, they are all still alive within me. I feel a mother’s fiery protective love for a child in danger, I feel the grief of a son who suffered the loss of his best friend, I see the fall of the Berlin Wall and the horrors of all the wars from the very beginning to the end. Every night I sleep I remember.

I jolt awake in the darkness. Strange. I normally sleep peacefully for hours on end, with nothing to disturb me and no chaos or anomaly to worry about. But now I sense something off. I get up and walk down to the edge of the cliff, looking around. Darkness falls over the valley, and the sky is awash with stars blinking down at me. Then I see the scuff marks at the edge, where my clay sculpture stood just few hours ago. My heart thuds within my chest. It’s gone. I look back up the hill and my breath catches when I see a flicker of a shadow move and vanish.

I scramble up the hill, pulse quickening, and I see it again. A humanoid shadow that wavers, then moves almost too quickly for my eyes to catch. It goes down the path and I run after it until I reach the edge of the forest. It’s tall and unsteady, hiding a little bit into the forest, peering through the cracks between the trees. A pair of glowing eyes stares back at me, then blinks.

“Hello?” I call out, voice wavering. A voice I haven’t used in so long already. I take a tentative step forward. The shadow shivers and begins to turn. “No, wait! Don’t go.” It falters and stills between the trees. I walk forward, dodging between the trunks and branches and fallen logs on the leaf strewn ground. As I near, I see a tall, graceful woman staring down at me. She seems almost translucent, and shivers again when I approach.

“You’re the woman I sculpted yesterday.” I whisper in awe.

She blinks and suddenly a small smile appears on her dark skinned face, making her eyes twinkle. “You have poured so much love and attention into us for so many years already. So much that you put some of your lives into us. Did you think you’d be alone forever?”

I hesitate, at a loss of words. “Is it just you?”

“I’m the only one who has found life through your hands, but if you wish, there might be many more of us.”

I take her hand. It’s soft and warm, and I’m surprised by how human it feels.

“They won’t let it happen.” I say softly.

“They?” She asks curiously.

“The voices. The universe. The human race was meant to end on that day. I was meant to be the only one left to preserve it. Just me, nobody else. It was their will. Now that you exist…” I trail off and stare into her eyes. They’re uncertain, wavering with emotion. Once again, so human, too human. “They won’t let you exist, either. Your very existence interrupts the natural order of the universe.”

Just as I finish the sentence I sense a commotion behind me. My heart stops as I see several pairs of blinking eyes in the trees. There are low growls and out of the trees come five wolves, hackles raised and black fur bristling. I recognize these wolves. Just a few days ago I was playing with them in the fields nearby.

The wolves move ever closer, and I can almost taste the scent of fury and wrath rolling off of them in waves. It says, you have sinned, you have turned your back on us.

I cast one more glance back at her. Her eyes are frightened and concerned, brimming with confusion. Suddenly impulse takes over me. I grab her hand again and turn, pulling her with me.

We sprint through the forest, my feet finding the way by intuition and muscle memory alone. The wolves bound after us but I don’t look back. I know the forest and the valley as well as I know my own palm. And I know that we all have a place here.

We make our way through the trees and I can still taste the tang of the wolves following us, the distant pounding of paws and sharp growls echoing through the air. I imagine their claws and fangs sinking bloody into my skin, into hers, I see her crumbling into clay dust before me, and suddenly it is my only desire for that to never, ever happen.

I make a sharp turn and we dive into a cave at the edge of waterfall, a cave I usually go to myself to rest and think during the day. In the damp, barely illuminated shadows, I take a moment to catch my breath. She sprawls next to me, a hand still on mine. I’m trembling, my mind racing through the motions. Just a few hours ago I had been the only human left in the world, and had believed I would be for the rest of eternity. And now, here is another one, another human. A simple reflection of all the humanity I hold inside of me. She smiles, then speaks.

“You aren’t alone anymore.”

“I never really was,” I say softly. “I have the world inside of me and outside.”

“But now you have me as well. I am new life. And with your hands, there can be more of us. We can find a way to live in harmony with the universe again.” She reassures. “You say that we are interrupting the universe, but the universe ebbs and flows like river water, it is change and growth and new beginnings. This is who I am, and this is a beginning.”

There’s a sharp growl at the cave entrance and we both turn, startled. A wolf, the leader of the pack, enters, fangs bared. I feel the temperature drop in the cave, and inside my mind, flickers of past violence, destruction, horrors, of all the people who have lived before me.

She suddenly shuffles forward, bowing her head calmly, then extends her arm. My breath catches as she speaks, placing one palm on the forehead of the wolf.

I watch as more and more wolves begin to crowd at the entrance, blocking the light and casting us in shadow.

Her hand does not move from the wolf as she begins to speak. “We’re here in peace. We were created out of love and that is how we will live. Look inside of me, see my heart in candor.”

The low rumbling and growling shake to my core, and I do not dare to move for several moments.

She closes her eyes and smiles, her palm brushing the wolf’s muzzle.

Gradually, the wolf’s hackles fall, eyes soften.

The wolves at the entrance hesitate, then retreat from the entrance, letting the sunlight back into the cave, bathing our figures resting there.

Slowly, the wolf lies down and curls around her, breath deepening.

My fingers trail to the clay at the back of the cave and I smile. I look at them, and I see the beginning of the world.

starry night 

The rain falls lightly over your shoulders that night; there’s a bitter breeze that’s blowing through your hair and biting your cheeks. You slide your hands into your pockets and force yourself to keep moving, but you’re still shaking slightly. Your phone lies dead at the bottom of your jacket pocket. Broken after you threw it down across the street ten minutes earlier.

Your limbs feel like concrete as you turn the corner, and the apartment vanishes behind you. You imagine that you can still hear their voices, but the wind picks up and the water sloshes against your shoes, and any sign of them disappears into the night. Your turn towards the direction of the corner store ten minutes away - the only place you can think of going.

The street is void of life, not even a single vehicle. The world shrinks and grows outside of your control, leaving you nauseous under the streetlights. You breathe out deliberately, watching the air billow out in front of you. 

The sharp light of the corner store is uncomfortable and surreal, sharp and painful to the eyes. You avert your gaze for a moment, and walk in. It is silent apart from the quiet, inaudible mumbling of late night news from the direction of the television near the cashier. You pass through the neatly coloured rows and rows of plastic-packaged products; your stomach gnaws hungrily but you head directly towards the drinks. You grab the first cheap cold beer you see and head towards the counter.

“That’ll be 2.75.”

You throw almost all the money you have left onto the counter.

“Have a good night,” you say methodically. You give the cashier a little smile - late shifts, after all - and walk out of the store, nursing the beer in your hands as you walk away from the stark light of the convenience store. 

A few corners later and you’re next to an abandoned parking lot. A single flickering street light stands feebly a dozen feet away. You open the can and sit down on the edge of the curb; it’s wet and cold but you barely register it. The rain dampens your hair as you finish the beer, the bitter taste washing down your throat. You toss the can into the trash bin next to you ten minutes later and you sit there in the silence, staring aimlessly at the dark street before you. The low, dingy apartment buildings not far away are completely dark, the windows staring back indifferently. You take a deep breath and get to your feet, jeans and shirt and hair - everything, damp and cold now. You turn back towards the direction you came from almost an hour before, then dig your nails resolutely into your palms and look away.

You let yourself continue walking down the street as familiar surroundings fade into foreign, intimidating ones. Before long you’re in a completely strange neighbourhood, each step a new one; the weariness and heaviness of your body is forgotten as you’re forced to stay alert in the cold.

You find yourself stopping next to an old payphone at the corner of the street. For a long time you let the rain fall and the internal conflict grows; your knuckles hurt, clenching around the singular coin in your pocket. You step forward under the small roof of the booth and place your hand around the phone handle; cold and metallic against your palm. A few seconds later and you unhook the phone, placing it against your ear and listening to the dial tone drone on and on. In a split second, before you can regret it, you shove the coin into the payphone. Your movements feel robotic as you dial the number and the phone begins to ring. You feel miles detached from your body as it rings and rings and rings, endlessly, in your ear.

You’ve reached my voicemail. You know who I am, if you’re calling me. There’s a laugh. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.

You violently hang up the payphone and immediately turn away, walking away from it. 

That was a bad idea. 

You know it, you don’t know why you did it.

In your mind a million different conversations play, conversations from past and present and future that never happened and will never happen. 

In your mind there are faces and there are scenes, disjointed, fragmented mosaic glass in your head.

Your shoes are soaked as you walk right through icy, muddy puddles on the side of the road. You begin to jog now, letting the air lash at your face and your hair. The wind seems to grow to a howl, the rain seems to fall faster and faster. 

The night grows, enveloping you within it. 

Everything merges into one, a deep dark shade of indigo. 

The stars descend slowly and inevitably from above, landing, burning away at your skin. They blind your eyes. 

You feel the ground fall out beneath your feet, but you don’t stop running. You feel the skies swallow you whole, but you don’t stop running. You don’t stop running until there is no space between you and the night sky beyond you, and it’s all burning and burning and burning into nothing, and into everything.

the midnight train (part of the series sometimes in the dust there lies your secret)

When he was a little boy in the countryside, many nights would be spent alone in his dark bedroom, mostly covered by heavy bed-sheets, with slanted moonlight semi-illuminating his freckled face. His parents worked late, or they got home too tired to talk, falling asleep several rooms over before the sun had fully set. Most nights he felt like he was the only human being on the prairie, the only human being in the country, in the world.

When he had nightmares, or he was worried, or he couldn't sleep, he learned to lie there alone, and found comfort in the one consistent thing – the train that clattered down the railroad tracks by his house always around midnight, whistling and echoing through the silence of the night. A passenger train, he learned, a long-distance one that shot through the country from one end to another.

The train, to him, was hundreds of stories held delicately inside twenty steel train cars, rattling through the night – hundreds of pasts, presents, and futures, a mosaic of human emotion encased in metal – all, for the moment, passing by his house, his life, all for a moment, part of him, illuminating a small invisible corner of the countryside. He liked to imagine the stories each and every one of the passengers could tell him, liked to imagine their childhoods and their likes and dislikes, pleasures and worries, liked to imagine where they were going and why they were going there, their friends and family and fears and aspirations. He made friends with them in his head, liked to imagine that maybe one or two of them, someone who wasn't asleep or reading or talking with a neighbor or peering out another window, looked up at his house too, and wondered about its inhabitants. Inexplicably, the train and its carrying of those hundreds of stories made him feel a little less alone on those nights.

There was no train station in the little town he lived in, but he maintained his fascination, running down to the tracks after school when he could, sometimes with friends, but usually alone. He would throw his bag to one side and sit in the tall grass hugging his legs, waiting – sometimes only for a few minutes, often longer, until at last a passenger train would appear from afar, first as a distant, strong and calling whistle, then as a whisper of smoke, then its lights and its familiar rattle and clank as the twenty metal boxcars would clatter rapidly past, throwing up a terrific wind that made his hair fly everywhere; into the sky, his face, his shoulders, would make the grass around him dance spectacularly, but he would only grin and wave, wave at the hundreds of human stories inside rumbling past his little town. Course, it went by too fast for him, the little boy sitting on the field over the tracks, to see anyone's faces, but sometimes he would imagine he caught a glimpse of another person waving back.

When he turned sixteen, his parents sent him off to a boarding school far away in a distant city. The night before he was bound to leave, he snuck out of his bedroom, padding softly down the stairs and out into the field. Sneakers untied, into the field, into the grass, as the midnight train ran past, a blur of light and metal, in all its strength and glory – thirty seconds, then the boy turned his head and watched the light shrink and vanish in a blink of light on the horizon, the train letting out a final faint farewell whistle. 

The next day, he was gone. 

He was gone for many years, studying aboard at an immense boarding school in the city, a flare of bright blonde hair amongst the glistening halls and tables, a short, wiry figure hurrying from classroom to classroom day after day. 

There it was never dark, there it was never quiet. There he was surrounded by people, more people than he had ever met for so many years of his childhood on the countryside. 

There, there were no railroad tracks to run down to, no lone whistle of a train to listen for, no strong, steady rumbling at midnight as it passed by outside the window.

The boy, older now, shifts and turns in his bed, around him his dorm mates doing the same. He hasn't spoken to his parents in weeks. 

The boy, so much older now, closes his eyes and listens, can almost hear past the buzzing of the city outside, the cars and the voices to somewhere far past the horizon, where one train as dutifully as ever passes his countryside home, passes where he used to weave the stories held inside those moving compartments until they would come alive to him in the dark of the night.

the boar (part of the series sometimes in the dust there lies your secret)
Imagine if you will that you must wake daily to hunt the same old boar. A curse, if you may; you must strike it once every day. You don’t know which strike will kill it. In fact, you’re not sure if it will ever die. But you’re cursed to keep chasing it, you can’t stand the idea of ignoring such a wild animal on the run. You don’t know what will happen if you don’t strike it each day, what catastrophe will unfold that is your doing- or so you believe. You don’t know, and it terrifies you to chance it.

You wake up at the crack of dawn, wanting a nice peaceful day to yourself. You’ve had the same wish for several months now, but it has yet to come true. You hurry and finish breakfast, sitting next to a beautiful view of the sun rising over a flowing meadow, but your mind is on other things, not the scene before you.

You head down armed with bow and arrows, your chest is heavy and your thoughts are shards of apprehension. On the streets, the owner of the local tea house, a lovely old lady, your friend, waves and invites you in for a free cup and a chat. You wish you could steady yourself for long enough to do so- what is better than light innocent conversation on a clear day- but how could you? The boar dances circles in your mind. You regretfully decline her friendly invitation and head down the road to the forest, past happily chatting folks relaxing outside; you feel miles and miles away from any of them.

The forest looms ahead but you feel only heaviness and fear, not excitement, not relief; you arm your bow and arrow and head into the shadows. For hours you trace tracks old and new- snapped branches and trodden soil, until you’re soaked in sweat and covered in dirt but you cannot stop.

Finally after the sun has ran its fair distance in the sky already, you crouch next to a clearing and see the blasted creature; all dark matted fur and blazing eyes. You shudder, but you aim and watch it carefully, unmoving. Any sign that you have hunted it before- any scar, wound, or marking- cannot be seen. But you pay no mind to the obvious futility; the boar is now all you can see, and the arrow you’re about to let loose is all you can focus on doing.

You pull and fire, it lodges in the shoulder, but like yesterday and the countless days before, you are unable to land a second shot. It turns, beady, bottomless eyes meeting yours, freezing you to the core with dread that shoots through your veins like ice. You cannot move as it leaps past you, flanking your skin raw on one side as it vanishes.

You know it is useless to continue your search; it cannot be found again today, and even if it can, you know it is pointless; no matter how many arrows you put in its body today, it will still be the same tomorrow.

You feel little relief, only a brief rush, as you head back into town, hours now gone. You have stopped it again today- stopped what, you don’t know- but in doing so you know you have only condemned yourself to repeat the act indefinitely into the future.

But how can you stop? What will happen if you do? Surely one more shot, one more day, will be its last. You don’t know. So you only continue your futile chase, day after day after day, to no end, and ultimately for nothing at all.

the boy and the lights (part of the series sometimes in the dust there lies your secret)

There was a little boy, many years ago, who was playing with his family in the woods. The sun was out, the birds were singing, the supple trees adorned gentle green leaves barely whispering in the wind.

Soon the boy saw, to his curiosity, a spot of light peeking out from between the shadows, down the trail leading deeper into the forest. It twinkled and blinked and fluttered, dancing just out of reach. The boy turned away from his family and began to make his way forward, attempting to grasp it- to hold it in his palm, see it, wondering what it could be.

As the family had their backs turned, the boy began to chase after the light, which floated tantalizingly close but never quite close enough, down the path. The glow was soft but mesmerizing, drawing the boy’s gaze, his focus, as a trot became a jog became a run. The trees gradually grew taller and thicker, trunks widening and lengthening, clawed branches stretched towards the sky; they blotted the sun out like black paint running through yellow. The sound of songbirds faded into empty silence, yet the boy only had eyes on the small dot of light, not noticing his surroundings bending and changing around him.

Many hours later, oblivious to the sweat building on his lips and the panting of his breath, the light floated to a halt in a dark, silent clearing, surrounded by thick undergrowth that hung heavily in the shadows.

The boy leapt for the light- finally, being able to see what it was, what the strange, out of place, surreal flicker was, it would be a relief, a revelation- but as he sprawled onto it, it blinked and vanished. The boy landed against the soil, and it was only then that he noticed how far he had gotten. The shadows threatened to surround him completely, and the silence was broken only by his breath, the thudding of his heart against his chest.

Just then, all around him, dozens of dots, identical to the first, blinked and appeared in the shadows, dancing and twinkling and fluttering, whispering- almost begging- come find me. Come see.

The boy, scared now, tore his eyes away from those shining lights, those not-quite-right anomalies, he forced himself to his feet, turned and ran back the way he came.

Branches and leaves slapped him in the face, logs appeared out of nowhere, he skittered and dashed and jumped, going this way and that, as dots of light flashed all around, more and more frequently, dancing and moving and watching. He ducked and ignored them, felt the magnetic pull of those lights on his very being, but kept running and running.

What seemed like days, weeks later, the trees began to sparse and lighten, the light began to shine again through the leaves. Holding back tears, the boy looked around, slowing. The dots had vanished, they were less frequent now.

He pulled up to his family- there were cries of relief, hugs, the boy wiped his eyes and looked around. There was one more dot blinking light at him, from afar. He shook his head. He let it be there, just that distance out of reach. It floated, for a while, slightly behind him, but he only spared it one glance before grasping his mother’s hand and following her back to the house.

By the time he got there, it was gone.

 

Possible warning; includes nightmares/dissociation/disconnect/etc

A/N- I was initially hesitant about posting this as it was just a personal thing to do; I just wanted to write a quite monologue-esque piece simply because I wanted to write more again and this was a good way to start. I had the idea of just a very simple setting and story like this for a while and during this week break I finally got the chance to finish it. Also, I was pretty inspired by a novel I had read recently with an incredibly emotionally raw and introspective first-person writing style.
Anyways enjoy if you wish to keep reading. It was quite a cathartic exercise I suppose in a way, sometimes it helps to just not limit yourself or force yourself in any direction, but to just write.
 

Lakeside
read on Wattpad: http://www.wattpad.com/107905676-lakeside

It was the worst kind of feeling.  

They talk about the calm before the storm, the quiet eeriness before chaos hits hard, but they don’t talk about the calm afterwards. The silence settling over the destruction, the ruins, the sort of numb shock that comes from something happening too quickly and too strongly, that hits too deeply and you can’t really scramble up to your feet properly afterwards. And even if you can, you walk with a weird sort of uncomfortable feeling-something is off, but you see no scars on your leg, no broken ankle, no pulled muscle, but something is off and you can’t walk properly and it just isn’t the same anymore. 

They don’t talk about dealing with the aftermath, they don’t talk about looking around you and seeing everything in a different light-or maybe nothing has changed but you have.

That’s how I felt in that week. Maybe longer, I had stopped keeping track after a while. I remember school was closed off because of some protest, so we had some time off, which normally I would have enjoyed, but during that time, having so much free time scared the living hell out of me. I didn’t want to look at the aftermath, I wanted to read my textbooks and write my essays and I wanted all the mundane distractions that gave my life some kind of routine and meaning, however futile they may be.

When they announced the school closure Sunday evening, I began packing that night. I already had my own apartment then, bought with my deceased uncle’s savings which he had trusted with the family; I had moved out at sixteen and after a whole year of perfect self sustainment and independence, I didn’t need to go through my parents for anything. So when I decided myself to just pack up a few of my things and head out to the family summer cabin down south alone, there was nothing stopping me. I just knew that I had to get away for a while, an impulse decision that I knew I would regret, but that premature regret didn’t stop me. I was on a bus immediately that night, leaving at 9 pm knowing full well it would take me more than an hour to get close to the lake the cabin was located next to. I hugged my bag and rested my head against the grimy window, staring at the flashing lights rushing past too fast, and the minutes ticked by. 

The Sea

(Short story about the past, dealing with regret and guilt, and ultimately of letting go)

Triggers for: death 

read on Wattpad: http://www.wattpad.com/108564875-the-sea



  The steering wheel was tight underneath my clenched palms as the fields whipped past; tall, waving grass, the skies echoing the emptiness of the surroundings, and the rolling hills in the distance...

Terminated (short story)-(sci-fi)

TERMINATED

read on Wattpad: http://www.wattpad.com/107906039-terminated
 
Present

My hand reaches towards the air. I examine it with a morbid curiosity, the skin smooth and uninterrupted, and the fingers tapered to a chillingly perfect edge. Merely seconds ago my body felt like a beautiful machine, a work of art shaped to functional perfection. Like it has my entire life. Now it feels like lead. It feels like dull, lifeless metal.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, yet no air enters my lungs. I feel no panic now. Instead, dull despair fills my veins where I once thought blood ran hot and thick and alive. I let my hand drop, and despair is replaced by an eerie calmness. The light fades from the world around me, sounds fade out into nothingness.

“29485-B. Terminated.”

My head lolls to the side, then stills.

The Subway- (Short Story) -(tw for horror) 

This is a story I wrote a long time ago, about someone who descended down the subway stairs and never returned. 

I was inspired over two years ago by a set of rather eerie stairs that I saw while wandering a university campus in Canada on an overcast day. Turns out that the stairs simply led to an underground parking lot, but my imagination had already sped ahead by that point. And so this short little concept was born. 

~~

The sky was an ashen shade of grey, a slow rumble of thunder in the distance. The wind whistled eerily through the branches of the trees dotting the pavement. I stared out over the road, my hands searching my pockets for my mobile. The tall, stone library, a CLOSED sign over the door, stared indifferently at me, as the school buildings of the university stood silently, windows dark and apathetic.