The trail was used mainly by tourists these past many years, if at all. Soft jungle sounds ruffled my ears. A mystery whispered somewhere down an even smaller offshoot path, over a hill, into the past. Ancient memories wandered around me, doing everyday things to survive in a bountiful, yet harsh environment, where a sting or a slip in the wrong spot meant disaster. I walked up to a circular stone. A thick layer of moss covered the ghost of sacrificial blood from hundreds of years before. Who was here, I asked. A snuffle behind me answered, we’re here now.
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My love and gratitude to Nimupara, faerie of inspiration. She is the Watcher of Worlds, the Great Storyteller. Her tales may not always hold facts, but they have Truth. She places obstacles in your path to change your course, because she watches the big picture from her reflective pools that gather among the roots of her tree, and often sees factors of which we remain unaware. She watches and whispers stories in my ear, and I do my best to write them down. She loves balance and harmony, and sometimes knocks you over so you can see from another perspective.
The two butterflies bobbed through the air, swerved clumsily around a breeze, and stumbled into a patch of asters. “You’re drunk,” accused the clear one. “Not,” slurred the solid one, “just had one apple.” “It was pure brandy when you got to it.” “You’re brandy.” “I’m not flying with you when you’re like this.” “You’re not flying, you’re on a flower.” “You’re right, and I’m going to stay on this flower.” “I’m going to stay on this flower too. Have a little nap.” A shadow flicked over the butterflies. The bird swooped and returned home. “You’re drunk,” accused its mate.
Note: I don't condone or condemn safe use of alcohol, but do think it's a bit funny that sometimes butterflies eat rotten fruit that turns into alcohol in their bellies. (Inspired by the book I'm busy writing)
One young osk had not mastered his ability to sing imagination into reality, and accidentally sang his fancy up in a tree. Now, a turtle might have had better climbing abilities, but this youth saw no choice. He wanted to play. The toy was out of reach. The osk persisted, and somehow clambered to the branch that held his toy. He shuffled along the limb that bent with gravity. One foot slipped, balance broke, and the ground approached with alarming speed. The osk yelped a sound that popped him out of physical reality and into a strange yet familiar plane. All I could hear was the laughter of birds and the wind as a flute through the pass. A cloud approached until it turned the trail dark and cold. Its wisps kissed the flowers and left dewdrops. I followed a new sound. Someone, unseen, sang in a language mysterious to my ears. I searched, but the fog tricked my senses, and I wondered how wise it was to leave the trail. So then I sang a song of my own, lilting, lithe, full of love. It mingled with the hidden singer’s, and soon we smiled into each other’s warm words.
We drove up into the sky, where the dusty grey mountain cut a jagged line against a blue so dry it hadn’t seen a cloud since the last era, when snow covered the ground and the animals grew fur thicker than cold molasses. Our breath added the only humidity, which was gone on the next inhale. The sun blasted notes from your guitar out of the air, and they became rocks that sparkled on the ground, and matched the stars when they came out to kiss our eyes, while the moon woke up to paint our shadows in silver dust.
Hello Kitty took up traveling to see the world. She had read much, discussed much, and questioned much beforehand. She wanted to understand. She herself was often misunderstood, as her true name was キティ・ホワイト. But she knew who she was, and she knew what was in her heart. She wandered to see how others understood. Her kawaisa didn't deal with death, which she knew to be an integral part of life. She found herself among much-loved sugar skulls, and they told her of the honor and reverence they received from the Otherside. She sat with them, listening to their stories.
(Photo from Patzcuaro, Mexico) More details, photos, and true stories can be found here.
The world whispered. Long ago, it created some hills, and those hills blocked the view. They were beautiful hills, so we enjoyed looking at them. We delighted in the company of people we loved. The world whispered louder, and one of us crept over the hills to see what might exist on the other side. The other grew a garden, and wondered. The world whispered. Her toes itched to wander, but she told them to wait. He returned. He regrouped. The world whispered so loudly that she could no longer be still. She took his arm, and followed the whisper. "Let's take the stairs, they said," complained a trailing vine. "We'll get there faster, they said. Well, I don't see how this is any faster. It has taken us five long years to get up this many steps and most of us don't even remember why we started this."
"Why did we start this?" asked a young shoot. "Because we're going up the stairs," the vine sighed, exasperated. "I thought that was obvious." "But you said..." "I said we're going too slow. We don't have time to dilly dally in the sunshine. We have places to be. Now listen up-" How could we find ourselves if we didn't get a little lost first? Some of us fell off expensive peacoats. Some of us were discovered in the street, scratched but sturdy. Some of us are stuck in the bag we came in, extras for just in case, while the shirt we came with lives its life out in the sun. And so we sit, lost but found, together. We share our stories with our lost companions, and we find ourselves in our sharing. And we hope, if we ever get lost again, we might then find ourselves in another bucket.
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StretchesThe brain needs to stretch before working out just as much as the body. Welcome to my stretch zone of stories in 100 words, and perhaps other bits. Archives
September 2019
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