Eric: Fifteen Minutes Of Fiction

Forest

Forest
It is a place of still greenery and human warmth. The hazy hands of maple leaves fold upon each other whilst a glitter of sunlight trickles gently through, like a ballerina dancing before a captive audience. The air around is still, silent, and it stands over the armies of grasses and regiments of dirt with a watchful eye. Ferns scattered here and there like shells on a beach are still wet with the droplets of morning rain, as are the trees of incredible height and dark black bark which reach up to the sky as if in search of an epiphany, of the meaning of life. Past the rapid croaks and resonant ripples of life, past the sounds of a stream lapping against a bank and the whispers of the trees, the figure of a man and his dog exist as dark silhouettes against the regular irregularities of the forest.

The man stands, and nothing save the slim outline of an athletic figure can be seen. He does not move when he hears a song ripple through the forest, but the dog’s ears and hairs stand up seemingly almost as straight and as tall as the trees surrounding them. The song has the voice of a human melody, but it is sung in a language that is sibilant and is mingled with the sounds of the forest so as to become unintelligible, yet strangely tantalizing. This song stops, and the figure of the man begins to move into the forest, unwillingly, but carried by a flow of nature which He, in all his intelligence and superiority, does not command.

His feet trample across piles of ominous dead leaves and damp earth, and the floor crunches as if to criticize the man’s lack of respect. The dog moves silently. The two travel deeper into the apparently random network of trees, grasses and vines, and the influence of humanity passes and fades, becoming little more than a forgotten dream and a sullen desire. Rapid croaks, tuneful chirps and the near silent hissing of the wind all seem nearly physical in their existence. They penetrate deep throughout the forest and are as grave as warnings, but the man continues walking, seemingly oblivious to what is happening around. The greenery shakes, his head throbs, yet the man is calm when the forest is not.

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Serendipity

Serendipity

“Move on, son. Quickly.” The man’s voice carried through the rock tunnel as glitter does on the waves of the sea. “We’ve no time to lose.”
Usually, the man would be known by the sight of the reddish tint of his clear cut face, his short, black whiskers bristling beneath a dirt-stained white cap, but now there were only two piercing blue eyes and the Voice. It was a voice of artificial rapture; deep, resonant and masterly crafted; articulate, but lacking in warmth, expression, beauty; and yet it had the particular intonation that simultaneously compelled and denigrated.

“Let us go now, son.” The Voice was more imploring and less human. Something grabbed the child’s shoulder. Shook it. Hard. But there was still no movement from the child, for this same event had happened many times, and many times before that, and the child was accustomed to such circumstances. The Voice would not hurt him, but would not fail to persist, and the child was fine with that.
It had of course not always been like that, for change is a subtle and insidious creature. The child remembered when, during a time quite far and long ago, he had remembered the illusion of happiness. No, it was more a memory of a memory, but such facts are irrelevant. The man had once been a normal, law-abiding citizen of the United States of America. A long time ago, he could have stepped out onto the streets outside and not immediately been branded, odious and repugnant to the rest of society. There was once a time that the child could look up and the man and not be ashamed.

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Juvenescence

The white hair shaking silently in the wind
uncontrolled......................malicious,
where happiness sees no door

The light splattered on the boxes inoculate
aesthetic..................beauty,
where grey hair sees no more

The coloured boards, alluring the aged
promoting youth.................promoting joy...............promoting life
one then sees veterans across the shop's floor

The money is then gone and science borne
upon the once elderly
now he walks out

no longer old

no longer sad

But youth and joy decline to show
for money retreats not time
and if no longer aged...............no longer distressed,
or young or happy

then I ask,
what has the old man become?

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River

The trees swayed poignantly in submission to the beckoning wind. All around, the air was abhorrent with warmth, thickness and nauseating humidity. To either side of the riverbank, a scene not unlike prehistoric Earth could be seen: the big trees were seemingly forced, extruded, from the ground, only to serve as kings to the conspicuously flamboyant undergrowth which was below.

There was a sickeningly alluring silence all around. Everything was still – the silvery water, the rampant vegetation – even the floating specks of sunlight in the air seemed to be frozen in time. The long stretches of still water ran on endlessly, forming a lattice of waterways which would prove imposing to even the greatest of sailors. Trees swayed, water crept, forming a corrugated skin; even the grass beneath a stone would jiggle in its anxious ways, yet not a sound was to be heard.

The lack of noise was, however, not a befalling of peace; no, it was nothing less than a tawdry replacement of sound, a mask of calm concealing a brewing grasp of unstoppable intention and hidden motives. This was an unnatural silence, one which was to be shunned from rather than allured to. Only authentic fear would be felt if one ever was to even contemplate ensconcing here; fear was perhaps the only true ephemera which existed in this twisted, silent river.

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Bushfire

There have always been rumors about the forest near Kurtain. For a while, they were nothing but petty tales, things which grandfathers used to scare their grand-children around a campfire late at night, but since the bushfire happened, the views on the rumors have changed. Mystery had been brewing ere the fire, but now they were nothing short of ablaze. The Kurtain Forest is, and never has been, a place for the feeble or the weak. Vast spaces of open land of the dullest of the greens had the fodder of soft, damp leaves lie over it as if it were a carpet blanketing over the ground. Every few feet a skimpy tree, of width no more than a few hand spans and height which would make one’s neck crane to see, would stake its ground. A large canopy feigned dampness over any one area, allowing only glimpses of sunlight to pass through. If there ever was any sunlight.

The Kurtain Forest was a dark place indeed, and that may have partly been my reason for visiting. You see, I had always been one to fancy things which were not of the mundane – more often than not, my wife would chide me for wasting ‘money which could be better spent’ on strange, mystical things – decorations, books, pictures and the like. It was said that the word ‘timidity’ was not in my vocabulary: I was not unlikely that I would be away, planning a trip to a country where a U.F.O or ghost had supposedly been seen. Just about all of the times, the trip was for nothing – false rumors, folk lore and such... my trip to The Kurtain Forest was no different from the rest. Or was it?

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A Patch of Blue

You hear your favourite song on the radio, just as you finish your hot shower, drying yourself with hot towels out from the dryer. Maybe there are patches of black around your eyes from that long distance call which lasted from twelve to two in the morning. It was your first love – you think of her as you walk towards a really good concert, and as you do, you overhear someone quietly commenting on how great your eyes look. When the concert ends, you walk around the shops, finding out that your favourite sweater is on sale for half price. After getting that special glance from the female cashier, you unconsciously place your hands into your pockets, only to discover the twenty dollar bill you left there last winter. You buy a milkshake. As you drink it, you meet an old friend, and are left feeling great as you catch up, realizing that some things about people never change. It’s good to know that there are some people in the world you know you can cry on and talk about your deepest problems. While walking back home, you enjoy the golden sunset as you laugh for absolutely no reason at all. As the sun melts into the horizon, you lie in bed, just listening to the rain. The simple things are the best things in life, and indeed, you know that.

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Beautiful

To many, beauty lay in the sight. Maybe it was in the way the wrinkles and crevices of the water radiated from an unknown origin, or maybe it was in the way the sun's icing gilded the murky water. Perhaps it was in the manner of which the tall flowers erratically moved, a twinge here, a pause, another twinge there. Possibly, it was the way the sun's rays childishly dodged and weaved through the blades of grass, creating vividly dancing shadows on the dirt floor. Whatever it was, whatever created this glory, the brilliance and wonder within, I did not know. On a subconscious level, however, I knew that whenever I was at this riverbed, whenever I could hear the water patting the land, whenever I could be one with the river and grass, I would be able to steep in the profound beauty of this place and let the hardships which every man faces dissipate.

But below the surface of the water was where everything else lay. One cannot take without giving; I could not rest without reliving. Yes, below the seeming calming, consoling water, there lay glimpses of the past better left alone. A flash of rock here and the memory of punching my five year son would begin to tug at one corner of my brain. A fish’s gill here and the loss of my house would begin to tug at another. Yet still I endeavored to visit whenever a hardship arose – perhaps I was paying the price, but it was a price worthwhile... Perhaps.

Today was like any other one of the times I had been to this riverbed. It was night, with numerous insects clinging to your skin and many more trailing behind you. The sound of life was within the thick fog which was the air; the cold breeze was more a refreshment than a hindrance. I approached the water the same way I had always, slowly, cautiously, then as I began to feel the almost churchlike effect upon me, I opened up – took of my coat and sat on a rock which had the silvery coating of the moonlight plastered on it. But the effect didn’t last long, and I knew it wouldn't. Try in vain I did, to achieve the calmness of nights before, but it was to no avail. There was one problem that this river couldn’t solve: I no longer found it beautiful.

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They

They came, they looked.
They pointed at the thing.
A broken book.
Or maybe a bird without a wing.

They screamed, implored.
They begged for it to go.
To strike a chord.
'haps the worst of all man's woes.

They hid, they cried.
They didn't want to see.
For deep inside.
I knew they were hiding from me.

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He

A man will not make a lock without a key; He will never make a problem without a solution. What is he like? No one knows. He is jealous, He is forgiving, He is the person I look up to. He is what makes people themselves, He is Him who brings out 'the best of people'. More than that, He is the one who will always defend you, He is the person who will never hate you. He is the one who puts the roof over our heads, the one who puts food on the table. More than that, He is the one who created me, my life, my love, my body, my soul.

He's Dad.

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A Pirate's Letter

The single sheet of papyrus, wilting at the sides seems to lie amidst an enveloping conclave of darkness, just lightly feathering around. A dim light, from a candle, perhaps, seems to encompass, enclose and endorse the archaic manuscript. As one nears to it, one will begin to see a complex tangle of incomprehensible, at least at first, form of symbolic, figurative symbols and figures. Indeed, to the inexperienced eye, they are but patterns best left not decoded, but decoded they have been, and as one begins to study the writing, one will see faint markings, markings which translated, create a whole new rendition of what was indecipherable. Yes, an as one nears, one will, without doubt, read.

“Back in the day, there was a patriot bearing the name of Isaac. He was a pirate who was not the flag-waver of his country, not the nationalist of a republic, but the loyalist of his inane studies of the world. Studies! Would you believe? He was not one to explore the fruitful ways of our lands, nor one who strived to discover possible routes of trade, yet was one who endeavoured to explore the meaningless domain of the mechanics of this world, the heretical ‘’science’’ which reprimanded the truthful words of our Aristotle, the meaningless flicks of paint and incomprehensible use of ink which he called ‘art’. Indeed, if he were any other but the taskmaster of our land, the one who governed our every plantation, our every crop, he would have been just another excommunicated by the church, burnt for witchcraft or heresy, treason or treachery, perchance, but the fact that he controlled the church somewhat changed that.

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