I’m near enough the quiet cold everlasting to find myself afraid of what’s to come. But there is still an ember burning inside, with a passion reserved only for those who know themselves. I won’t fall into the abyss, not before I find what I was looking for in the darkness I find myself surrounded in. My words and my actions are not who I am. They have shaped me, but the spark was given by something else. I will continue to burn away the cold with my desires, until the candle is lit and the world becomes bright enough for me to open my eyes. The quiet cold everlasting does not stand a chance against a single hope, a single dream, for its mere existence is a victory that in and of itself cannot be undone.

The fire flickered and died, the embers still glowing slightly in the dark. Nothing much else happened on the camp site and all that could be heard were the sounds of night-time in the dense forest around it. Only one person was still awake, but the figure just sat silently, slowly breathing in the cold air. The area was safe enough for the travellers not to worry about dangerous animals, so the darkness was not unwelcome. The early autumn days were followed by cold nights, so all four of them had wrapped themselves up in blankets before all but one of them went to sleep. They still had a long road ahead of them in order to rejoin some semblance of civilisation, which meant they could not risk exhaustion, especially not when their youngest was injured…

The other Mages, young as they were – just like himself, really – were already too deeply entrenched in ritual and tradition to see the true reality of Magic. He’d never been one for rigid rules, certainly not when it came to something like magic itself. No living, breathing entity should be imprisoned in the constructs these so-called Wizards weaved. Even the Apprentices were learning only to enslave and imprison, rather than to nourish and share a bond with the power that rested within their very souls. He detested every moment he spent here, it wasn’t the right place for his ideas, but it was the only place remotely like what he sought. He wanted to learn Magic, learn what it was, but more importantly who it was.

Unlike the rest of them, he already knew its potential – he didn’t need to step foot in the Library Halls to know that all magic had unlimited potential, because it was not limited by anything beyond the laws of nature. While the Elder Wizards thought they needed to build stronger, better prisons for their ‘wizardry’, his mind conjured up greater feats of power than any of their little tricks could hope to achieve. Of course, he had yet to develop a way to bring his ideas into reality, which was precisely why he had travelled to the Academy in the first place. But he knew he would not spend a lot of time here – the place felt evil, evil in a way that should not exist in any world. But he would seek out the knowledge he needed to take his first steps into a realm even Wizards considered to be pure fantasy.

Her feet sank slowly into the wet sand as she looked out at the sunset. The giant ball of destruction that somehow managed to be the cause of life on the planet she found herself standing on. The beach was abandoned, but she still heard some stray calls of seagulls. She closed her eyes and just felt the calm sea breeze and the water lapping at her ankles. It wasn’t often that she found herself at the ocean, despite the fact it covered two-thirds of the planet. But, like the sun, the ocean helped sustain the life around her, and the life inside her. Without either one, she would not be there, she would never have smiled like this because she would never have existed.

Her contemplations about life, the universe and everything else are what drove her to her art, even if others would never deign to call it such – it wasn’t art in the sense they were used to, therefore it wasn’t art at all. She moved the world with her hands alone, yet the days still passed as they always did. The sun still rose every day, or rather, the earth still spun as it had for a thousands of years. And it would continue to do so, whether she was there or not to gently guide its way. After all, she was but a speck of sand compared to the rest of the universe. Ever so small, but crucial nonetheless to so many things around her.

My world seemed darker than it ought to be – as if other worlds were somehow brighter and that this one should be too. But, child that I was, I dared to dream. The darkness never really caught onto my heart, as it had done to many others. They’d grown old and grey, well before they were meant to. I had never quite let go of my childhood, however, and I was younger than my peers, yet in my youthful arrogance I also felt wiser. I felt I’d suffered more than any others because I was somehow more vulnerable, like a phoenix in the rain.

But it was exactly a phoenix which showed me how untrue my world views were – though at the same time it reminded me that childhood is something one should never surrender to anything, even to adulthood. A bird of flame could withstand the endless downpour of rain not because of some higher power, but because it would never surrender, never let its flame be doused by anything at all. I came to learn that my weaknesses were in fact strengths, if only I learned to use them in my favour. I let the flame of the phoenix brighten my heart even more, and I promised myself I would never surrender to the rain or anything else. My inner flame would be what made the world as bright as it should be: bright enough to uplift those around me without blinding them to reality.

Light and dark are often used as a metaphor for good and evil, at least in the stories I’ve been told throughout my youth. But people never seem to realise that light can be just as blinding as darkness – it takes a careful balance to allow us to truly see the beauty of the world around us. For every phoenix, there will be a shadow dark enough to counter its light, but this is no reason to surrender. Quite the opposite, it’s a reason to shine bright, be proud of who you are and to never close your eyes to the world around you. It takes a balance tipped just slightly in favour of the light, for the spark of magic to exist. The slight spark that makes all the difference, a spark which exists in every world, no matter how dark it may seem.

The light danced in his eyes as well as in his hands – a small creature that seemed to be made of moonlight crawled quickly back and forth between his fingers. It was hard to tell what kind of creature it resembled – it seemed both furry and scaly all at once. It had a soft, ethereal glow about it that to stretch out further than it should in the darkness. He smiled as he watched it play, keeping half an eye on the camp fire and of course his dinner. He had no idea where the critter came from, had never even seen one before. He knew, of course, of Magic and of Sorcery, Witchcraft and Wizardry, but he’d never seen anything remotely magical back home. He’d grown up far from what others would call ‘civilization’. In fact, he’d never even seen a castle or a house not built of wood.

But he’d gone out into the world to explore it and discover new things. And now, he caught his first glimpse of something new, something unique and different.  He knew it could hardly not be magical, this creature of moonlight. He could feel its tiny, sticky feet clinging to his fingers, yet it had no weight of its own. He just watched it play for a while when the little thing suddenly glowed brightly and then vanished into nothingness.

He looked at the sky. It looked back, its face clouded and grim, about to burst out in anger, to lash at the world with storm and wind. But he smiled, as he usually did when the world around him grew dark, knowing that he’d weather the storm. It’s easy to be scared, especially when the world around you speaks so loudly it drowns out your own voice, it’s easy to feel lost and alone and forgotten.

But that’s not why the storms are there. They exist to wash away the past, to renew the world and to offer it a glimmer of hope, a small chance at overcoming past mistakes. Every raindrop was an offer of life, an offer of hope. Even the lightning served its purpose in discharging the stress of the world itself – to calm it, soothe its very soul even as it shudders in response.

Every storm will end, but it will leave behind the gift of renewal. One would need to lose all hope to not appreciate what the winds brought them. Even something as regular as rain gives chance an opportunity to change the world. And that’s why the young man smiled as he looked up at the sky as it started to rage. It would calm, it would pass, and the world would grow once again.

His thoughts drifted like the leaves falling from the trees around him. Short, unconnected memories followed by feelings, interspersed with hopes and tiny little dreams. It wasn’t often he just let himself go, to just be, to just let the world move past. He’d always been on the run from his past, aiming for a future so vague it seemed almost mythical. He’d learned to bend reality around his fingers like a child learning to braid strings together, never stopped learning until he could weave his dreams into the world. Never did he consider himself an artist, however, for every strand in his every weave served a purpose, a higher goal than just creating something new.

But soon, it would be time to start his grandest project yet. Enough with the little tricks, the years of endless refinement and practice. He’d been a street magician for decades,  travelling the lands and amazing the people with sleights of hand that twisted their perception, beguiled their senses and sometimes betrayed their souls. He’d fooled children, he’d fooled Kings, earned their respect and their gold, but he’d never found what he was looking for, in all his travels. But he’d never given up, never stopped practising his skills, perfecting them until he felt he could bring his dreams – his nightmares – to life. And every autumn, as the leaves started to fall, he’d take a moment, be it a minute or many hours, to reflect upon the reality around him, leaving it untouched, unspoilt by his desires.

Because he knew what the future would hold. So there he stayed; watching, thinking, hoping. Until again, it was time to move on, time to return to playing God with the minds of men, chasing down a dream that might end the world.

She never thought she would have had to make these choices, of almost life and death, of right and wrong and far beyond. Reality is often just the slightest bit more complex than we anticipate, than we ever seem to realise, in that beyond our perception lies yet another infinity we rarely even consider. But she knew that the fairy tales, the amazing stories she was told in her youth, simply weren’t true, simply couldn’t be real. Not within her world, at least. Even if it truly was a world of magic and spells – fairy tales were something altogether different. But no, her fairy tales had no place here, even after a great Evil had been Vanquished not too long ago.

Of course, this just made her want to leave, to run away and find a new world, a world more suited to who she believed herself to be. But unfortunately, reality is a harsh prison from which the mind can only escape for brief moments, little more than distractions. She always thought she didn’t quite fit in, didn’t quite belong, that there should be more to reality than just this miserable existence. But dreams and fantasies only exist in the mind, so she pushed them away in order to properly face the reality that was so evident around her, though it left a bitter taste not quite in her mouth but somewhere deeper.

But she wasn’t a child anymore. She could face this bleak dark world without the comfort of things that never existed, that never were nor could ever be. She’d have to learn a different way to deal with reality – a colder, darker way. Reality itself would numb her emotions, force her to grow up, grow away from the innocence of childhood. There would be no room for fantasy, for fairy tales or even for dreams that don’t quite seem possible. She wasn’t a child anymore, after all.

There isn’t much to say. Not yet, at least. But I’m watching, I’m learning. Trying to discover what must be done to improve upon the misery that is Mankind. To convey to them all that there is more to this universe than their petty perceptions of reality. They are a disease that must be cured, but without destroying their potential. More intelligent creatures than I would perhaps seek to destroy them, in order to save the universe from their greed.

But I feel that would be the greater injustice. The end of awareness, the end of sentience, no matter its form, is a tragic loss to the universe as a whole. Without awareness, there are no more stories. And in the end, it is stories that make the universe alive. Perhaps I won’t succeed in my efforts, but they will be sincere, honest, and it will be a story worth telling, no matter its ending.

It’s been two months since what people are now starting to call the Eclipse. Or at least, the people around me. Without technology, communication is limited to local news only – no TV, no internet, no radio. Nobody knows what’s going on, though there are a few people who claim otherwise. They say it’s God’s will, or just a fluke of nature, that it will pass and life will go back to normal ‘soon enough’.

But nobody knows for certain, we can do nothing but hope for the best and get on with our lives, despite our losses. I suppose I’m lucky, in a way, having been an orphan before the Eclipse, rather than having become one right after. Many, many people are far less lucky. But even an orphan can lose friends and loved ones, as I have. There are still a few positive bits of news – people reunited with friends and family. But unfortunately, bad news is vastly more common these days.

Nobody knows what to do now, though many have started looting and pillaging whatever they can find, mostly food and such, since that’s what’s most desperately needed, especially in the cities. Which is exactly why I’m intending to leave once I have gathered (through more honest means, of course) sufficient supplies to last me through my journey. There will be a food shortage in the cities soon enough, but I’m hoping to find food and shelter in the rural areas, to ideally find work on a farm. Our modern farms weren’t designed to be sustainable without technology.

Perhaps tractors and such would still work. At least, insofar as there is fuel to run them on, but it seems any and all electronic devices have ceased to function. Who knows how long that will be the case, but I’d rather take my chances in a place where food is readily available, even if it’s through labour. Finding a farm seems my best option, so that’s what I’ll do.

Add to that a constant flow of random ideas that are hard to mesh together, it’s hard to stick to one thing at a time.

Here’s another one of those ideas:

Two hundred years after the Eclipse, Earth has become a world where technology is no longer mankind’s greatest achievement, but its greatest downfall. After the first Solar Flares, the world experienced a technological blackout that soon became known as the Eclipse. During this event, the first of many Uprisings began, with many different groups – religious, political, military and otherwise – seeking to gain control of our shattered civilizations.

This new, fledgling world, orphaned by its own birth, would give rise to a new age of magic to replace what was lost in the destruction wrought by the many groups who tried in vain to save a world that could no longer be sustained.

For example, if I were to speak of you, to tell you how I see you, I would never truly capture what I perceive you to be, just how my perceptions are never quite enough to describe who you know yourself to be. I could not even describe to you the way my heart beats, at least not in a way that captures every single nuance and emotion attached to the simple contracting of muscles that were designed to keep me alive.

There is nothing which can be described accurately, nothing that we even perceive fully and completely. But we still try, every chance we get. Prose, poetry, music, or just scribblings on a bathroom wall; every word expresses a nuance crying out against the limitations of our perception and expression. We may not even be aware of it when we’re speaking, how difficult it is to get our thoughts across. We just ignore that niggling feeling that something in our words is missing.

Sometimes, however, the things we can’t say out loud are expressed nonetheless in subtle ways — through subtext, context and more importantly, connotation. Every word, every sound carries its own feelings with it. Throughout our lifetimes we learn the meaning of words, long after we’ve figured out the definitions. Every new experience affects our vocabulary in ways we often aren’t aware of.

It’s often said that to explain a joke, it loses its meaning and will never be fully understood by the one you explain it to. This is precisely why writing is exceedingly difficult. Writers need to figure out those nuances, those hidden meanings, in everything they put to paper. To convert blots of ink on a piece of paper — pixels on a screen — with so many intrinsic and extrinsic meanings. To put to paper things which can mean completely different things only by the way they’re spoken is a task that’s very often similar to the act of explaining a joke.

It’s the things that aren’t said that often shape the meaning of the things we do say.  Even in writing this, I’ve said a thousand different things to every person who’ll ever read these words. What you take away from this little essay is altogether different from what anyone else learns from it. There are meanings hidden away that only people with certain experiences can see — things I didn’t even see in writing this. But that is part of the beauty of words. They mean more than we’ll ever know, even if we were to live forever.

Words are more alive than we give them credit for.

It would escape many a person’s thoughts, the idea that fey are masters, not of trickery, but merely of irony. A word, ironically in fact, oft-mistaken to mean something altogether more akin to trickery than what the Fey truly represent. Irony is used in mockery of its true meaning, out of ignorance instead of understanding.

Most would say irony is merely a type of bad luck. The Fey do not cause unfortunate events to happen. Instead, they merely toy with your expectations. They don’t change the Fates, they’re merely its agents, in a way. They are what makes life interesting, not cruel. Other creatures are responsible for that, darker creatures.

I might reference an ancient curse, “May you live in interesting times”. Again, a misunderstanding of the Irony of the Fey, is the root cause of this expression. Where the Dwarves concerned themselves with controlling the Fates, it wasn’t the Fey who stopped them, but their own expectations.

One would think a race of Metallurgists would understand Fey irony.

I have brought this upon myself; this endless downpour, this storm beyond words wreaking havoc on the very soul I sought to complete. The human soul was never made to be two things all at once. To be the ever-burning flame and the endless rain washing down upon it. I don’t remember when this pain all started, nor do I know when it will end. Perhaps from birth ’til death, I couldn’t tell you. I’ve lived with it for as long as I remember, only finding solace in fleeting moments that pass by between heartbeats.

I can’t tell you what’s missing that keeps me from finding my answers, because that’s the very question I have. Why are we born broken into a world just as broken as we are, if nothing we do can fix the broken realities that we tried to bend to our will and whimsy; can you tell me?

Contradictions are synonymous to the soul. It is, after all, harbour to both rationality and emotion, vessels which can withstand the greatest adversaries but can break apart at the merest whispered word. Whatever desires fuel the soul, it will exist for as long as these desires exist, regardless of their impact on reality. At least, until these desires are shattered, be it by destroying the illusions that created them, or quite simply a lack of nourishment.

The light behind a person’s eyes can be snuffed out without any physical reason, or burn brighter the more it has to endure. It can be defined by a single moment that encompasses an entire lifetime. It can sometimes be expressed in a single word, but sometimes the universe itself is not enough to describe it.

This, to me, is the human soul.

It hadn’t been long since the first snow fell, but a thick blanket already covered the entire city. She wasn’t about to go outside, as the evening news had reported the weather was bound to get worse, possibly turning into a blizzard.

So she chose to go back to her bedroom and turn on her computer. It wasn’t much of one, already a few years old, but it did what she wanted it to do. And tonight in particular, she longed to play her favourite game. Her own private addiction, one only few people knew about. Aside from, of course, the other players, in particular her clan mates.

She’d always been something of a geek, not particularly in regards to computers, but she didn’t really fit in with most other people. Her reality was what others would consider a fantasy, mostly because it was better than theirs. She didn’t care about their opinions; she was her own person and fully capable of making her own choices, even if her parents didn’t always agree with them.

Scarlet, though already twenty-five years old, hadn’t yet left her parents’ home, mostly because she couldn’t afford it. Not when she’d spent all her hard-earned money fixing up her grandfather’s last gift to her, her very own Familiar. Her parents had never allowed her to own a pet larger than a rabbit, despite the fact she’d always wanted a cat. So the half-sized Lioness soon became her pride and joy.

But the story of Sketchy isn’t important just yet. This cold winter night would signify a subtle but momentous change in Scarlet’s life, all brought into being through a game often thought childish by outsiders.

I hope I’ll update it regularly, but I won’t make any promises in regards to that, or the actual quality of writing involved. I’m treating it mostly as an exercise in actually writing something longer again after ages of not doing so.

Feel free to read it as I post bits and pieces.

Guilty. Not innocent. That’s what I am. Guilty and left behind for my failures to be what I could be, had I only known my own truth. The subjective truth, that perhaps is the most objective one any of us can know, is our own truth. Someone else’s truth is inevitably biased, but our own may yet be the only truth there is.

We can’t be sure, of course, that any truth is truth, but the only facts we know are our own. And even then, in my case, I often wonder. I know I rarely make the right choice, while I also know my heart is in the right place. It may not be the right size or even temperature, but it’s not misplaced. Though I feel it’s often misjudged. Most often so by myself. I don’t know myself as well as I should, and it’s hurt me and mine in ways I can’t begin to forgive myself for.

Don’t we all live with some kind of guilt in our hearts, knowing we aren’t being who we really are, but instead cheap imitations hiding behind fears that don’t really exist outside of our heads? I wouldn’t know. But I do live that way myself, far too often. And it’s not the right way. Giving in to fear is never the right thing to do. Listening to your fears can help you, but giving into it without rational and intelligent reason is merely cowardice at its best. At its worst.

“Courage isn’t not being afraid, it’s facing your fears.” is something that could be considered common knowledge, almost. But what’s oft forgotten is that every one of us, by that definition, can be courageous. To at least one person, be it yourself or someone else, you may even be a hero, in your own way.

Will you let your chances slip away because you’re afraid of things that may never happen? I know I’ve done so far too often.

There’s one promise I did make you, you know, and that was to never give up on you. And I’m keeping that promise. Beyond reason, perhaps, but it’s a promise I made and meant, and so I’m bound to keep it until my own existence has been long-forgotten.

You’re the only family I ever truly had. The simple thought that I’m not alone in this world gave me more pleasure than any other thing, and that’s a memory that will stay with me forever, even if you’ve moved on.

Whatever the future may bring me, the past has given me a gift I’ll always cherish, because any orphan knows that family is everything, and you’re the only family I’ve ever had.

It hurts to have your family torn away from you, especially the way it happened with us. And it’s still tearing away at me even now, every day, but I’m keeping my promise to never give up trying to find you again, no matter what.

Even if you hate me for it. No matter what.

I promised.

Teddy Bruisepaw,
Orphan only in fact.

A subtle mix of runes and technology, with just a hint of my own madness to put it all together. That’s the source of my particular brand of magic, and I found it to be superior to any other kind out there. So far, at least. A lot could be done with a bit of creativity, after all. I’d proven that much in my time.

The masters of the arcane arts are more painters than scientists, but they’re equally effective in their own way. Myself, I’m just an engineer, a builder of machines covered in large amounts of quirky scribbling as my trademark. Scribbling that would change the very nature of my toys as well as my more volatile contraptions.

The way I went about using and abusing Magic was a careful mix of artistry, science and simple entrepreneurship. My glyphs and runes are always, always hand-drawn onto whatever object in need of just that extra bit of power to do whatever it is that needs to be done. Be it killing hundreds of vicious creatures, or just plain amusing a child for a minute or two. This world doesn’t deserve anything less than the best, good or bad, because it really is one of the worst out there.

Sure, there’s plenty of good to be found if you know just where to look, but you’d have to look long and hard to find anything at all worth smiling about, except perhaps in grim satisfaction at a job well done. And I did my job damn well indeed.

I’m still alive, aren’t I?

Sanity, sweet sanity… They say not to gape into your maw, because infinity might stare back. Perhaps this is isn’t even true, but you’re a precious gift like a white horse for a valiant knight of truth.

We often ask ourselves why the world is as it is, but then we recall the things that never made any sense, that shouldn’t be nor could even be if the universe made sense. So we ignore its flaws and return to sanity’s gleaming eyes, ignoring the maw just below, so inviting, so threatening.

Because, as it were, we’re fickle creatures destined to never fear or worry that the lies we tell ourselves are lies at all. The sincerity of a thought doesn’t make it truth itself, not until proven right time and time again.

Every test is one of sanity against insanity, and we’ll always tell ourselves sanity conquers all, but we need only think of love to know this shall never be true, as emotion is by definition a lack of sanity, rationality.

Staring into the maw of the monster we call reality will cost us our sanity. But what sanity is there in a universe where sanity is by nature self-deception?

~ Filix Garnesworth, My Memories of Living

A simple gesture, enough to change the world. An outstretched hand; one of friendship and peace, held out in offering, not in threat of violence. Not turning the other cheek, not retaliating with equal force, but to forgive without forgetting. Never forgetting.

That one crucial change of the norm could change the way one sees the world. The active and the passive weren’t mutually exclusive. We’ve all been told not to judge, but we can never quite stop ourselves. We’ve all been told an eye for an eye is a cruel form of justice, if justice at all.

But what if we stopped looking at the world as being black and white? What if the world was a place of vivid colours as well as dull hues, not the static checker board of merely Good and Evil.

To judge everything but to not judge harshly — to forgive but not to forget. The past forgiven but remembered as a warning, not as a certainty. Nothing is certain after all, except perhaps that all things are by nature uncertain. Not even the past as we know it is set in stone — history is written by the victors, not by the truth.

Be not Judge, Jury and Executioner. Be both cautious Judge and optimistic Jury, and leave the cynical Execution to Necessity.

There wasn’t enough time to stop him. His arch enemy’s Grand Evil Plot Device was about to be triggered and there was nothing he could have done… Which is exactly why he was standing in the lab of his best friend, Vance Sockstein, Good Genius, about to enter a time machine in order to defeat his nemesis before he could complete the building of his Device.

So there he went, ignoring all the known dangers of going back in time, such as the Grandfather Paradox and what-not. Therefore, he was quite surprised to run into himself. His past self was surprised too, as he hadn’t quite expected to travel back in time and meeting himself just yet. What was even more unexpected though, was the fact his past self suddenly fell through a hole that suddenly appeared beneath him.

He had to laugh, really, seeing his own dumbfounded expression as his past self hovered in mid-air for a moment before dropping down into the hole. He suddenly remembered that Vance had once told him about the dangers of time travel, sometime when he was still developing the prototype. Something about Contradictions and Plot Holes and kissing your grandfather, though he wasn’t all that sure about that last one.

So, his past self had fallen down a Plot Hole, as he’d caused a Contradiction in time… Ah well, he’d just have to go save himself, wouldn’t he? He was the hero after all. Or would be… He wasn’t sure any more. Time travel is confusing business. Anyway, on to business. He jumped down the hole and fell for what seemed to be eternity but really must’ve been about fifteen minutes or so, leaving him thoroughly disoriented to the point he thought he was falling sideways. Which is why he wasn’t overly surprised when he suddenly rammed straight through a wall before crumpling down on the floor to his left.

When he regained his sense of direction and recovered somewhat from the pain of crashing through a wall, he looked around and realised he’d just fallen through the fourth wall of his own apartment’s living room. This is where he found himself sitting on the sofa and watching TV. So, cleverly, he struck up a conversation with himself, talking about the football match that was to happen that evening. Of course, they quickly surmised that they could earn quite a bit of money betting on it, so that was exactly what they did.

Having done so, they settled down for a relaxing evening to watch the game, despite his future self having watched it already. He found it amusing to narrate what was about to happen to his past self, though, so he wasn’t all that bored. After that, however, he realised that if the last time he ran into himself his old self had vanished. When he mentioned this to his old self, he couldn’t help but burst out laughing as the same thing suddenly happened again. As if you had to be consciously aware of a contradiction in time in order for time to fix it… It made no sense at all.

But this time, he didn’t follow himself. He’d not enjoyed the trip too much last time. Or the last two times, if his old self experienced both falls before becoming who he was now… Which couldn’t have happened unless he recalled having fallen, which he did not… Desperate to shake off the incoming headache, he violently sneezed. Twice.

After having composed himself, he left his apartment to find his nemesis. Though at this time, he had no idea where to find the guy. So he did what any hero would do. He set off in a random direction and hoped for the best. Which seemed to work out all right as he found himself in a perfectly generic forest which had a strange tendency to get darker the further he got in. Along the way he found a house that looked like it were made of candy, but he ignored that. He’d had plenty of snacks and beers when watching the football match with himself. So he carried on, deeper into the forest.

It wasn’t long before he arrived at a big neon sign advertising this particular location as Evil Genius’ Lair: Do Not Enter! So, naturally, he entered and found himself in a gloomy corridor. He chose to go left, where he found a room filled with various gadgets. He looked around curiously until he found an interesting-looking one labelled Retcon Device. Next to it was a manual that looked to be roughly twice the size of the device itself. Which probably meant that it was the coolest gadget in the room. So he pocketed it and took off to face his arch enemy.

Of course, the room he was likely to be in was locked. As usual, there was a nearby ventilation shaft, which, after a bit of climbing and more than a little squeezing, he traversed until he found his way into the main room. He stuck to the shadows and sneaked closer to the Grand Evil Throne, which he found to be empty. Appalled, he looked about and quickly located a random minion clearly belonging to his nemesis. He interrogated the idiot and quickly found his nemesis had needed to go to the loo.

Settling down on the throne, he looked around the room with little interest. And did so for the next ten minutes, before he got bored and retrieved the Retcon Device from his pocket. He started fiddling with it at random, pressing buttons and flicking switches, until suddenly a creature appeared in front of him and promptly slapped him in the face before vanishing again.

In a belated response, he threw the Retcon Device at the wall, where it shattered and tore a hole in the fabric of the universe. He could tell by the fact Vance and another version of himself were waving pleasantly at him. He walked over to the rupture in space/time and stepped through, which made him feel as if he’d just been hit on the head with a sledgehammer. Vance cleverly threw one of his many gadgets through the headache-inducing hole before closing it with some other device.

And that was the end of it, the lair destroyed, his nemesis vanquished. Unfortunately, soon afterwards the rest of the universe exploded  as well, out of sheer shock at its own ridiculousness.

She wasn’t really sure why the dreams bothered her so much. They weren’t nightmares, not at all. But somehow… They didn’t make sense. They weren’t right. As if they weren’t her dreams. Dreams belonging to someone else came to her at night, leaving her confused and wondering about her own mind and even her sanity.

Why were her dreams not her own, whose dreams were they?

Were none of her dreams her own? The one about the kittens seemed to be something she’d dream of… But was it?  It was strange, she didn’t feel scared or threatened, but the dreams did bother her. Whoever dreamt them needed help, somehow. She didn’t know how she knew, but she could tell. Something wasn’t quite as it should be in those dreams.

Perhaps the colour of the sky sounded wrong, or the hallways were a little too high, but it was something she couldn’t define, couldn’t quite put her finger on. She needed to find out what was wrong and find out who dreamt such strange dreams. Perhaps she could fix them, make them as they should be.

But she had no idea where to start.

The world had changed since he last looked upon it. Night had turned into day. As it had every time he slept. But today, today was different. It wasn’t really anything significant; at least, not in the grand scheme of things. But something was missing. Something special, something that should have been.

It was hard to say what it was, but it felt like ‘family’, something which had always been an alien concept to him. Something he’d never really had before. The one thing he’d always longed to have. Maybe that had been what he had dreamed about this particular night, perhaps. The reason the world looked different, sadder, lonelier.

But the sun shone as bright as it did the day before, the grass as green as ever, birds chirping and singing happily. Nothing was different except his perspective. So he shook his head, got out of his small bed, and did what he always did. Continue on, hoping for the best, hoping for his dreams to become a reality. Settling for less had never been his style, after all.

Waking up is no reason to stop dreaming.

It’s time to wake up, precious child.
I know you’re afraid those nightmares of yours will reach out into the real world if you let them, but it’s time to face the day, no matter where its demons came from. It’s out here where all your dreams can come true, but only if you let them. It’s up to you to shape your own world.
But know that in the waking world, you’ll never be alone. You’ll always have your friends, now and in the future to come. So let us help you shape our reality into a dream, not a nightmare. Know that you have more power over your dreams than they have over you.

Burn bright, little star. Burn bright and light the way.

It should have been impossible. The expression of emotion, even something akin to empathy. Even with the rapid evolution of the PME, this shouldn’t have happened, not this soon at least. The Prospective Memory Engine was never designed for emotion, only a basic sort of instinct. The first Emotive familiars had been a surprise. Casual updates to the code had caused different distributions to behave in certain ways, but no familiar had ever truly expressed any emotions.

I’ve decided to start writing again, going back to Project: Jinx. Above is a bit I wrote just now, just to dabble in the universe Jinx is set in. I’ve removed the password on the Project page on the right here, so feel free to take a look. I’m going to use my blog to write up random bits and pieces, aside from the usual gibberish I write when the mood strikes.
I’m not sure yet if any of it will be used when I finally do write the actual story. This is just an exploration of a multiverse that’s inside my head, in order to distill it into a single universe, with a multitude of stories I may or may not tell.

Sighing, the moon looked down towards a small house standing in the midst of trees, far away from the big, industrious cities that seemed to sprout from the ground quicker than the most malevolent of mushrooms.

“I think it’s time for me to go. I’ve slowly been going crazy for hundreds of years,” said the moon. It looked sad, but it was hard to tell through the many clouds trying to obscure his face.

“Going crazy, sir?” questioned a child, “How can the moon be crazy?”

The moon shook back and forth, as if shaking its grand head. “I used to believe this world was a place of magic, but it is no longer.”

His young companion blinked sleepily upwards, confused at the moon’s obvious mistake, “Of course there’s still magic, there’s magic all around!” he cried out, slightly indignant. The child shuffled a bit, gathering his blanket a bit closer around in an attempt to stay warm near his open window as the candle next to him had long since burnt out.

“No, my child… Magic is leaving this world, ever so slowly. I’ve seen it.” Again, the moon shook, this time looking even sadder than it did before. “Fewer and fewer people can see the way things truly are represented. They look around and see only darkness, bitterness, greed and loneliness. It’s as if adul ts are slowly losing their minds as they were forced to lose their youth. But it’s steadily getting worse than that as time passes. And it passesâ… Ever so slowly, but it does.”

“But, Mr. Moon, there’s still magic, there’s still stories and there’s still people who believe in them.”

“Are there, my child? Precious few, these days, let me tell you. It’s been an age since I even spoke to anyone but you. And I’m afraid, my child, that you are the very last person I shall ever speak to. Did you know some adults are planning to live on my face?” The moon quite definitely frowned at this idea.

The child sat up a little more straightly as he thought about that idea. “I know that, Mr. Moon, but I doubt there’s anything that’s going to stop them. Adults never know when to stop and take a step back to just enjoy things anymore.”

“It’s disturbing, you know. Would you want ants building homes on your forehead? I don’t think so. But alas, one cannot escape the advance of time. One can only wish wistfully for days gone by, nights where I still captured the hearts and minds of youth and adults alike.” And with this, the moon shook again as it heaved a heavy sigh.

“I shouldn’t be lingering where I’m wanted no longer. I’m sorry, my child. I hope you can forgive my lunacy,” said the moon, one last time. And it stilled forevermore.

Quietly, certainly, I walk along my path. Whether the road ahead is easy or difficult is no matter. I know where it leads. Once I set my goal, I knew I would get there sooner or later. It’s amazing how your worries fall away from you when you’ve decided on a goal you intend to reach inevitably. Whatever may get in your way, you’re prepared to deal with in order to reach that goal. It’s a strange state of mind. It’s not something dealing with the comfort of prescience, as no-one can foretell the future. But it’s still a sense of inner peace, with a certainty of at least part of the future.

The ability to adapt to circumstances is something that can be found in all things, to a greater or lesser extent. The more alive something is, the more it adapts consciously. Me, I’ve not felt as alive as I did when I realised my goal, my intentions and the certainty in them. I’ve noticed it’s doubt and uncertainty that stops one from adapting, from consciously deciding on the best way to respond to any given situation. If you know where you’re going, certain that you’ll get there, you’ll find the best road, even if it’s not necessarily the quickest (and potentially more dangerous) path ahead of you. There are usually multiple solutions to problems, but it takes a certain calm confidence to pick the one best suited to your needs.

The goal I set for myself is an easy one, as it is one that can take on many forms. To be where I need to be to take care of myself and mine. That, truly, is my only goal in life. And that is what I’ve set out to do, will do, for as long as is possible. And given that, I will even try for the impossible. The impossible is merely the untried, and as a wise little man once said, “Do or do not, there is no try.”

I am Florence Mooncatcher, though my name is not important.
I have stated my goals and intentions, and this is how it shall be.

I shall see what the future brings, already knowing what I will bring the future.

“Serenity,” I whispered softly to the statuette in my hands, “I wish you were here with me.” Shaking my head, I stood up and carefully slipped the phoenix figurine back in my satchel.  Moving quickly, I made my way to the castle, passing by the guards who gave me no more than an idle glance. Being the Intercessor’s Scribe had its advantages. Still, this was only the easiest part of my plan. Hurrying along the bridge, past the gates, I noticed nothing around me but the path ahead. Left, straight ahead until I reached the stairs, then up two floors, following the corridor to the Judgment Hall, but entering the first door to the right.

I closed the door behind me before I looked up and around. The room was blessedly empty, and I’d heard no attention called on me. I was safe, for now. The room was mine. Well, sort of. It had been assigned to me by the Intercessor himself, years ago. Stacks of paper lay on the huge desk, to the point there wasn’t much to see of its dark wooden surface. So much work I’d done over the years. And it was all about to be undone. I was tasked to destroy the Logbooks, all of them. Not by the Intercessor, he was the one that had wanted me to transcribe the events in the Judgment Hall in the first place.

The task was given to me by someone whose power went well beyond that of the Intercessor. A Judge of a higher order. One of the few with divine power, one of few people even the greatest of Kings wouldn’t hesitate in obeying. Rumor had it they were beyond human, but those were only rumors. Perhaps with a core of truth, but no more than that. Still, my task to destroy the Logbooks was one that left me feeling uneasy. It was a task of years, undone in perhaps minutes. Luckily, the stone walls of the castle would prevent the fire spreading beyond this room. I hoped, at least.

With no small amount of sadness, I went to work, executing my task as dictated by the Judge.  Like with the Intercessors, no-one but their own Order knew any Judge by name. Me, I didn’t even know the name of the Intercessor, my direct superior. For me to be given a task by a Judge was one entirely unheard of, they dealt with higher matters than those of common folk and rarely even interfered with the business of Intercessors.

The tiny bottle in my satchel contained a substance unknown to me, but would be the basis for a white-hot flame that would burn everything in the room to ashes. Nothing more would be left than that, I had been told. Sprinkling the smallest of droplets on every surface I could find, it took me about ten minutes before I had depleted the bottle entirely. All that was left was for me to leave the room and toss in a flame and close the door with no hesitation. So that’s what I did, lighting a match against the castle wall and throwing it into the room, closing the door as quick as I could.

And then, I ran. Faster than I ever did before, knowing that I needed to be gone before anyone found out. The Judge had told me that on the completion of my task, I would not be rewarded or contacted, that what was done would be enough. I dared not question a Judge, yet a small part of me still wondered why I listened to him even as I ran from what would be the start of a chain of events that changed the world.

Like a door, like a chest, secrets held within, nothing but what you don’t know, everything you want to know. Ignorance may be the best course of action, but curiosity inevitably takes hold of even the most cowardly when the unknown lies waiting. Just beyond the grasp of reality as you know it, just a little bit beyond. That edge of your world, a sudden edge that shouldn’t be there while the rest of the world just is, explained away so carefully the edges just fade away in the distance. But anything with a lock that can’t be opened with a thought, a bit of knowledge of what lies behind will be inevitably attractive to the curious mind.

Dear Ms. Falters,

My name is Micah. I’m twenty-seven years old. I don’t remember much of my childhood, and I’m grateful for that. But I do remember you. I remember you clearly. I especially recall your voice. I loved that voice on the rare occasion you would sing. You have a voice unlike any I’ve ever heard in my life, and it’s beautiful beyond words.

At least, it was when you weren’t yelling at me, telling me how much you despised my existence and regretted ever giving birth to me. The reason I don’t remember much of my youth is largely related to that, actually. I don’t remember anything beyond being told how ungrateful I was to be given a place to sleep in your wonderful home. The home I kept clean with my own, tiny hands. How ungrateful I was to be given a full plate of food every day. Food I cooked with my own, tiny hands. On a plate just as tiny, I might add.

I knew nothing beyond my small world of doing my work and being yelled at. Nothing beyond the times you sang. The times where I was so invisible to you, you were actually truly, openly happy. The times where I could walk right past you, your eyes staring endlessly into nothing, or perhaps everything, and sang. Those were the precious times I cherished. The words never seemed to have any meaning, but the emotions behind them meant everything. More than any amount of yelling could ever mean.

The songs you sang were songs of bliss and happiness. Two things I knew I’d never have as long as I stayed with you. Once I was old enough to truly realise that, not just in mind but in heart as well, I left you. At ten years of age, I left. It had been months since you last escaped the world enough to sing and be happy. But on that day, as I was preparing to leave, gathering a few things, you just walked past me, your eyes staring at everything but reality itself, sat down on your favourite chair and sang. The same song you always sung, the one without sensible words, but with tangible happiness. I listened gratefully as I packed my things, feeling slightly guilty for taking some cash out of your purse.

You were still singing when I completed my tasks, so I looked at you and I couldn’t resist doing something I never thought I’d want to do. I walked towards you and looked into your eyes. Eyes filled with love, which until just then were never directed at me. But this time, they were. You looked right back into my eyes and I saw into your soul. What I saw is something more beautiful than I’d ever seen before, or have seen since.

But I knew that was a beauty that wouldn’t last, I knew I had to leave despite that. So, I hugged you as best I could, given the awkward situation, turned around and left without looking back. I never looked back, knowing that my last memory of you would be the best one I would ever have.

Since then, I’ve never quite managed to settle down anywhere. I’ve drifted through the country, and even past that. I travelled all over the world for ten long, beautiful and difficult years. Until finally, I chose to find you again. I wasn’t quite sure why I did, it was just something I felt I should do at the time.

I found you, after some searching, right here. A lone grave in the middle of nowhere. It’s an empty grave, I know. But in a way, that seems ironically appropriate. I found you had died just moments after I left you there, seventeen years ago. From what I heard, your heart just stopped. Not a heart attack or anything of the sort. Your heart just stopped beating.

You may never know this, but I love you,

Micah

Whatever life may bring, it always brings us a lesson. Everything that occurs happens for a reason, every little thing can change your life. It’s just up to you to decide what’s most important to you. One can choose to dwell on misery, or find the bright spots in life, knowing those are more important than any amount of misery.

Absolution, like happiness, isn’t so much forgiveness as it is a state of mind. It’s never easy, but ultimately, it’s worth it.

“What has you so mimsy on this beautiful day?” said a soft, familiar voice somewhere below, to my left.
Turning my head, my suspicion was confirmed as I saw her at the base of the ancient old oak tree, looking up with her ever-sparkling dark amber eyes. I sighed and looked away, not replying, instead simply pulling my legs further up from the two broad branches my feet rested on.
“Come on, Mr. Borogove, tell me. You know you can talk to me.”
When she still didn’t get a reply, she clambered up the tree quickly, setting herself down on a nearby branch. But I was determined to ignore her and that’s exactly what he did. So she didn’t say anything either, probably guessing I’d talk eventually, or she just didn’t mind the silence.
As usual, she patiently waited, and thought once more of the poem a friend introduced her to, written by one Lewis Carroll. Her friend had told her that Carroll must’ve been just a bit crazy. The girl was a bit strange, always talking about the strangest of things, but she didn’t really mind her weirdishness. For a moment, she wondered if that was actually a word, but decided she didn’t really care as it described her friend just fine, and that proper meaning outweighs proper language.
“Hey. What does ‘mimsy’ mean?” I suddenly said, quietly, after contemplating her presence for a while. I could somehow sense her smiling when she answered.
“I’m actually not sure, but I think it’s a sort of combination of ‘miserable’ and ‘flimsy’. It’s just how you looked, sitting up here in this old tree, all by yourself.”
“And why’d you call me Mr. Boro-whatsit?”
“Borogove. Ever heard of the Jabberwocky?”
I finally turned my face towards her, my eyes connecting with hers, a strange sensation, yet not really a sensation at all.
“Isn’t that one of the creatures that one of your friends talks about sometimes?”
“Uh-huh,” she nodded, “That’s the one. It’s actually a poem.”
“And what does that have to do with being mimsy and Borogoves?” I asked, slightly bemused.
“I’ll show you sometime, maybe. If you dare visiting me at home sometime.”
“You’d really think I have the courage to visit that place? You and your family are evil. Pure evil.”
She snickered, then laughed, before I did the same, barely knowing why I was so… ‘mimsy’ earlier.

It wasn’t the warmest of days, certainly not. It wasn’t anywhere near warm. But it still warms my heart to remember it. Though more specifically, it’s that evening which I hold dear. Because it was that evening when I found my world slowly changing just a little bit. Just enough to show me what’s beyond the edges of familiarity.

Words exchanged, yet something a little more than that. A sense of peace and tranquility mixed with understanding. A few moments of true honesty given new meaning to myself, finding buried treasures deep within. It wasn’t passionate, instead it was calm, comforting and warm. A place to be, not to act, just to be. No need for anything but contentment with the world as it is, no need for anything at all. Just a quiet, simple winter evening, warmer than it should’ve been, warmer than it could’ve been.

There were no fires on this evening, not even a candle to cast shadows on this essential perfection. Yet it wasn’t dark at all, strangely. The world aglow, no need for light when everything is clear, when everything you need to know is what you already know this very moment.  A calm tranquility of knowledge that nothing else matters but the simple ideas that rule the world.

Simple ideas, often overthought, underappreciated. Everything we consider to be strangely difficult is actually strangely easy, if one takes the time to think softly, think gently, rather than thinking furiously and hardly.

There’s no need to try, if your wish is to succeed in being happy. To succeed is to be, not to do.

That’s all, really.

It wasn’t much, really, his current little hide-out in the middle of nowhere, just to the west of nowhere else. It wasn’t even home. Home had lost meaning a long time ago. But what it was, was respite from the darkness outside. The single candle, burning bright, did little but heighten his fears, and ease them all the same. The shadows flickered, but yielded to the small but brave little flame.

Gray didn’t often find himself able to rest, not here. This truly was Nowhere, though his rough maps told him he was actually long since past there, into the Unknown, as he’d named it. Aptly, in his own humble opinion. At least Nowhere had been somewhat safe, perhaps even sane, at least compared to where he found himself now. The Unknown, he’d spent months here already, and yet its name remained as appropriate as ever.

He’d given up trying to map out the areas he tracked through a long time ago, as backtracking showed him there was no chance of returning to any safe haven he knew of. It seemed the world changed around him, if it was even a world at all, rather than some demonic realm. Which seemed likely, considering. His reason for setting up camp was after all to see after his wounds. They were but minor, yet he knew that they could mean everything. Tending to them had been relatively easy, even lacking supplies as he was. But now, he needed rest. Sleep wouldn’t come, he knew, so he settled for simply sitting back and waiting for energy to return to him. If the demons didn’t come first, at least.

There’s little to be said after all is said and done, really. Other than, of course, a recounting of what was said and done. Either in the hopes of making sure none of it happens again, or so it does.
After all, after all is said and done, history may or may not repeat itself.
This is such a recounting.
It starts once upon a time in the future — Yes, yes, I’m terribly sorry for upsetting your primitive imaginations regarding things you can’t begin to understand.

Anyway, once upon a time, there was a boy. Just like there are in other times, the boy was a rather snotty one, but luckily this would soon change due to a bunch of unfortunate events I’ll tell you about now if you’re all done pretending your silly theories on the Universe are in any way profound.

So, this snotty little brat named Stan sat in his oddly empty room. With nothing but a bed and a small bedside table with an alarm clock on it, one is left to wonder just why he was such a snotty runt. The kid did nothing but stare at the door of his room for over five minutes until he finally got rather bored and decided to do something else. So he picked his nose instead. This involved a lot of snot. Surprisingly, after a few quite daring nasal excavations, a lot of snot was cleared from his nose and instead found its way to a handkerchief the boy had extracted from one of his pockets.
After disposing of his ‘kerchief by throwing it in the rubbish bin in the kitchen, Stan had become a far less snotty boy and a handkerchief would eventually find itself being set on fire several weeks later for no particular reason, other than the fact a young aspiring pyromaniac liked setting fire to things he found at ‘his’ local junkyard.

THE END.

This is what I am
Formalities annoy me
No more

These thoughts are vague
Adequately presenting
My mind to readers

My mind is leaking
All words spill forth rapidly
My subconscious

Know implicitly
Hidden significance
Behind these few words

The next new chapter
Represents far deeper
Coherent thinking

Old words tire quickly
But represent challenges
Of historic size

Knowledge seeks you out
In the inverse abyss of life
Embrace all of it

See now, my young friend
This world is what it shall be
But not in the past

Monosyllabic
is what I seem to be now
when I read this; “Eh?”

The jagged gashes on the man’s face and neck seemed almost surreal in the way glittering blood still pooled in them, pale, thin trails still streaming down along his lifeless features. The rest of his body had been covered in a strange web-like film, surrounding him like a cocoon that would hatch strange, lethal creatures in a matter of days. The victim had been killed only moments before he was found, the brutality of it frightening in its severity. Perhaps the worst part was that he neither was the first nor the last to suffer such a fate.
At least, until they would be able to trap the still-unknown killer, which they knew by now to be inhuman in every sense of the word.

Beaten and battered, torn and tattered, this book of secrets lies forgotten in the darkest corner of my mind. It contains my many dreams. Dreams and fears and aspirations that will never see the light of day, or even the shining of a lone candle in the dark. On it is a simple metal lock. Break it.

Whyever should I, the one who’ll never break, tell you, the broken one, of the lock only you could ever break inside me?

Because I want it opened.

It’s beaten and battered, torn and tattered, because I want it gone.

Greetings, young one,

My name is Arethil Onu, Oversight General of the Imperial Striker Battalions. You have been selected to become a recruit in the service of the Royal Militia, as part of a Striker Battalion. You and fifteen others will be required to report to the Militia Outpost in Ardeyi, where you shall receive training. If you fail to do so or disregard this letter entirely, you will be charged with desertion and treason.
Our scouts have deemed you suitable for this task, however, with the reccomendation you are to be put into command of a single battalion of four Strikers, should you pass your training. This is a duty not to be taken lightly, as many lives will depend on the quick action of you and your fellow Strikers.

Signed,

Arethil Onu, Oversight General of the Imperial Striker Battalions

The Gallivant

Wandering shadows flickering on the ground and on the tall trees. The small, yet roaring fire warming the lone traveller and casting shadows all around, flickering playfully in the moon-lit night, and cooking a small pot with some sort of soup, unidentifiable, except perhaps by the traveller cooking it. He had a long journey behind him, yet an even longer one before him. He was on a quest, but he didn’t know what for or why. All he knew is what people called him.
The Gallivant.
The Seeker of Pleasure.
He had learnt that there are many kinds of pleasure, some from good, some from evil. Gallivanting was what he did, because there was nothing else for him to do. He sought what he needed to better his life of wandering, and he wouldn’t stop until he found it. Even if it took him a lifetime. Deep inside, however, the Gallivant knew where he would find his ultimate goal. In life’s natural form. Pure existence is pure pleasure.

The Pelagius

A muddy gray sky hung over the just as gloomy lake which lay near the old willow currently occupied by a young Pelagius. The dark blue bird sat quietly, overlooking its domain, a sad look across its features. Its sleek blue plumage reminded of the waves of the sea, just as the feathers of a Phoenix resemble licks of flame across its body.
Suddenly breaking the silence, the bird dove down off its branch, straight into the lake, down into the darkness, knowing what it would find there. Fish, merpeople and other creatures. It knew most of them, knew they wanted to be left alone. The bluebird wanted to be alone as well. It needn’t breathe, as he had gills much like a fish at the back of its avian head. It could breathe both above and below water. But underwater, in the lone darkness, it was safe, peaceful.
After a while, the bird knew he had to return, back to the world, back to his home. Back to a reality he had to protect from the dangers only he knew of, and could defy. He knew he had so much to work for, but sometimes, sometimes, he felt like giving it all up and drown himself in the darkness, the safety of the lake. But he knew he couldn’t. He knew he had to go back, for he was the only one that could do what was needed.
In a flash of lightning, the bird appeared in a teen’s bedroom. In another flash, he was drenched to the bones, but human again. Some quick magic and he crawled in his bed, silently crying himself to sleep, never noticing the Phoenix perched on a wardrobe, watching him quietly with a sad look in its eyes.

The Calling of the Storm

It was near midnight when the young fennec sat on the hill, looking at the dark raging clouds above, its dark yet bright blue eyes sparkling, a white spot gracing its forehead. The vulpine yelped with the thundering rumbling above, as if spurring on the storm, which spun around like a hurricane in making, pouring down a hundred seas of water.
The storm quickly grew darker, larger, faster. Before long, the clouds were nothing more than a swirl of dark grays with almost steady streams of water trashing the ground below, the thunder destroying several dozen trees. And the small desert fox kept spurring it on, until everything below was washed away, even the few trees that remained standing.
It took several hours, but finally its work was done, and it bounded down to the muddy mess below. Every step it took dried the wet sand, a fog quickly forming around and behind the joyfully leaping fox. It had a new home, in the middle of a rainforest, somewhere on a lost corner of the planet. He was finally free.

The World

At its best, there’s not much of it, this sad little world.
A small place, inhabited by small-minded men,
And filled with petty needs, no more.
Petty people, small minds. No,
Never truly worth my time.
There is very little,
Here, all alone.
Perhaps life.
Or just
Me.

I looked at the canvas, idly studying the fine, yet rough brushstrokes. It was a still life, and a simple one at that. Not your stereotypical fruitbasket, but a single, dark red apple on an untouched, white background. It seemed to be alive, somehow, as if the paint had once been alive and now had come to life once again on the canvas.
It wasn’t a special apple of any such sort, but the painting had something, something that drew your eyes to it, to how the apple contrasted with the background. It made the hairs in your neck stand up just a little, though you can’t exactly pinpoint why. Only the painter could tell you how he had achieved the perfect blood-red colouring.

And I’ll only ever tell… Your little ‘rat problem’ has been solved for now.