Surreality

A dark shadow crossed his mind, a cloud of turbulent ideas. They shifted with unease, disturbed by light and wind, brooding as they formed strange shapes, as if uncertain of what to do. A flash of lightning and they decided to precipitate. Cascading drops of happiness fell to the grassy plain, which began sprouting musings and emotions as the earth does flowers in spring.

But then it changed. The rain boiled and reddened, forming rivers of horrible, poisonous blood frothing with despair and pain.

Poetic way to look at it, really. The rush, the ecstasy, the freedom. And then the pain, the fear, the misery and self-disgust. His eyes opened, and after a while he began to see.

From his place amongst the garbage cans, the smell of which he was now immune to, he watched as people walked by. People; the grotesque, the masses, the world. The drab greys, the depressing colours, the silly, fruitless exploits of their lives. Walking ashes, soon to be dust.

(to be continued)

Crippled by Life

Silence is when your head is screaming,

Silence is when the world is dead.

Silence is when your dreams are fading,

Leaving you alone instead.

Patience is in life, your friend,

In death, just as before.

And when your heart is silent then,

Be fearless, be patient,

There might be more.

Heaven blessed, or hell-fire doomed,

This world is no more yours.

Unadorned you will remain at last,

Composed of happiness and woes.

And when the test is taken then,

What will you remember?

Will it be the dreams once held?

Or the day you lost them?

Will it be the days when life was love?

Or time under grief and shadow?

Will it be the hope of a good today?

Or the expectation of tomorrow?

Will it be the justice you did to others?

Or the justice done you?

Will it be the memories of bonds longstanding?

Or the death of all you loved?

What will you be thankful for?

But for transitory joy and pain?

For the purpose first conceived?

Or the aim that last was lost?

Which would you be glad of more?

A life of greater feeling?

Or a life that you did lead,

With virtue and good faith?

Further more, why even ask?

Could the two not simply be?

Must it be one, without the other?

Could we not simply, just have both?

Through the Looking Glass

A long, straight path stretched off into distant obscurity, darkened by gnarled trees that curved into a ceiling of leafy branches above it. The canopy was dense and heavy, with the sun beating on it from above and the air beneath it still, sheltered and cool. It was inviting yet inexplicably disconcerting.

The scene rippled slightly under his breath. Strange for it to do that, being real. He unconsciously stretched out a steady hand, as if to make sure. He felt his mind wobble and teeter over the edge as his hand began to slowly deform, becoming a part of the surreal image floating in front of him.

He shuddered. So did the image.

He pulled back, more with a force of will than with the aid of any physical strength, and staggered in the darkness.

He didn't know where he was or what he was doing there. It was all very strange. All around him was an intense, black nothing, an expanse of non-existence. But if there was nothing there, then what was he standing on? What was he breathing?

He immediately realized two things. Firstly, he could now see that he was standing on a plain white, polished marble floor, which he was certain hadn't been there a moment ago; and secondly that all this time he had been holding his breath. he immediately let it go, and began inhaling the fresh, dry air, which he had a sneaky suspicion had just been called into existence.

His puzzlement increased as he thought about the sudden changes in his environment. He decided to try and create something else and thought carefully about what he wanted. A hat popped into his head.

A hat popped into his hand.

Something else which also popped into his world at that time was a series of questions. Firstly, why in God's name had he thought of a hat before food? (as he said this a plate of biscuits appeared) Secondly, what was he supposed to do in this place? There had to be something remotely more purposeful for him to do in the place than sit around making mundane objects he could find in real life.

It was clear to him at this point that he was quite obviously dreaming. He liked it when things were clear to him. It put life in such wonderful perspective.

Just then he encountered something vague and complex that he did not understand - the window he had first looked through. It felt strange to him that something he didn't understand, and couldn't possibly make out clearly, would be present in a dream of his own making. He walked towards it: a rectangular window cut into nothing, filled with frosted, blurry, rippling visions. It would shift between these conditions, sometimes looking as if it was raining on its "glass", then as if it was a simple mirror image of its other side, and next like it was bending and twisting the world beyond. It was rhythmic, like breathing, only you could see it. The vision inside however, was brilliant and vivid. The image seemed to leap out at him from the window, transcending its invisible barriers to show itself to him, but restrained by those barriers so much that it would be held from his eyes. It was as if another world was repeatedly pushing itself up against the window of his universe, and with every one of its heartbeats, trying to fill the void of his own, newly conceived world, but was held back by the mirror of invisible glass and clear light. Visually, to his eyes, it was all mind-bogglingly confusing and entrancing to look at.

Which was why he found himself once again, teetering on the edge of consciousness in his own dream almost nose to nose with the shady path of a teeming, seemingly real other world.

He was just about fed up with this mirror thing. He hadn't gone to bed for this nonsense of being confused even in his sleep. I mean this was his own domain!

He thought about it rationally. If this was his dream he could leave it at any moment. He had already tried ending it by imagining waking up, but that had not worked. So obviously his exit had to be something tangible within this place. The only way in or out of it was this strange window. Granted it wasn't his bedroom on the other side, but it was still a hell of a lot more real than this place. If it was still a part of his dream at least it came pre-created and he didn't have to be worried about having to construct everything from scratch, especially when most parts of his creation would be completely useless. Like hats.

He didn't think beyond this point. He didn't even take a deep breath. He simply walked through. (still not over. to be continued)

The Cat, the Girl and the First Moral Reason

A shudder travelled slowly down his spine and throughout the rest of his body, spreading out and giving him goose pimples. His hair stood on end, almost buzzing with imagined electricity, as a long, thin, human finger once again moved down his back, making him tingle with excitement and uncertainty. He felt he was in different territory now – powerless yet charged with energy, reluctant but unable to resist the wonderful sensation of the hand on his back. He didn’t know what to think so he simply followed his instincts.

He gave a slight yawn and purred.

Arching his back and stretching, he turned around and began to affectionately nuzzle the hand that petted him, running his soft, smoothly furred head up its arm and into the human’s lap. The hand followed, scratching behind his ears and under his neck in a way that was simply divine. Feeling that purring was simply not good enough an exchange for such joy, he curled up in the human’s lap in an abominably adorable manner and promptly fell quietly to sleep.

She had discovered the stray sitting on the front step, staring intently out at the street twisting its head to follow passing cars around the corner. Every time they did so its tail would start twitching, as if he was sticking out a thumb, trying to hitch a ride. She had sneaked
up behind it stealthily, with no less design and cunning than a common thief. She knew she had him when instead of jumping away from her hand’s touch, he instead began to purr. Slowly and carefully she picked up his furry, slumbering body and carried him into the house.

She sneaked a few treats up to her room for him and spent the day playing with the delightful stray. He gambolled about the room delighted by his surroundings and eager to play with his host. They both spent a while playing with one another and by the time she realized that she would never be allowed to keep him, she was already in love with him.

In the evening she let him out, hating to part with him, but knowing it was best to keep him out of the house. Surely no one could have an objection to that?

***

At this point nothing would pain me more to say that they both lived happily ever after in a loving but slightly distant relationship and that both their families were happy with it (the strays normally have a prejudice against mingling with humans) seeing as I'm a pessimist. But seeing as the story seems to be going in the general direction of the sweet, cute, cuddly and sunshiny-days-on-the-beach, I’ll let the cat live and the girl be happy and grow up being loved and having a wonderful and lovely childhood. After all, what’s the point of fiction if it isn’t a break from disappointing reality?