She loved him more than anything in the world; (nothing would stand in her way if she had anything to say about it) she invited him into the waves with a shanty of sorrowful love.
She smiled her pearly, shark-toothed smile as he sank to visit her not-quite father; surely Davey Jones would be merciful just this once.
It’s strange, knowing that every move, every interaction, every event, every tragedy, every single last thing is controlled by some higher power.
“Even my own thoughts,” he said out loud, glaring up at the ceiling in accusation. “I know you know what you’re doing. What you’ve done. But I could really use some help.”
He frowned at the lack of answer. Maybe that was all he was going to get; creators often didn’t take to requests from their creations kindly.
“Could you just... I don’t know. Undo a few things? Give me a hand? Help me undo some things?” He sighed, rubbing at his temples. “Maybe even erase it all, I don’t care. I know this is probably amusing for you, but...”
There was nothing else to say. So much had been done and said already, though he guessed it wasn’t technically by him if there really was someone controlling it all.
“Thanks for coming up with all this. It’ll make a great campfire tale one day. But please,” he pleaded, eyes distant. “When you fix this all, don’t make me the main character.”
He’d grown out of his reading phase at 13, years before he realized.
His story in another time, place, space, might have made it into the shelf of a small town library. Kids liked fiction, right?
Who would’ve thought that the price of fiction was someone’s biography.
Sirens wailed quietly over the roar of flames (how strange, you could barely hear them); it didn’t matter, they would all be gone soon (just like the rest).
And just to think, everything that had happened in the war (it was short- it could’ve been avoided- there was no TIME) would soon be forgotten to history thanks to a few gallons of gas (they had seen him, they knew what was coming- they refused to surrender) and a single match (no five, the first four broke or wouldn’t work).
Word: Dreamless
Time: 2 minutes
Dreamless nights are paradoxical. They are lovely in the sense that they are calm and horrible in the sense that they are [boring[.
Sleep with no dreams is calming. It goes quick and without incidence.
Dreamless nights where you lie awake staring at the stars, the ceiling, moving pictures, anything to stay occupied: those are the best.
Ideas are born of dreams but they are born of thought.
The train slows when you sleep, but if you never sleep, it never stops.
The best dreams are born by being awake.
This land is old. Older than his descendants. Older than his blood. Older than his clan. Older than any war.
But it is not older than he.
He remembers finding this place: a desolate, dusty ravine hidden in the desert mountains. Desperate to escape the world, he had settled there, in a small cave.
The more time he spent there, the faster he realized that the journeys for food were becoming hazardous. So he began to work.
Every trip for food became a search for seeds. His wings grew strong from hauling water to and fro. He grew to be a powerful digger. The land thrived for many, many years.
Once, he had stopped to think about what he had accomplished. The children loved to hide in the flowers, the buzz of bees disguising their laughs. More often than not they came back with the sugar of fruit sticky on their fur. The adults chuckled when the kids attempted to raid the vegetables and did nothing but recoil in disgust.
They had a community, and it was thriving.
However, all good things must come to an end.
The land he had created died. Not to war, not to famine, not even to sickness.
Instead, winter arrived, the first in centuries.
Only the desert grass survived, sturdy and resilient in any weather. His clan lived on, in other places. They had begged him to go, but he had a responsibility. This was his creation, and he would fix it.
He was old now. His mind remained sharp but his body was worn. His wings did little more than trail along the ground. His eyes had not been open for many years. Even his legs were beginning to weaken.
But he would remain here, until the land was alive.
He settled down to rest forever, and watch over the ravine for the rest of time.
A white flower greeted his spirit, soaked in rain rather than burdened with sand.
He still has hope, no matter what. This place will never die.
This land is old.
