Recently I was talking about yet another book that I started writing, and a friend told me that I write a lot of “twisted” stuff. Which I took as both a compliment and a challenge. So I sat down and tried to write something a bit less “twisted” than my usual fare. Please enjoy:

Beautiful World

The sky stretches out before me, an endless expanse of soothing cool blue.

Wisps of white caress the blue.

A lush, deep green field surrounds me, moving by an unseen force.

A breeze wraps around, gently embracing me.

The deft hands of a master play the reeds of grass like an instrument.

A song of “hush” fills my ears.

A neon-bright yellow butterfly bounces through the air, searching for a flower to rest upon.

The green below me races to the horizon to join blue sky.

The white fingers reach out, touch the green.

At peace, I close my eyes and lift my face to the sky, inviting the sun to warm my face.

The breeze returns, engulfing me, gripping me in a soft motherly hug.

I’m lifted and relieved of my earthly binding.

Carried through the heavens, I’m one with the air, one with the sun, one with the universe.

Released from my constraints, I surround the earth.

My host shares with me her every elemental beauty.

I’m adrift in a peaceful feeling never experienced before.

I see, feel, and hear everything. And nothing.

The sensory overload tests my consciousness, which is pulled to its limit before my time is up.

I’m pulled against my will and returned to my corporeal prison, left longing for release again.

I can see it with my eyes, and now I’ve felt it with my soul.

It’s a beautiful world.

The following is a fictional piece. I’ve been working on my book and I went off on a tangent while writing a certain scene. A four or five sentence paragraph grew into a few paragraphs. It does not fit within the story I am writing, it’s just too heavy of a passage. There is already enough sadness in the book to include this also. So here it is:

Reflection

The image in the mirror shows a man he should know. The face is recognizable, but he doesn’t really know the man before him. Staring back at him is a man at an age that is unfamiliar to him. His mind has tricked him into thinking he is much younger. The reflection doesn’t lie, nor deceive, it is truthful. Unlike his mind and his heart, the mirror is brutally honest.

He searches the reflection for his past. Grasping desperately to hold on to any memory he can. He knows something is there, but the years have been stealing the memories. Hiding them. Faster. More efficiently. Relentlessly. With every tick of the clock.

His mind struggles and his heart aches to maintain his tenuous grip on the past. It’s unfairly ripped away from him. It’s a child’s toy caught in the surf. It should wash toward shore, but is rhythmically pulled away into a vast expanse of nothing. He watches helplessly, unable to intervene.

The mirror is a friend of the young. It has become his enemy. It’s judgmental. It gives no comfort. Nostalgia means nothing to this cold lifeless foe. It will not help bring back his past. It is steadfast with an unforgiving reminder of the present.

Anger overtakes him. He swings his hand up and smashes the mirror with his palm. The cracks radiate out in every direction from his hand, a reflective kaleidoscope. He holds his hand against the broken mirror while blood trickles down his arm. His reflection is distorted beyond recognition. He looks at the blood dripping into the sink, mixing with his tears, slowly flowing down the drain.

I sit at the table, my composition notebooks, journals, pens, and laptop spread out in front of me. It’s a very old wooden table. It’s seen more years and history than I have. It’s older than I may ever be. It’s been around for so long and has been surrounded by so many different people, that it almost has a soul of its own. It’s weathered and worn, smooth, not rough. It’s gotten shiny with age. It still smells like wood, a pleasing scent, a comforting scent. It’s stable, sturdy, and heavy, built in a time when long-term quality was an expectation instead of something that causes surprise or wonderment. The deep dark rich honey color feels warm and inviting. Gather around and sit down, it’s time for a shared meal.

The little nicks, scratches, and scrapes on the table top intrigue this observer. They don’t just tell a story, they tell a library full of stories. Joy, sadness, grief, relief, laughter, anger, resentment, ambivalence, jealousy, hatred, and love, it’s seen them all. Stories that it cannot tell, it cannot share. This table took an oath of secrecy, not by choice, but by destiny.

Put your palms flat on the surface and you will feel like you are touching the past. Close your eyes and you will feel the passion of the builder. Feel the care that went into selecting the right wood. Feel the craftsmanship and the pride that went into creating this testament to the skill of the builder. Feel the craft that was handed down from generation to generation.

The shiny surface would make you think that it would feel cool, but it’s always warm to the touch. I like to think that it has absorbed an eternal warmth from those it has encountered.

My dream is spread across this wonderful table. The builder is gone, but I hope that somehow they know how special it feels for me to use this table to craft my work. This table inspires me. Most would probably never take note of it the way I do. I suspect that few would feel the way I do about a simple table. This table has touched so many lives. When I look at it, I imagine where it has been, who it has encountered, what has been discussed by those that have rested their elbows upon it. I want to reach into this table and pull it all out. I want to experience it all. Feel it, hear it, smell it, breathe it.

I cannot though. I have to settle for my imagination.