Fiction Short Stories

                                                         An Ode to Feel

Two stars just exploded. And even though they are unseen, the gravity is felt not through destruction or creation, but an ode to feel. An ocean just flooded. And even though the sand is drowning not through the water or the heat, not the whale being born, but the simple density of the sand itself being put into the water. Two tiny ants just collided. Not because one is in another’s territory, not because they have somewhere to be, but because they wanted to collide. These two ants collided and the sand got dense and the ocean flooded, followed by two stars exploding by crashing into one another, because they wanted to. A new element formed. And the two ants… sidestepped one another. 

                                                       A Fable on Rails

Splinters fuse skin together on wood, rails beneath the metal, stone holds the ground up desperately as tiny pieces become mold. Molded in fact. Church bells on wheels sound percussions a tune of major, balanced by the faintest remedy of chants and whistle blowers signalling the passengers “the train’s almost here!, the train’s almost here!” as they look and fiddle coat strings and boot laces. The only vision is a flat surface with a steep hill, a cave, a mound, but the vibrations delight the wind. And as the train approaches closer, the whole station starts to move. It keeps moving. Farther and farther away and the train can’t reach it on time. So, the train simply moves backwards. 

                                                            Devices

Imagine a goat, then an elephant, then a sheep. Whatever dreams the heart desires is a fondu of reprimanded oysters gripping the sand, so the current doesn’t wash them away. Imagine a kind soul, or a shadow falling on air. Imagine a hungry person who goes to these oysters and instead leaves them for the seals to bite and break their jaws in pain and sorrow. Imagine a fly. A single fly that flies around the bunkers, observing everything from so many perspectives that it can no longer see a single one. Imagine a personality, or a wish, or a dream. Imagine a finale that makes itself louder only when the sound is completely still. Imagine a device that can turn into anything and everything. And then imagine that device turning into yourself. 

                                                  The Allegory of The Mound

How the air can glow when formed into puppets on strings that aren't even conscious of their own actions is baffling. Only if the shadow already exists can everything else be a shadow. However, the mound could not have cared less. The mound seemed to take it personally, so much so that it caught fire and exploded even the tiniest oxygen molecules. And after they exploded, these same puppets on strings turned not into shadows but into something real. Meanwhile, the prisoners were eaten alive by animals bears and all sorts of things. And the puppet master’s just watched this unfold. 

                                                             The Divide

Confusion takes priority when one is uncappable of love. Of course, it has to do with loving themselves and knowing what it is they want. A sudden surrender, now takes the force of a thousand suns. But the feeling of harmony simply in the form of self-surrender in the face of another, could this take priority of confusion when one is uncappable of love? What is it about the human soul that fascinates me? Maybe it is the need to make one see light through a humble surrender to what I know is felt, maybe the light was absolutely blinding and signaled another from a distance far away to redirect it, to have it simply go into something that might feel better surely, but the point is that it would be easier. There is something about love which all the books don’t capture. It is the simple divide between someone who you know loves, is unable to admit it because of this factor or another, this strain or humility in absolute deficiency, and another, who can come and direct the light to a place where it belongs, maybe, just maybe, alone and in itself. So, which is worth it you might ask? The answer is, I have no idea. 

                                                    The Allegory of the Clock

Picture a clock that tries to check its own time. What can the clock do, in vain, in sorrow, in a single moment to see itself perhaps in a mirror that confuses the arrows, a vignette or a visiplate that makes seeing the seconds and minutes fuse into one another. Picture a clock that tries to check its own space. What can the clock do, in pride, in will, in a single moment to feel itself perhaps on a scale that confuses the weight of time with the mass of itself. Picture a clock that tries to check its own volition. Now picture that clock looking back at you, asking you to tell it what time it is. 

                                                             A Hero’s Fable

He just realized he has superpowers. He can fly, he can sing every bird chirp, dolphin calls, and weird looking sea creatures. He can see the past, present, and the presents past, but he cannot see the future because the present stands still. He can lift cars and dumbbells weight over and over again, but strengths a different character. He can feel everything—the humming of an old lady sitting by her small ivory home miles away, alone. He can stop the train tracks that pass her house but cannot stop the house from crumbling. He can appear in one place and then another, even at the same time, so long as it’s in the past or present but never the future. He can touch an animal and become that animal—a dog, a wolf but never something greater than a wolf, like a mammoth. He can remember everything that has been or is but will never become. He can fly. And so, he flies over the bridge as he tries to see the future—of God, the animals, of everything that is everywhere and nowhere—and then he let’s go—and stops flying—falling down directly onto the road beneath this bridge that has oncoming traffic. 

                                                        The Painter: A Sequel

‘What about behaviour fascinates you?’ asked Grandpa.

‘The fact that it’s always changing.’

‘The fact that it’s always changing?’

‘Yes.’

‘But that’s nothing new. Come on, Grandson. What is it about behaviour that fascinates you?’

‘Hm… that it’s both becoming and fleeting away at the same time?’

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

‘That to capture the moment it happens…’

‘It needs to be lit?’ 

‘No…’ chuckled the Grandpa at the sincerity behind the boy’s voice. 

‘Then what is it?’ 

‘Ask yourself why behaviour fascinates you.’

‘I don’t want to…’ exclaimed the boy. 

~