FlashFiction

Orientation

July 2, 2023

“Yes, hello everyone,” I say, surveying the crowd. Heights, weights, skin color, genders, clothing, constantly shift among the attendees. Here was a fat clown in face paint, now a slender woman dressed like an attorney, now a boy in Bermuda shorts. Meetings in the Dreamlands were so complicated. I clap a few times. “Look at me, please.” I say. “Object dissonance, context hopping, and perspective shifts are a real danger if you don't pay attention.” Heads swivel, bodies stabilize, but faces are still indistinct. They're barely paying attention, but it'll have to do. “Welcome to Advanced Dreamer Orientation, where you will learn how to Assert your Will against the Chaos of the Unconscious Mind.” That's the tagline, anyway. “You are all here because you felt the pull to be here. “Whether you know it or not, you are ready for the next phase of your Dreaming.” I smile even though I'm not sure they can see it. “Take a brief moment to look at your surroundings, but not too long.” I give them maybe a second. “Okay, back to me. “What you need to understand is that each of you is seeing something different. “Similar, probably, but different. “That's the nature of this place. “Also,” I pause, smiling again, “you can hear me but I cannot, in all likelihood hear you.” “We'll be able to converse when you've learned to better manifest persistence in the Dreamlands.” I sweep my hands around. “What I see is a very nice conference area in a hotel lobby.” It's not a lie. There's even refreshments. I start walking. “It's open in the back and leads to a small lake with a wooden dock that lets you go out over the water.” I'm outside now, blue sky above, I can smell the musk of mud and water, the pollen of exotic plants. “Obviously, a lake inside a hotel is impossible. “The sizes don't work, but this is the Dreamlands so it's no problem.” I'm trying to see the next trigger or clue. “Does anyone know what the dream wants us to do?” An eight foot tall man in a red suit waves his hand. “Remember, I cannot hear you, but you can point.” He points to the edge of the wooden dock, under an overhanging tree. I follow his gaze and see a bear lying on its back in the water. I close my eyes for a moment, vibing, sensing. I see The Three Stooges in my mind for some reason. “Okay,” I say out loud. “Slapstick.” I nod. “For those who cannot see it, there is a bear lying down in the lake just out of sight at the end of the dock.” “I imagine we are supposed to upset it somehow and get it chasing us. “Nobody would get hurt for real, but there would be falling and running into things and general tomfoolery. “This was to be a silly dream.” I see people nodding and a few straining to see the bear. “What I am here to show you is the key to everything: You do not have to follow the narrative.” I pause again before adding, “That's right. You can choose to do something else.” “Now, the Dreamlands might push back, but you can hold your ground and push harder.” I shake my fists. “You are the Dreamer. “Never forget that.” I sneak up on the bear and see a boat motor attached to the side of the dock, sitting in the water. “I think we were supposed to not see the bear, start the motor, and startle the bear so it's starts running,” I tell everyone. “I'm going to do something else.” I kneel down on the edge of the dock. “Hey, bear?” It doesn't move. I can see its eyes are closed. “Bear? You awake?” I ask. I reach down and nudge him with my hand. “What the—dang!” the bear says. “Why did you wake me up?” it asks. I look over my shoulder at the rest of the Dreamers. “That's right everybody. “You can talk to bears.” “Well, yeah,” the bear says. “Why wouldn't you be able to talk to me?” I turn back to the bear. “In the real world, animals do not speak the same language as the Dreamers. So we can talk, but they won't understand.” The bear rolls over and sits up in the water, “That must be inconvenient.” I shrug, “It doesn't come up as often as you'd think.” I continue, “Hey, bear. I think we were supposed to startle you and you would chase us around.” The bear scrunches its face, “Why would I chase you?” “Well, what would you do,” I ask. “Like I did just now, sit up and ask you what's going on.” I point to the motor. “I think we were supposed to start that up and startle you.” “Wait,” he said, looking over my shoulder, pointing a massive claw. “What's that?” I turn my head and see a tremendous beehive, hidden under the awning of building we just left. It may not have been there before. “Bees,” I say out loud, shaking my head. “Oh dang,” he said. “That propeller is right next to where I was sleeping. That's dangerous!” “Sorry,” I say. “We weren't supposed to notice you. “Well, you should really check the water before you start a motor like that,” he says. “I know,” I offer. “What would you have done?” “I don't know, probably run up on the shore and try to get away, but since the hotel is on this side, I'd be kind of stuck running circles. I assume the bees would swarm everybody and none of us would rightly understand what was happening.” “There it is!” I exclaim. “Misunderstanding. He wouldn't even be chasing us.” The bear grunts, “I'd probably get shot by someone though, so that'd suck for me.” “That is the world we live in,” I say. “We'll leave you to your nap.” The bear waves its huge claw and lies back down in the water. I walk down the dock until I'm back on solid ground. I motion for everyone to head back inside. One of our Dreamers has turned themself into a garbage can. I see her face reflected in the metal on the side, anxious, afraid. She didn't do it on purpose. I don't have time to deal with that right now. The garbage can slides closer to me. I can feel it. “No,” I think to myself. “I am the Dreamer and I am not handling this.” It fades from view. The front doors burst open and a grizzled, buff Christmas elf walks in. It's like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in an SNL skit. “Come with me,” he says, gritting his teeth. “The Koala Uprising has begun,” he adds with grim certainty that we will both understand what this is and care enough to act. I address the group, “When you try to push, as I said, sometimes, the Dreamlands push back.” I can see through the glass doors that we are on a hill overlooking a snowy village of gingerbread houses. Explosions rock some of them, sending edible debris into the sky. I say to the group, “See? Trying to reassert control.” I turn to the elf. “No, thank you,” I say and walk past him. I motion for the group to come along. “They play on your emotions, your guilt or honor, maybe curiosity or shame or fear. “But, remember,” I hold up my finger, “it is your Dream, not theirs.” Outside, the battle is clearly raging up toward our cozy hotel. “When this happens,” I say, “I recommend flying away.” I push myself into the air with my toes until I'm about 6 or 7 feet off of the ground, just tall enough to clear the fence. I lean into the air and rocket forward a couple of blocks in a blink. Still levitating, I look back and see one woman jump up and stay in the air only a moment before falling. She tries again and stays up and in place. I see another fly too low and trip over the fence spinning themself over and over in the air. Others are confused and have no idea how to get off the ground at all. I throw up my hands, shaking my head. How can they not know how to fly? That's like Dreaming 101. Not my problem. I yell so they can hear, “The trick is to go so far, so fast that the Dreamlands cannot keep up.” “You'll either hit the edge and wake up, or your find yourself in a different scenario.” Away from them. I push against the air, leaning into it. The landscape slips by like a fast-forwarding slideshow. Something hits me hard in the shins. I stop. I was flying standing up instead of lying down. Common error for me in dreams. I look around and see a battle between super heroes and villains. I recognize them. Sinestro, Batman, Bizarro, Aquaman. The outfits are old-school cartoons. “Aren't you from Superfriends? The Legion of Doom?” Sinestro looks up at me, purple skin a uniform color. “Another one, eh?” I roll my eyes. “No, thank you,” I say. I push against the air again, this time, straight up. I'm rushing above power lines, above trees, through clouds. I know I'm risking hitting a bird or a plane, maybe even an invisible one. I can see stars, I look toward the moon. I keep pushing. “Huh?” I'm awake. The Dreamlands never let me fly to the moon.

#WhenIDream #Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #WritingCommunity #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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The In Between

June 26, 2023

I remember the first time I stepped inside a wall.

I walked by the ringing phone. It had been ringing non-stop. My mom asked me who it was and I said, “I've quit bothering to find out.” I took the steps to the attic and peered out the small window. I saw a black van pull up out front and a team of agents jump out. I knew they were here for me. I heard them entering the house and calling out for me. I heard my mom scream for just a moment. The attic was bare, but there was a tall mirror on the wall. I stood in front of it and put my hands on it, pushing with all my might. It was like a wall of gelatin or mud. It was thick and resisted me but slowly deformed around my arms. With constant pressure, I kept moving forward, not allowing it to force me back. I pushed all the way through the mirror and stepped inside the wall. A great pressure was released as the last part of my body slipped in and I felt the mirror and the wall bounce back into their original shape and consistency. The other side was darker than the room I'd left and the colors were muted. The entire wall was transparent to me. I could see the whole attic. But I could see the agents rush in with guns drawn. I saw them search for me. I saw them look into the mirror. But, they didn’t find me. I was on the other side.

I remember passing through a wall in slow motion, my eyes open. I could see the wood and metal and sheet-rock. I could see what was inside of it. I could see the elements. The cells, the molecules, the atoms. It was like being inside a fun house. Sizes and distances seemed to shift and deform. I could feel time pausing, stretching out. My mind tried to understand what was happening. But there was so much information. Too much information. I reached my arms out and felt the touch the past on one side and future on the other. I saw them stretch to impossible lengths. Vibrating into dimensions that I do not have names for. I could see what was, what may have been, what will be, and what may be. I could touch them and tweak them and turn them in my hands. But it was too much. We are meant to pass through this place. Not dwell here. I close my eyes and pass through the other side of the wall.

I learned to step into walls backwards, back first, every time. It's easier on the old human mind. I found I could tolerate staying there if I focused on where I'd been instead of where I wanted to go. The past is easy to see as a single path, the path you remember. Staring into the future with all its possibilities can drive one mad. The space between walls is a liminal space in the purest sense. There is the physical space, with the components used to build it. And there is the space beneath all flat surfaces, under every plane, behind every reflection. A metaphor. That was where I found The In Between. Where I met them. Those who chose to stay. I was welcomed to The In Between. The music was generic muzak. The drinks were watered down. The appetizers were bland, even too bland for me. The people were dull and unambitious. We are meant to pass through this place. Not dwell here.

Once, I moved without moving. I shifted my awareness. I found myself in a windowless room. No doors either. I saw a potted plant and observed a drop of water on one of the leaves. My vision seemed to zoom into the droplet. I saw its reflection. It was reflecting the entire universe. Like looking at a black hole curving light. I saw everything in that drop of water. I saw the back wall of the room as a line, like a tiger's eye, and, on one side, was the room I was in, and on the other was everything else. For a moment, I shifted myself perpendicular to normal space. For a moment, I perceived a higher dimension. And when I shifted my perception back down, I did so on the other side of that line. I was outside of the closed room. I was standing on the other side of the wall. I hadn't moved in the normal sense. I hadn't walked in any of the normal directions on an XYZ access. I hadn't simply waited years for the room to decay and moved through time. I'd seen a direction that has no name and moved through it without thinking. Without knowing how. And then, I was outside.

#WhenIDream #Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #WalkThroughWalls #HigherDimensions #FifthDimension #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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Guardian

June 21, 2023

Of course I didn't call room service. I know better. But I blush with shame as he asks just the same. He would have seen or heard. And I was taught the rules. I know the rules. I am not to engage unless expressly authorized or permitted while in transit. It's too dangerous. A single word could give us away. He is kinder than I expected. He places both palms on the door and speaks in a soft voice. I know what he is doing and I can feel the strengthening of the door, like it's knitting itself together, filling in the gaps. He has already looked through the peephole. He has already identified the man as an employee by his energy. He has already seen the clean, white towels he holds as he cries “room service” before knocking again. He opens the door and I can hear him say. “I'm sorry, but we didn't call down for more towels.” “I understand that you can tell what room calls come from at the front desk, but we didn't call down.” “Okay. Thanks.” I could not hear the person in the hallway. He closes the door. He does not turn around. His shoulders slump and he sighs. He places one hand on the each side of the door and speaks another incantation. This one is weaker because must cover a larger area, but the walls become denser, like rock. I can feel it. That's why I was chosen. I can feel things in the air; when they are stretched or pulled or twisted. I can feel it. I can twist things, too, but I need training. I can feel his anxiety. Not fear. Fear tastes bitter, and this is merely sour. “We will be having chicken for dinner.” That's code. We are being followed and they are close. He may have seen them. Based on the walls, they must have guns. He wouldn’t have pulled that much into them for just fists or knives. He walks toward our balcony. We're on the 7th floor; the top floor. He slides the door open and I can see him studying the corner of the building. We are right on the corner, so the corner of the building is just to the left. He leans out and places his left hand on the building and speaks to it, while holding his right hand in the air. I can see the air thicken, like a blanket. He can't see it, but he knows what he is doing. I lament that we have no books, no guides, but he doesn't need books. Besides its forbidden to travel in the open with our materials. Our minds are the only tools we may take when we travel. I hear hard taps at the door and wall. I know they are coming. He motions for me jump over the railing and I do. The fall is swifter than I'd like but safe, like diving into water. We both touch down safely. He sees a wandering dog and motions toward it. It tilts its head and looks at him, before trotting over, wagging its tail. He bends down, gently places a hand on each side of the dog's face and stares into its eyes. The dog barks excitedly and yips, it's tail wagging even more. I know he is talking to the dog. That's his gift. He can talk to animals. Any animal really. Knowing the language is not enough, you have to know how they think and he does. He always has. He pats the dog on its head before standing back up. “They know about the Jeep.” That means we cannot drive away. But he didn't say anything about the tunnel, so they do not know about that. We have to make it on foot. Two people burst out of the side door of the hotel and quickly stumble into each other. They did not expect to see us. I can tell. They are holding their hands over hidden guns and are walking stiff-legged toward us. He makes a sign with his left hand and traces a vertical symbol in the air while simultaneously tracing another symbol on his leg with his right hand. “Hang on to me.” I'm little. So I climb onto his back and he runs, faster than a man can run. And the two people who came out of the hotel do not see us. They see us still standing there and they will until they make it to the spot. I can feel the hum of life twisted into new designs, I can feel it slowly unraveling, but it should be tight enough. The road is clear, the trees are singing. We find the silent spot and enter a shadow which becomes a room which becomes a tunnel. He nods to the others there. They were waiting for us. To rescue us. I ask if I can trace fire as we move forward and he allows it. I drag my hands on the walls and twist the dirt and leaves into blossoms waiting to bloom, full of fire and smoke. I know they will be coming after us, even in here, but we have a head start and this is our place, in the earth. We speak to it and it responds. They call out to false gods and beg for scraps of favor or power. We mold what is already present. We are stewards of the awash power always present in the living earth, the planet itself. We contradict the will of all outsiders so we are called monsters and cultists. They seek to syphon the life for their own uses, we cooperate and stay within. The earth listens and, as we move, changes itself behind us. I can hear them entering the tunnel now. They found the shadow door easily enough by following our path, but they do not see what the earth has done. I feel a blast of heat, smell the musk of singed dust and skin blown down the path and the screams of those who went first. Cursing and yelling as they call water out of the ground and water must oblige them such is their power, but it resists. The elements do not resist us because we make no demands, only requests. We reach the other end, our safe haven and he puts up a barrier behind us. Makes the air like glass, like plastic. They cannot pass and can only gnash their teeth as we exit to our city, home. Our safe place. Deep. He does a card trick for a child waiting at the exit. “Pick a card.” The child draws the 7 of Hearts. I do not see it, but I know it. “Hold it close to your heart.” He winks as he says this. The child does. The man shuffles and concentrates and speaks in a deep, hollow, whisper. This is the language of snakes, the language of the wind. Of Metamorphosis. I did not know he could speak to the wind. “I'm losing the image of your card” he says, but it is part of the trick. “Can you look at it again?” The child lifts their hand and gasps. The card has been replaced by a $20 bill. “That's right.” He said snapping his fingers. “I bought your card for $20.” He holds up the 7 of Hearts, “See?” “Please keep the money.” He says even before the child's parents can offer it back. He is kinder than I expected.

#WhenIDream #Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #Magic #Magick #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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Metal

June 14, 2023

“This was in my mouth,” I said pulling a slip of metal out of my mouth, like the key my uncle uses to open his cans of fish, and placing it on the table. My mom and dad looked at it and asked each other where I could have picked that up. Maybe I'd gotten it out of the garbage? Maybe I'd found it on the floor? “This was in my mouth,” I said pulling another wire-shaped piece of metal out of my mouth and putting it on the table. I felt something warm slithering in the back of my mouth and pushed it forward with my tongue, grabbing it and pulling out another strip of metal. “This was in my mouth,” I said. “Tastes like worms,” I said. I was trying to tell them it was alive in my mouth, but they didn't understand. When the doctor came, the pile was just a few inches high. They stopped coming while I was in the ambulance. After the X-Ray, they came even faster. I could almost hear them. Just whispers. They came from my mouth and my butt. I didn't like them coming out of my butt. But I felt them. Black rods of metal. They came out and crawled onto my skin and held tight. My arms and legs were armored and immobile. My chest was covered. I felt them on me, felt their feet or hands or mouths grabbing my skin and refusing to let go. I could understand them now. They were protecting me. They were keeping me safe. I'd never be hungry or thirsty or sleepy again. But I couldn't move. I was a curiosity. I was analyzed. I was studied. I was healthy. But I shouldn't be. I was thriving. But they didn't know how. My blood was “thick” I remember them saying. I should not be alive. But they covered me and preserved me. Someone remarked that my hair had grown so long and so pretty and she wished she had hair like me. The metal didn't understand and thought this was a threat. They protected me. The metal lifted my right arm, like a marionette. I saw the rods on my arm stand up and point at the person who had admired my hair. I wanted to tell the metal to calm down, that it was okay. But the metal didn't hear me. The metal didn't understand me. I felt its fear, its rage. The metal rods honed themselves and fired at the woman and stung her like a swarm of needles. She ran away bleeding and screaming. The scream agitated the metal and my body was lifted up and walked out of the room, into the hallway. Metal was pushing through my pores, tearing my skin. It was angry. Many people were screaming now. It didn't know it was hurting me. I tried to cry but metal dripped out of my tear ducts, cutting my eyes. I had been safe. I had been whole. I had been complete. I am betrayed. I sob. I weep. I feel sorrow wrack my body. The metal feels it, too. I move my right arm. The metal there breaks like brittle glass, falling to the ground. I wipe the metal off my left arm and see a large open gash. Metal pistons and ball bearings work themselves inside the wound. I wonder how much of me is still me and how much has been taken. I collapse to my knees, the metal on my skin fracturing and flaking away. But knowing what is inside of me, I know I am not free. I may never be.

#Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #BodyHorror #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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My Eyes Open

June 11, 2023

At once, I am aware. My breath is slow but easy, I taste sweetness, mint, familiarity. Peace. I think of home. Of a kind face. I feel the world rock under me, like waves, like being in the wave pool at Adventure River, like being in a boat. Like floating. But I'm cold. The side of my face is cold. The right side. I can barely feel my ear. And my neck hurts. Rhythmic, muffled thumps, like something heavy falling, picking itself up and falling again. A low pitched whine, keeping the beat, vibrating my seat. My butt hurts. I shift in the seat, feel something pull against my chest. I am sitting up. I just realized that. I'm sitting up. Whispers. Mutterings. Two people talking too low to make out. Was that a laugh? I open my eyes for just a second. A headrest. I'm in the back seat. “You awake back there?” The passenger asks, a woman. “What?” I say. I have a mouth. Teeth, a tongue. My voice sounds small. “Sounds like a yes to me,” the driver says, a man. I should know them. I clench and unclench my fingers, two hands, four fingers, two thumbs, all working. Only two hands, two arms. I bend my feet up and down, flexing the muscles, two feet, harder to count toes, but it feels right. Two legs. I turn my head and feel hair caught behind my back, turn up my lips in frustration. Who am I? “Where are we?” I ask. “Still about two hours from the cabin” says the driver. “We'll have to get a good night's sleep,” says the passenger, “so we can get out on the creek in the morning.” Creek. Swimming? No. Fishing. It's fishing. I'm their daughter. I don't know my name. They are my parents. I don't know how I know that. I don't know how I got here. This is a dream. I try to open my eyes but they are already open. I try to reach below and wake myself up, but I am not there. I am only here. I just became. I created this place. But I exist only inside of it. I push against the car door and fall through it, like smoke, like ash. That's what I smelled earlier, cigarette smoke. I'm floating as the car slams on the brakes and fishtails. My parents leap out, “Oh my God!” They say. “Are you okay?” They say. With a thought, I bring them closer to me. With a swirling gesture, I call in clouds and gentle rain. With a push, I create a trough in the road, molten rock. Cooled by the rain, forming a small waterway. I smile and float over to it. I ask the water to rise and it does. The water stands and bows and speaks to me in a language only I understand. We dance, in the rain. My parents do not speak. They no longer exist here. Not until I see them or hear them again. I smile as we spin, as we laugh. There is music. I cannot understand the lyrics, but we move in time, in synch. As if I know every flourish. And then, My eyes open.

#Dreams #Dreaming #Dreamlands #Writer #Writing #Writers #AmWriting #FlashFiction #Fiction #Paranormal

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Temple of Carnelian

May 21, 2023

In the Aether there is a temple, a pyramid of stone, missing the capstone, forever bathed in the red-gold light of a setting desert sun. The doors are always open and the inside is filled with long shadows that provide respite from the heat. You are welcome to sit, relax, contemplate. You've earned your place here. If you explore, you may find the goddess of the temple, Sekhmet, she with the head of a lioness, arbiter of courage and inner strength. She may smile, she may beckon or direct, but she never speaks. It isn't necessary. In this case, she glanced at a passage off in the distance, one I hadn't yet seen. It danced with a curious flickering array of colors and so I moved toward it. Even before I could see it clearly, I felt it, like an oven, but I was strong, so I pushed forward, I had to see. My skin felt as if it may peel away, like the worst sunburn you've ever had, but still I pushed. And I saw a corridor, lengthy and filled entirely with flame. Somehow I could see through the flame to the far side. There was a courtyard overgrown with brambles and weeds, toppled columns, collapsed buildings, and people, so many of them. Each oblivious to the others, heads down, shuffling aimlessly in the dust of a dead city. Their despair was palpable, their loss, their regret, their guilt. Each felt that this great calamity was their fault alone and that rebuilding was not only impossible but a blasphemy, an attempt to erase what they had done, what they had caused. No. This is the way it had to be. Each felt that they alone were suffering in isolation, in silence, “as it should be” they thought. To them, this was a deserved fate. But I could see into their hearts, a place they'd long stopped looking. I could see their mistakes, simple and compounded, but infinitely forgivable, not worthy of this self-imposed punishment. Yes, each, in their own way, had led to the collapse, but there was no malice, no intent. They had it in them to forgive, repair, rebuild into something greater, but could not see it. I turned to Sekhmet and asked, “why are they suffering? Why don't you tell them they don't deserve this? Why don't you help them?” She said nothing but nodded and looked away as if to say, “that is not my duty.” This was horrible. I knew they could be saved. I knew they had everything they needed if they'd just look around, notice each other, share their feelings and their desires, pool their skills. But they would never look up. They would never see anyone other than themselves and their unearned shame. I knew in that moment that I could turn away from this fiery tunnel, return to the cool shadows of the temple and relax. After all, I had earned it. None would fault me for accepting the reward that I deserved. But I couldn't get their faces out of my mind, their blank expressions, seeing nothing but what they had lost. I also knew that I could save them. I could. I could teach them and help them. But I would have to pass through the flames to do it. No one would help me, no one would notice my approach, none would worry about my pain and suffering. In fact, they'd warn me away, tell me to go back. I knew all of this, but I pushed forward anyway. The liquid wall of heat pressured me to go back, resisted like being under water. My feet stuck to the floor as the skin sloughed away. My body screamed as millions of tiny needles dug into my flesh, pulling, tearing. My scalp burned as my hair burst into flames. I could stop right now. I could stop and instantly be transported to the cool stone floor of the temple behind me. I knew that. Even as my eyes boiled in my skull, I could see them, feel their despair and their emptiness. I knew if I didn’t help them, then no one would help them. I knew loss and regret, but I also knew hope. Yes, I had betrayed people I loved. Yes, I had lied, I had cheated, I had very nearly murdered, but I became a better person because I survived these things and learned from them. My fingers clasped at nothing, the muscles barely responding, my tongue was swollen and raw. I knew, again, that I could stop, right now, and instantly be soothed, be safe. I knew I could have that because I had earned it. I deserved it. But did they deserve what was happening to them? Could I live with myself knowing I could have made a difference? I was shaking now, on autopilot but still moving toward them. I cried out, but no tears could flow in such heat. I crawled. I fell. And landed in damp earth, humid and rotten. I was whole again and I had crossed the barrier. Something had been left behind in the flames, something was burned away. I had new purpose, new dedication. The lives of those around me poured into my consciousness, they had dreams once, and hope. All of them. I schlepped through the mud to the closest person and lifted their head so I could look in their eyes. He was elderly, old beyond reason, and his eyes were empty. Not blind, just empty. I spoke softly, “I know your name, I can sense it. You are Ka'telon, once a stone mason, a builder, and architect.” He blinked and shook his head, mumbled incoherent sounds as if he'd forgotten how to speak. “Do you remember the first time you felt your connection to the world around you? To other people?” He found his voice, “What does that matter when they are all dead? When all I have are memories of what was done? When I can still hear their screams? I am connected to nothing because there is nothing left.” “Open your eyes and look around,” I implored. He squinted and muttered, “As I remember it. Nothing left. Surrounded by those who will never forgive me for what I've done.” He pulled away and lowered his head, ignoring me. The next person I addressed was an ancient woman, I felt she had been an artist. “Do you remember the first thing you created?” She paused, coughed, “I put two colors on paper, blue and yellow and saw the sun and the ocean. But that was through a child's eyes, worthless and naïve.” “But the wonder you felt, the possibility. You continued to paint, yes?” “I did. Until I created works that were hung in places of honor and called beautiful. But where is it now? Decayed into filth and dust. Nothing remains. What I did was meaningless. It solved nothing, saved no one when the time came.” “Norette,” I called her by name, “you are wrong. What gives someone hope is not what is practical or useful, it is what causes us to see beyond what is in front of us. Those things that challenge us to look at the world around us in a different way, that pushes us to think unfamiliar thoughts. To look forward.” “Bah! There is nothing forward but the same forever and ever.” She walked away. Next I spoke to another old woman, “Cybil,” I called to her, “when was the last time you sang?” “Once I felt the beauty of song. How a voice could tell such a story with no words, how a heart could be buoyed or sunk, an army bolstered or cowed. A chorus of song was to hear the god's speak. Yes, I sang. I sang on the last day. Songs out of mythology and history, songs calling out for aid, for any of the gods to show themselves. But none did. And so I no longer sing because no one is listening.” “Did you only sing because someone would hear it? Did you not sing to yourself, sing in individual praise, sing to feel the music rise in your throat and sprout into the world? Did you sing only because it inspired?” “I sang because it suited me. Now leave me.” She too left me standing alone. Discouraged, I sat on an old stump and wondered what else I could do. I could see their strengths, the ones they'd forgotten and denied and buried. I could see their potential. But they were in so much pain, so much regret. I prayed to my goddess and my god. I asked for guidance. I asked for encouragement. I heard a bird singing, trilling and whistling, like Spring. It was just for a moment, then silence. I looked around and saw Cybil, by herself, facing away. I heard the song again and realized it was her. Her voice having lost nothing but she was unsure, frightened. As I studied the rest of the city, I saw Ka'telon slowly stacking collapsed stones. I saw Norette using mud to experiment with creating a mural on the side of one of the empty houses. I could not do this for them, but I could give them the push they needed. So I spoke to every resident. Reminded them of the elation of hope, the joyousness of creation. And so they swept, and cleaned, and built, and decorated, and sang, and wrote, and devised clever solutions, and vowed to never make the same mistakes again. They forgave. And through it all, they worked together. Deep inside, they knew the city would one day fall again. But, for now, they allowed the majesty of their accomplishment to lift them up. It was not about tomorrow or yesterday, but about today, about love and compassion and giving. Their eyes were bright, their bodies young, and their minds full of potential. And, back in her temple, Sekhmet smiled.

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Mottle the Purple Frog

March 23, 2023

In an ordinary forest sat an unremarkable pond brimming with countless identical tadpoles.

Mottle did not like blending in. “Someday, I’m going to stand out,” she said to no one in particular.

“Why? Do you want to get eaten?” exclaimed Spish… or was it Bloit?

Wub swam up, “Mottle wants to ‘stand out?’ Good luck with that. I’ll be hiding in the mud.”

As their tails shrank and their legs grew, Mottle still secretly hoped to be different, unique.

They became frogs, brown and green with black spots. Perfect for blending in and staying safe.

All except for Mottle.

Mottle was purple. Not just the dark purple of deep water, or even the soft purple of an iris, but a mighty, iridescent purple.

“Stay away from Mottle!”

“I bet hawks can see her from the air.”

“She’s like a great big beacon for predators.”

Not welcome in the water, Mottle spent most of her time climbing in the weeds and singing, her bright skin blazing amongst the greenery.

Her song was entrancing, and even though the other frogs enjoyed listening, they would not accept her. Bloit yelled, “I hope you get eaten!” before diving back into the pond, brown swirls following him into the murk below.

Mottle sighed and kept singing. She chirped and barked and croaked and whistled and whined weaving music like no frog before her.

Every cottonmouth or raccoon that saw her couldn’t bring themselves to eat anything with such a talent for song.

Still, no one was happy. Spish complained, “Thanks to Mottle, more of us are getting eaten just because everybody comes to hear her singing.” Wub added, “If I weren’t so good at burying myself, I’d have been someone’s lunch months ago.”

Finally, the eldest frog, Glergle took action, calling Mottle down.

She swam in front of him full of worry.

“Mottle, you have consistently brought danger to the entire pond. Your ridiculous skin is a distraction and your incessant singing is bringing predators far and wide.”

She was silent.

“We have no choice but to banish you. Get out and don’t ever come back.”

Mottle was motionless, stunned, but managed to eke out, “I could stop singing, I could sit in the middle of the pond all—”

Glergle interrupted her with a single, “No.”

“But you are my family,” Mottle insisted.

“Some things are more important than family,” Glergle intoned. “Now get out.”

She hesitated.

“Go! GO!!!”

Mottle dashed away in a cloud of bubbles, crying to herself as she hopped through the mud and weeds, dryer ground, brown leaves, tiny stones until she was further from home than she had ever been. Climbing the nearest tree, she sang and cried. She sang of loneliness and friendships lost, of trusts broken and promises forgotten, of childhood fantasies giving way to cruel realities.

She vowed to sing until she could sing no longer, to keep going day and night.

Weary and weak, she sang on through sunsets and sunrises, barely aware of her surroundings, slowly starving herself and becoming dangerously dry and brittle.

Until, at once she was blinded by a brilliant flash of light and fell. But not to the ground, to some sort of slippery translucent cave. She was so tired, she resolved to simply fall asleep expecting to never wake up.

After an unknown time, she opened her eyes. She felt moist and could hear flowing water. In front of her was a live cricket with no legs that she quickly ate.

“Am I in heaven?”

“No,” said a deep voice. “But it might as well be.”

She focused further out and saw a frog larger than she thought possible.

“Ah!” she tried to jump away but was still too worn out.

“Hey! Relax! I’m not going to eat you. There’s no need for that here.”

Leery, but with little choice, she settled down, “Where am I? Who are you?”

The huge frog continued, “I’m Dom and this is our little paradise. Humans feed us, make sure we are healthy, and come by to tell us how amazing we are all day long.”

Mottle crooked her head, “Why don’t they eat us?”

Dom laughed, “Eat us? They love us!”

She noticed Dom’s coloring, “You’re very… orange.”

He nodded, “Yep. And Urdip is blue, Pic is yellow, and Kree is red. We’re like a rainbow.”

She finally noticed the other smaller frogs behind Dom.

“What’s your name?”

She smiled, “Mottle. My name is Mottle.”

“Well, Mottle, we welcome you.”

Mottle inched out of the safety of the small indention she’d been placed in, “Don’t you think my color is a bit much?”

Urdip, a very skinny frog with long legs and eyes that seemed to never stop moving skipped forward, “No. Why would I?”

Pic, a tiny frog no larger than a cicada added, “Where I’m from, a color like mine is a signal that I am a frog of great importance. People would gently pick us up and make sure that our homes were safe.”

Kree seemed slower than the other frogs and added, “You must have been pretty special, too with a polish like that. It’s like… so… shiny.” He continued to stare at Mottle without saying another word.

Mottle tilted her eyes back and looked over herself: still so purple she was almost glowing.

Dom groaned, “Don’t mind Kree. He’s eaten a few too many strange mushrooms if you know what I mean.”

Mottle felt the ground shake and could hear a commotion somewhere nearby. Scuttling back to her hole, Dom called after her, “No! Don’t worry!”

Urdip was already beside her, “Mottle. These are our fans. It’s time to give them a show.”

She was confused, “What do you mean?” She was still inching toward safety.

Pic, while scurrying toward a stick to climb yelled to her, “The people who love us, they take flashes of us and ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over us every day. It’s why we get the good crickets, my dear.”

Kree was shuffling toward a leaf to stand on and Dom just stayed right in the middle. Nobody could miss Dom.

Urdip beamed, “Come with me, Mottle. We’ll dazzle ‘em!”

Mottle decided to follow her and see what all of this was about. Urdip bounded toward the glass and jumped right up on it, sticking in place.

She studied Urdip and wondered if her color was a mistake or if all of her kind were like that. The vivid blue reminded her of the way the sky looked from under the pond where she used to live.

She didn’t think she could stick to the glass, so she climbed up a nearby branch and held on.

People began filing by. Mottle held her breath but the others had been truthful. There were startled sighs and tapping of glass and murmured words and many, many flashes.

No one tried to eat them or capture them. All they had to do was be themselves.

She was so happy that she closed her eyes and began to sing. She chirped and croaked and whistled and told a story of being lost then found, of being afraid then safe, of being alone then accepted, of being ashamed then free, of being an outcast then loved, of loss and new friends, of no longer hiding.

Mottle sang for hours and did not notice the other frogs circling around her or the people calling friends on their phones to tell them about the amazing frog they just saw.

She stopped her song and looked around, “Oh! Sorry, I’m sorry! Did I do something wrong?”

Urdip was wiping a tear away from her still twitching eye, “Wrong? No, honey, that was fantastic.”

Dom bellowed, “A new star attraction is born.”

Pic was licking her lips, “We might get snails to eat if she keeps this up!”

Even Kree was impressed, “I totally felt what you were doing there. Deep. Truly deep.”

And so, thanks to Mottle, they became a wildly successful exhibit. Researchers came from around the globe to study Mottle and try to determine what drove her ability to out-sing her peers.

And the people, they just liked hearing it.

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