My Dear, Born of Estrella

  Once in a while, a star would fall to the ground, fizzle out in a cloud of smoke, and and dissolve into a pebble of quartz. This only happened a handful of times throughout my visit to this “Otherland.” Each would-be meteor was more breathtaking than its counterpart in the world or dimension from which I was called here. An enlightening turmoil ensued inside that could turn the world on its side, at least from one's own perspective, and cause a stumble, a stagger, a drunken-seeming clumsiness by its beauty, as though witnessing an angel stepping down to earth in full splendor, straight from the presence of God, still shining with lightning about its robes. And then it was nothing more than a rock, not unlike . . .

  Well, regardless of what it was like, it was beautiful to watch, though hardly supernatural.

  I reached out towards the stars, and one fluttered like a butterfly over to my hand and rest in my palm. It was warm to the touch, but not hot. The coarse surface of the thing was glowing a faint white, and smelled of hot copper. Immediately, it began cooling and dimming, but not shucking its rough outer layer like the falling ones.

  Many of these “signs” are meaningless, and not worthy of note. Note whatever you like, however, as it may mean something in the greater scheme, or perhaps subjectively; to you individually.

  It was a dull thing, dusty almost, resembling oxidization-flecked chrome. I took it to a pool of water -not water, but something much thinner, sweeter, and softer- and began buffing it. In an instant, tendrils of roots that routed between my fingers and to the ground sprouted from it and pulled downwards out of my hand. A bark-like coating formed like scales and softly-lit webs emerged from the branches. In a minute, flowers blossomed, glowing with a faint illumination, which then set fruits; new stars that fell not down but skyward, aligning with the others as a glistening speck in the sky.

"Framed Like A Picture" Flash Fiction

 Every story has a happy ending.

 That's what I'm told, at least. I'm not so sure that's a universal fact so much as a literary tool to make people think they're happy, when the truth is they're miserably incomplete from their first breath to their last. Winners die, losers live. Losers die, winners live. Which of these is the more tragic? The loss of greatness and prevalence of the mourning, or the perishing of those who know no joy? It's a matter of the “decrease [of] the surplus population”, or greatness being torn from someone. We're left with the age-old question, is it better to have loved and lost, or to have never loved at all?

 To have never loved; where's the happy ending in you?

 To have loved and lost, what elation rests in this?

 No, I'm convinced that neither is worthy of jubilation. Only the perfect, idealistic tales of love that end in “happily ever after” are the ones worth having. Yet even these are of mediocrity and generic nothingness. Love is not two who are happy with everything; that's ignorance and bliss. Love is two who fight through torrents and come out exhausted, but also stronger than before.

 Ours should have been lasting. Instead, it led to binding; chafing the wrists with coarse sisal.

 Love is pain. Whether lost, absent, or enduring, it is pain. Why should we strive for such a torment? What's there to gain in love, anyways?

 That may be the wrong question; what's there to maintain in the void of love? What's there to not lose in the perseverance of it?

 The answer is life. The answer is faith. The answer is truth. The answer is hope. The answer is everything.

 Even the most tragic of love, so long as it's true, is more triumphant than the most fulfilling lack of it.

 The voice beyond what I can see informs the gathered of my crimes.

 The rope around my neck tells me I die in vain.

 The heart in my chest says I lived in love.

 And no institution of man can diminish the hope in that.

 Framed like a picture, I'm waiting to fall and shatter.

 They have the wrong man.

 I loved her.

 I lo--

[Shameless Plug]

So, i've recently published another short story online.
It's free, and available in formats supported by a computer, Kindle, Nook, and other 'readers'.
Enjoy! =)

Excogitation: The Escape

This is an excerpt from a story i've put off for some time. Recently, i've figured out the proper ending and, therefore, am ready to pick it back up. This is where the two main characters, Liam and Ari, share a dream through mechanized telepathy (neural implant).

 The sky became blue, and later turned black, eliminating all light except that which radiated from the fire. She had fallen asleep, but he sat with knees brought up to his chest, and stared at the orange-red glow, sometimes watching shadows dance upon the wall of the cliff or over the figure of Ari as she lay unconscious. His eyes became heavy. He'd never grown tired and wanted to fight off the urge to sleep. Slumber had always been an escape. Now he lived the escape and staved off sleep.

 Images began flooding his consciousness, overpowering his ability to focus to where all he could see was what his mind was showing him.

Walking through a meadow. Soft dirt, moist air, warm sunlight, clear skies, still water. Content. Peaceful. Green.

 He managed to regain his concentration, seeing a soft smile cross her face before the rush of imagination filled his senses once more. And he didn't fight it anymore.

 Their thoughts mingled as they lay across the fire from one another, their dreams merging, feeding off one another's subconscious. Gray turned to color, pallid to vibrant, monochrome to a rainbow array, coarse to smooth, sharp to soft, dark to light, futile to hopeful.

 The clouds floated away, leaving a blue expanse in the void. The Spires regained a measure of saturation about their heights, their branches sprouted limbs and leaves, blotting out the blinding ring in the sky, creating a soft, cool shade. Wire-like strands of plant-life rose out of the ground, wrapping around the trunks of the trees, twisting and writhing as they pulled themselves up the bark. The facility crumbled, falling into a lake where creatures with strange arms -wings, he felt they were called- glided slowly in from the sky, coming to rest on the water. The air moved without a door being opened; a chilling, comforting rush of wind made its way over his skin. Soft, green shards sprouted out of the ground, circular shapes of various colors and patterns reached skyward: grass and flowers.

 The smell was far from the acrid, stale aroma he'd always known. The scents of the grass, flowers, trees, and water all fused into an amalgamation on the breeze. There was something bright about the olfactory response; it was sweet and light, uplifting and joyous. He inhaled deeply just to get another breath of the subtle harmony of scents.

 And there she stood, the most beautiful sight of the entire view, seeming to bring life to the plain in her wake as she walked. Each Spire caressed became a tree, grass grew in her footsteps, budding flowers where the beads of her dress draped along the dirt.

 She looked towards him. As their eyes met, he felt a similar life rise and flourish inside of himself.

 The two minds became one as the light flickered about the motionless bodies containing them.

 The world was alive.

 He was home.

Triumph Over Tragedy pt. 2

The sound of a pained and exhausted inhale rang in his ears and he closed his eyes. The male nurse in the room lowered his face and stepped back, disappearing behind the opposite cloth barrier.

“Eu . . . gene . . . ?” a weak voice muttered.

He toppled forward, his face pressing against the speckled linoleum tiles on the floor, gasping for air in insufficient quantities.

“Eu . . .” the voice trailed off, being replaced by the sound of the respirator; the pump exhaled into her again, “gene . . . ?”

He squirmed and writhed about on the floor, wailing; “We were supposed to have another year!” he shouted, twisting onto his back to stare at the ceiling, “A blasted year! Not two hours!”

The nurse knelt beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, somehow helping him regain his composure. Agonizingly, he rose to his feet and straightened his face.

“Eu—” the voice was cut off and sent into a fit of coughing and wheezing, “Eugene?”

The constitution of his face faltered momentarily, but was quickly reaffirmed. He took a long step forward and into her view. She never turned to focus on him.

“Terr?” he beckoned quietly.

Her face turned slightly in his direction and he saw her once-brown irises, now coated in a silver film, flutter back and forth, searching for him, “Gene?” she whispered back.

He turned to the trash bin and fell to his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach. He began slamming his forehead into the cabinet. The nurse urged him to stop, but didn't force him to until a trickle of blood began to stream down from his hairline.

He shoved her back and stood again, taking his wife's hand in his own, fingering her ring, and pulling it to his lips. He pressed a couple fingers to her temple and caressed the height of her face, down to her jaw.

Ah, haha . . . I just realized that the main character in the last story I wrote (finished in June) doesn't even have a name! It's a dozen pages long, and not once did I mention him by name. His wife, yes, but only by a first name. No surname. It's written from a first-person perspective (a set of journal entries), but there's no introduction.