Last Sight of a Lost World

Once we connected the edges of the map— we foolishly believed we put to bed the mysteries of the world.

We were wrong. I was wrong.

Tarov Del Fuego called me through my dreams with its flames.

As if the earth stretched out to remind me we had not conquered as we thought— the seas rose like serpents of old. Wild & thrashing— the crew survived through fortune.

Once we landed on the black sand beach at the edge of a tattered map— the crew left a sacrifice of lantern oil, bread, a silk scarf, and a live goat for whatever force sheparded us through the storms.

A stone statue stood at the edge of the beach we landed on— moss ran along the cracks. It seemed as ancient as the sand it sat upon. The dark, emerald waters gave us a final wave before we turned and headed into the jungle.

Passage

“Forfeit your bodies! We will live beyond the Great Plane!”

I awoke from a light sleep as the ashy wind blew past. I clambered out of my lean-to and moss bed to find a bedraggled man staggering in down the road below. He didn’t look like a trader— closer to a forgotten prophet. The fringe of the road was green, filled with young growth hiding me.

Some men hide age in their bodies. Others have each year carved off their frame like the reaper wouldn’t be able to carry more than a hundred pounds. The would-be wise man of the spice road fell towards the latter. I hoped he’d quit his yapping since the mews of a hungry cat had echoed through the passage of my dreams. Too little sleep left me as prickly as the pine trees.

I stuffed my blanket in my bag and walked in the shadows of the shrubs as I trailed the man. Breakfast would have to wait— there would be others on his trail soon.

Winter Winds

Today was one of those days with stuttered frames. The story passage out of sync with the scenery. It was a gorgeous bluebird day as I drove through my winding island roads and struggled to parse my emotions.

I listened to Motel 6 by River Whyless— their crooning lyrics filling the empty space. I imagined a scene where I felt the chorus speak to me.

“I've spent my whole life moving
I've spent my whole life on a road
From a dream I'm waking up
And for the first time
I'm terrified of waking up alone”

There wasn’t a dream to wake from here. No lovesick heartache— but another kind as I sifted through childhood memories as I replayed the beginning of my morning. I woke to a text from my sibling saying, “Can you call me?”

Our aunt had passed away earlier in the day, and they wanted me to know. There’s a strange matter-of-factness to it—the snap of a book closing— simultaneous and drawn out in a disorienting mix.

I sat in my car outside my usual bakery spot as I listened to music— not sure quite sure what I should be doing. The ebb and flow of sadness mirrored the tides as I ghost-walked through my half-scripted plans for the day.

Same Same, But Different

I started the 365 project at the beginning on 2022 to challenge myself to become a more consistent creative. I had spent plenty of time idling without much to show for my dragon horde of ideas. The discipline that built in inchworm increments became something that fundamentally transformed the way I approach life.

I didn’t write any of these stories for anything besides my own enjoyment. There was no external goal I needed to hit or person I needed to please beyond myself. As 2023 has already arrived in swift fashion, I’m working to balance the productivity of last year and a continued exploration of writing craft in longer, more developed stories.