The House at the End of the Path

This is for Write on edge week 4.

The prompt is at the end of the post.

Image credit to unsplash:

The House at the End of the Path

In the small town of Doberlin, everyone knew about everyone and everything.

All the locals were efficient, happy, and a bit naive. They waved at passing neighbors, cooked dinner for the weak, and took in stray animals. This was the place that had an air of happiness that you can only find in fun, isolated areas.

However there was one thing that all locals knew everything yet knew nothing about. The path. Everyone fantasized about the path, wondered what lay at the edge of it. But no one dared go into the path, for whoever ventured into it never would return. Sometimes, the curious villager would find odd items near the path, like a bit of blood.

There was one who dared to cross the path, one more recent then the others who dared also. His name was Neil O’malley, a visitor to Doberlin, and this is his story.

In the beginning, Neil’s life was rough. His mother died of cancer, and his father was a washed-up drunk. Fast forward to teen years, and he can’t find a job. His best friend is murdered by a psychotic adult, and Neil is full of grief.

Suddenly, his life took a turn for the better. He was a relatively smart kid, and he was offered a position at Google. He accepted the invitation and was overjoyed when he found his beautiful Indian girlfriend. The next year, his girlfriend dumped him. This was when Neil visited Doberlin and found the path. He spotted caked blood on the tree, but Neil was a man of adventure.

“What the hell, you only live once.” He said. Neil entered the forest.

A while through he found the long hike peaceful the birds were singing and the sun was shining, peeking through the trees overhead.

He started thinking about life and his dead mother. Then he thought about his job, and his favorite dog waiting for him in a cage. He thought, maybe my life isn’t so bad, eh? He walked a bit more and almost tripped over a body.

“Sir, sir! Are you all right?” He turned over the body and screamed. It was his best friend Paris.

He continued walking, at a faster pace than before. Then he heard his girlfriend’s voice in his ear. “You are worthless… You are nothing.”

“You’re… you’re righ- no, I am my own person!!!”

He kept walking and found himself next to a beautiful house that overlooked a luscious forest and lake, the flowers blooming brightly.

In the end, Neil bought the house and the path, kept his job at Google, and found himself a new girl.

In order to find beauty, you must take the risk.

The road may be rocky and treacherous, but at the end, there is always an oasis of hope.

Realization

Hi this is for Trifecta: Trifextra week 101.

Studying, alone at the coffee shop.

Boredom.

Scritching of pencils.

Motley cars passing through,

their reflection a shroud in the window.

Tomorrow

studying

alone

again.

She didn’t see the figure in the background.

Photo Credit to:

Thomas Leuthard @ Foter.com

No Life in a Wasteland

Dystopia story for Saturday’s Write Tribe.

Five years since the outbreak, the government collapse, and five years since almost everyone I knew disappeared. Hell, I may even have killed them myself.

Rick stepped cautiously, trying to see. The wind whipped in his face, its claws piercing the surface. Rick’s feet trounced the earth beneath them, and he took in all the pollution. Lays chip bags lay crumbled, the sky was darker then coal, and before him an enormous figure prostrated on the ground.

Vines clung to her body; her hair tangled scraggly weeds.

She was Mother Nature and she was having the last laugh at civilization.

The Birds

Hi all, this is for Master Class, and it is an interesting tale.

The prompt was: Never name the well from which you will not drink.

I hope you like this.

Before all… were the birds. The birds all lived in a small congregation in a small world. Nothing was relatively vast or gigantic, and all was plain yet all was beautiful. There was almost no diversity, every bird was created flawless, as a cream colored, gorgeous prodigy in a body of elegantly-shaped feathers and light bone. There was just one rule for these gentle creatures.

NEVER NAME THE WELL FROM WHICH YOU WILL NOT DRINK.

Besides being forbidden from speaking the well’s name, they were forbidden to go anywhere among the well’s 1 mile radius. If they ever did these things, they would go to jail. Birds gossiped that if you drank from the well, your feathers would be plucked off. One by one, from the kings beak.

The Prophecy of Araknael

Hi all this is a fantasy piece for One Minute Writer, I got a little carried away, so expect more like this.

The Tomes of The Ancient World

The Prophecy of Araknael

Eryon’s thoughts swirled around in his head. It was over. All that he had strove for his entire life (4,000 long and painful years) was gone.

 Darkness had infiltrated Light until it was covered by it, contaminated by it, until the Darkness had completely overcome Light, until the forces of the world were no longer matched, until all good things in the universe were dead.

 Eryon knew he was the last one left. He knew that Yalaho’ff would stop at nothing to get his way. Not even to murder his elder brother in cold blood.

Homeland

This is an entry for Write on Edge week 3, 2014.

This image had to inspire me and I chose to write this.

Enjoy!

Homeland

The sky in New York City was a dark murky blue that seemed to overcome the horizon and flood the earth below.

Carla Finch moped along, the scratchy sidewalk pummeling into her feet. She could have worn her shoes, but Carla liked the feeling of the rain pouring onto her feet, like the sadness invading her body.

It was 1981, Carla was sixteen years old, and she had just been thrown out of the house by her mother for being a lesbian.

The Cabinet

Hi everyone! This is for Trifecta Writing Challenge, I have to use the word quaint (in this case meaning odd), and the story must be between 33- 333 words.

The cabinet sat in a dingy room whose nooks and crannies were contaminated by dust.

The dual handles on either side of the cabinet’s doors curved downwards in a moon shape, two intense eyes, traumatized by what they have witnessed.

His wood sat neglected and unfinished, rougher than a bed of gravel and sand. Really, this quaint artifact is allowed to be traumatized, for he has witnessed the passing of many generations. Once, the cabinet was happy. It had awoken from slumber, unaware of anything. He was somewhere, a place that all cabinets should be, a place of rowdy critters, caring people, and the good kind of dust, the kind that clings to you like a gentle hug.

There was an aura in the air, almost like a secret that was about to be whispered to him.