Poetry 1: In the Valley

Newest poem, finally, after nearly two months without writing one. Short free verse, by far not my best, but it's good enough as filler.

For older poems, see http://www.elftown.com/_Nite%20Owl%27s%20Poetry
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In the Valley

Hourglass sands
Falling from the pits of sky--
They run with fleeting hearts,
Gripping grains of gold in their hands,
Even as they slip away
To fall and die in the valley.
They mourn the sands,
They ponder their defeat,
They watch their children, mystified,
Uncaring,
Unmoving,
And begin again their unending game of catch
Into madness.

Short Fiction 4

No idea what the hell this is supposed to be. Some guy getting owned by plants.... sounds like Stephen King to me XD Very very vaguely inspired by "The Fountain" movie.

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I've seen this place before.

It isn't how I remember it. It isn't the way it was supposed to be. Then it was gray and threaded with wide cracks like the calloused palms of a dead god, pale and rotting and worn. Black birds and other more subtle creatures crawled along the barren land with scaly hides to snatch at poor specimens that happened upon the wasteland and were unlucky enough to have lost their minds and wills. There were no mountains, no trees or even skeletons of trees, not a single distinguishable landmark to be saved. Just the everlasting gray light that penetrated the entire body with its ghastly glow.

No, this can't be the same place.

But it has to be. It was right here. I know it was.

This was some trick. Some type of sick joke the same gray glow he recalled so well was playing on him after being away for so long.

This is a green land. Not just green; it shines like a bed of emeralds under a bright and full yellow sun that hangs like a fat yellow seed in the sky drooping from some unseen over-fertile tree far above and beyond human perception. The grass grows naturally, yet as if someone has deliberately planted every seed with the utmost care to ensure its growth. All the same length. A monotonous field of green and scentless miles for as far as the eyes can see.

Ironically its the lack of landmarks that help distinguish this festering but well-disguised wound in the world. I can sense the crusting rot beneath me, and I know this is the place. The place for death and deceit, and of course for peace as well.

Yes, I've been here before.

Long ago, this was my home. Long ago I would have welcomed this apparent blessing, but not now. Too many years have gone by. Too many memories that tell me otherwise, and all I can see is black and smoldering ruins and pits of darkness. It isn't illusion; it's torture beyond anything I've ever witness before this moment.

I feel the ground. Deceivingly hard and unyielding under my fingertips, and I can feel the grass give a almost imperceptible hiss as it pulls toward my touch, clinging to it. That's more like it. Always feeding off itself and whatever lands in its clutches. This field hasn't seen a green quite like this in countless decades, far longer than I can remember or care to. It draws in prey so easily, and I can see the dissolving remains of bone not far from me. Only grass without water. A purgatory oasis filled with temptation and starvation and deception. I can't help but smirk.

Its close. I can feel it, even though it isn't anywhere in sight. Its an entity all its own, separate from this hell-hole, and I created it myself.

Perhaps this green is just one more battlefield and every blade is fighting against its newest enemy buried deep within itself. It can sense me, just as I sense it, and it calls me to it. I walk without thought or feeling, letting the memories guide me blindly as they always have.

I can see the wastelands stretching out all around, can see the cloudless sky blur with it into eternity. This is where the heavens meet the land. This is where the Ladder must be placed. The images from nearly fifty years past play on the backs of my eyelids and I ignore my surroundings and the strange touch of clinging grass on my heels as I pull away, ignoring the impossible sighs of disappointment and futility they make as I pass.

I open my eyes. Its here. I don't expect the single white-linen flower that protrudes so helplessly and innocently from the cruelly challenging earth all around it. The blades of grass soldiers war against its presence still, as they have for decades, revealing an unusual pattern in their ranks before me like a sudden but silent wind pressing the emerald army into the ground in a circle. The ring pulsates very slightly under my bare feet and I can feel the ripples of the soldiers and their bristling anger grasp my flesh with tiny futile hands.

Here is the Ladder. Here is the gateway to the kingdom I have waited for since my very existence began its ticking clock. This is where it all began, where it all ends and begins once more. Here I will become whole.

I take the flower in my hands and tug gently. It doesn't give. I try again. Nothing. The pulse of the living field around me grows faster, more intense. I haven't much time. I try a third time, leaning my weight back onto my heels as I pinch the stem and watch it lengthen briefly, then pull itself back into the earth, like tugging a mule from its cart. Then, fear washed through me, cold as icy rain.

No. This is the Ladder, my key to freedom and to bliss. To a second chance. It is mine to take, and no one else's. Its mine.

The treacherous tiny growth continues to descend until I can scarcely see it. The ground is opening, hissing and piercing through itself in a jumbled mess of writhing emerald blades lunging forward to cling at my hands still wrapped around the gentle lily. Now the blades bite and catch, as they always were meant to, but with a new vigor, a new life and enthusiasm that it hasn't experienced in ages. For a moment I make an attempt to pull away, but its far too late now, and I know it. It was too late the day this demon-seed was planted. The day I planted it as my key to the heavens.

This strange and unholy being has fooled me into death. Even as the blades pull and bury me in sand and glass below the grassy surface, I can't help but let this wry chuckle escape me. Fifty years, and I am beat. I have nothing left. There is no heavenly light for me now, only the eternal darkness and broken glass prison of the cracked desert.

I make no sound as the blades pull my eyes away from the last view of the world. The yellow sun still hangs far away, and I wonder briefly if perhaps the Ladder and the key had always been within my grasp. The land hisses once more and closes in all around me, and all that is left is the black decay of hell that had always been waiting for me.

And I can't help but smirk.