ShrtStry

Stone tears are never wasted but are always broken. A sinking pebble, floating downward into the darkness of the open sea. Once part of a larger whole, a mountain that pierced the sky so high. Now, suddenly falling downward, pasts the creatures that seek to hide. From the stability of a powerful wall, to being pushed and pulled by the oceans currents. A tiny stone, older than christian gods, now buried under swishing sand. As the years go by and the earth stretches and yawns, the pebble spins deeper into the ocean floor. Rather pointlessly between salt and sand. No purpose to fortify, or bear weight, rather weightless in the deepest parts of the sea.

The weightless pebble now decades under sand, polished and warped by the movements of time. Pieces of even its small tiny being now missing from the effects of tension and erosion. A feeling of becoming nothing of matter, just more dust in the forever sand. All its edges torn away, its strength taken from it, and soon time would make it fade entirely.

Yet, as the time came, and the pebble spun under the weight of the sand one last time. It felt a warmth, something that It hadn't felt since the years of lava. It was the mothers heart, a deep fire in the core of all that is, and somehow the pebble or whatever was left had made it all the way back home. Not on top of some mountains, not a part of a beautiful peak, but now a seamless fit into the crust of the earth. The very force that moves the lands above, the foundation of all that is. Backed by the fires of their mother. Backed by the power of their core.

By Sebastian Blanchette

I recall a memory of a child clashing with the ocean. Fists clenched and pounding against the sea. Waves pushing and pulling the child without much consideration for their growing frustration. Seemingly an impossible task, yet i've found many youths in my time that have tried to shape the tide. Many as we aged have given up such tasks, deeming them impossible and ultimately letting the sea be. Yet unaware that all of us continue to fight against this same impossible force in the shape of change.

In all my years on this earth, I’ve come to discover that change isn’t just necessary, but mandatory. We are, after all, adaptable creatures. There are often cyclical moments in our lives, things that we create out of routine. By nature, these are not harmful but without proper oversight, these can slowly become prisons for parts of who we are. Holding pieces of us hostage from change.

However impossible, it must be said that fate is driven deeply by us. Our choices and actions pouring over those around us. Do not become stale, stuck to your routines. They appear safe, but they are anchors in your timeline. They will hold you down and suck away minutes, hours, days and even years from your life. The universe has never been one for handouts, but it will endlessly provide. Perhaps that’s where my faith is now.

Look back at all your choices with fondness, but do not let them be stopping points that define who you are. The future and all its endless probability should be tuned in by you. A high frequency radio with your voice rising above the static. Listen to it, even when the choices are hard. I've found that sometimes these crossroads are viewed with great distress, but more often then not are gateways to unrealized bliss.

It's a blissfulness that is rediscovered in small increments. Tiny moments that pass by so quickly if we blink we might miss them. Some believe they never feel them, but I would suggest they are never really looking for them. Like all things in this wretched and beautiful world, it requires a bit of work from us. Not simply seeing these moments for what they are but allowing them, trusting them, and believing them as they engulf us.

That same impossible tide that we fought in our youth, were they not some of the same waves that carried us back to shore? The same water that salted our wounds, and overwhelmingly tumbled us back to reality? Be brash enough to keep fighting the waves but remember that when you decide to ride them back home that you have the full force of the ocean at your back. Change is that very thing. Steering yourself with the full force of the universe at your back, and always remember to enjoy the ride.

By Sebastian Blanchette

It was always worse during the night. They all barely slept, rotating their watcher every 2 hours. Exhaustion was more than a companion at this point, it was just the status quo. It was bewildering that mankind came down to just these archaic defenses. Just the last few men and women planted eternally in a trench like an old war from the books. Their limited munitions and bodies were on the brink of disaster. The trench was riddled with the shedding of their garments and displaced limbs. They had stood this position for so long that the dirt started to have a savory taste and it no longer mattered if the air was cold or hot, they had stopped feeling a difference years ago.

There was no one left that recalled a time before the war. All the sons and daughters of mankind were now born and raised in the bunker mere feet away from the trench. They were taught to fight and hold back the enemy from birth. A series of electronic simulations that mirrored the effects of the trench. Each member playing a vital role in maintaining their position. Their orders coming from the big screen back in the bunker. Every 5 days the screen would display a new set of orders in bold text. Each order would be carried out within 24 hours and the button on the screen would be pressed by their commander upon completion.

Their commander was strange. He appeared to never age and had been there long before any of them were born. His one role was to watch them complete their missions and press the button. He never once left the bunker and just paced back in forth in front of a wartime map. He hadn't ever glanced at the map just tapped on the glass case around it with what appeared to be very human anxiety. He was ultimately very supportive though and always made sure all active trench members were rotated out for their mental health. He was often heard mumbling about how tiny their bunker was, which always led others to question why he never went outside to the trench.

The history books they were raised with said there used to be more bunkers and even bases at one time or another, but that due to poor budgeting and bad planning they were mankind's last foothold. The enemy had cleared out the rest of the world, which according to the map in the bunker was unimaginably large. One book even stated that the map was wrong, and the world wasn't much larger than what they could see on their position broadcasts.

Every now and then one of them would get so curious about the world outside the bunker and trench that they would try and run out into the open field. A resounding pop always followed these actions as their bodies exploded into dust, their clothes often times being left intact. Whatever the enemy was it was always watching them. Always waiting for one of them to slip up or run out.

The screen back at the bunker would often give them advertisements for new weaponry that showcased images of what the enemy truly looked like. They had 11 eyes and tentacles where their hair should be. They were larger than humans and held technologically advanced weaponry. Although the weapons that were 3d-printed at the bunker appeared to be more and more advanced every year. The commander even once told them that he had fought some in hand-to-hand combat back in the day and that he still had nightmares about their appearance.

Time of course was running out for mankind. They were out of ammo, and material, and frankly, their birthrate had been basically zero for their last two generation groups. Many were too tired to even move, and food was no longer being provided at normal intervals. As the last remaining few trench members peered out over the empty grasslands for what may be their last day, they noticed something that had not been there before. A figure walking toward them in what could only be described as a business suit.

The figure appeared human enough. Cleaner than anyone at the trench was. He even walked with a sense of mighty importance. The watcher yelled out to the group, shouting positional arguments for their snipers to aim at. The last of the snipers aimed his rifle and fired a warning shot mere feet from the suited figure. Unfazed the figure continued toward them at the same pace. A trench member went back to their commander to ask what to do, but before they could run and get him they noticed the commander had come out from the bunker. A sight that drew the attention of all the trench members completely.

His clothes were stripped from his body. Only his boxers and steel-toe boots remained. He lifted himself up onto the grasslands and walked toward the suited figure at what appeared to be the same pace. The trench members watched with awe as both figures passed each other without a word of acknowledgment and proceeded on their course, finally the suited figure stood above all of them.

The suited figure pulled off his sunglasses, waved for all the trench members to gather close to him, and proceeded to tell them they were all dismissed. That they had run out of war funds and told them to make their way outside of this retched stadium by following the illuminated lights labeled 'exit' in glowing red text. He also mentioned that they would be compensated for their efforts but that they wouldn't be providing any medical or dental benefits long-term. They could however opt for a humane death by a physician on their way out.

With that, the man put back on his sunglasses, whistled rather loudly, and turned around to walk away. As his whistle died out, what appeared to be construction works and vehicles began dismantling the bunker with rigorous speed. All of the remaining people in the bunker were poured out by a man with a hard hat and a cigar and another man with a shovel proceeded to yell at them to shoo.

As they watched their world come apart around them, the remaining people of mankind (or so they had thought) gathered into a line and made their way out following the exit path as instructed. All of them were filled with utter confusion on their face and demeanor as they stumbled out into what could only be described as a big box store parking lot. As they passed through to the outside world a man stamped a piece of paper and handed it to them, mumbling something about a coupon and waving them away. All of them got lost in the forest of cars that filled the parking lot. Separated and alone in the real world for the first time in their lives.

by Sebastian Blanchette

It is my understanding that you’ve come here in search of the lake.

It has been long known among the locals here that the lake is home to a doorway, though no one could tell you for certain how they know such a thing. I do not expect you to believe this, but the stories of a thousand years don’t just come from nothing, do they? It seems to me that we often look at the people of the past as intellectual children, unable to explain the world around them in terms of science and familiar reason. But like children, I do believe that they had a way of seeing which we have lost, in the same way, that toddlers greet an unseen man in the corner of their bedroom or tell tales of themselves in lives previously lived. Our understanding of things has very little to do with the way the world actually is.

But you want to know about the lake. I myself have never seen it, but I will tell you what has been passed down to me. Please do not be disappointed. I think that by the time the story is told I hope you will see why I never had much reason or curiosity enough to go looking for it.

Sit, and I’ll tell you what I know of it.

They say the lake is as smooth and black as the new moon’s night sky. Its face is always silent, undisturbed by wind, rain, or beast. No fish seem to swim beneath her surface and not a mayfly will alight upon her placid face. The bank is barren of the usual weeds and plants that gather life to themselves; all is silent when you make your way through the trees and finally come upon the sight of her. It is a silence unmistakable in a wilderness like the one you will find out here, and it is not easily forgotten.

I do not know anyone foolish enough to have touched this lake, not in the generations that have come and gone since my family settled here back in ‘26, or at least none who found it worth boasting about. But still, they say that if you dip both hands into the lake and cup her waters there, not a drop will spill between your fingers, and the water you carry will remain opaque and flat as a scrying mirror, and warm as a baby’s breath. Some say that the reflection you see there in your palm may drive you mad– whether it is your future or demons or endings you witness before losing yourself to madness I cannot say. We have had our fair share of missing people around here, though if it has been caused by madness or simply losing the path I cannot tell you with any certainty.

No tales of drinking this water have made their way down to me. I would say perhaps that no one has ever been stupid enough to do such a thing, but anyone who has seen their fair share of humanity will likely draw other conclusions. I suggest you not be the one to try it. The lake has a long history, longer than any of our own, and some things are lost while others are buried.

Something that is widely known is that the lake has accepted many sacrifices, though it has never asked for any as far as I know. And yet, maidens, livestock, golden coins, swords, and jewelry cast of fine metals, all have found their way to her banks and disappeared into her awaiting maw with not so much as a splash or ripple.

This is simply the way of people. What cannot be understood must be destroyed, and what cannot be destroyed must be worshiped and placated. So, men, they come, as they have for generations, for millennia, before language and weapons and prayer, they have come here and known fear and offered sacrifice. And the lake has accepted them but remained silent as the doldrums.

In this way, the lake has become a place of waiting. They all wait and watch and yearn. If you ask them what they are waiting for, some may say answers. Others say they wait for the lady, black as pitch from raven-haired head to slim bare feet, who invites those willing into her kingdom of eternal night. And others still say she is white and bright as the evening star, untouched by the murky waters as she rises from the depths to bring promises of another world far from the suffering that mankind has sown. In this way they sacrifice more than they realize. The lake pulls them in and so they stay, make families, build communities– I cannot tell you how many wandering souls have settled in this region, but they come for the lake and they wait, even without knowing it.

My father, who brought us here in search of something he never spoke of, died waiting. So did my mother, though they had lived most of their lives on opposing shores of reason. My story is one of thousands. Heroes, villains, gods, sorcerers, and demons are all said to have made the pilgrimage to the lake’s indifferent shores for glory, conquest, and homecoming. Of which stock do you fancy yourself to be?

I am sure more will come, as they always have.The world is sewing itself together in ways I am unsure were ever intended, and the unexplainable is never allowed to stay that way forever. It’s simply not the way that people operate, especially now, with science knocking on everyone’s door. I am sure this one will be no exception.

I must conclude by saying that you must not be in the business of finding the truth in any of what I have told you. Truth, in memory, is a fickle thing. There is a lake on the northern side of the mountain you see there. It is a long trek from here, but it seems you are prepared for that. There is a path, but there are many paths alongside the mountain. I have never walked it myself, so I can only wish you luck and provide you with a reminder. Many have come and seen the lake, and I do not know if they ever find what they truly came searching for. Many of those people have gone again into their lives, while many have stayed, and some have met with uncertain fates of no particularly enchanted variety. I just remind you that no matter what you believe from these stories, know this is a place of waiting and sacrifice, and not all things are intentionally given but may be taken just the same.

When you knock upon a door, you must be wise enough to determine how long to wait, when to walk away, and when to walk through.

by Ariel Moniz

On the very last evening of that blustery month of October lost to time somewhere in the distant past, the manor was alive with monsters and candlelight. Every sconce and chandelier was lit with a dozen flickering candles, better to light the scenes of voracious festivity within its walls. While it was well past midnight, guests continued to arrive, leaving their coats and human faces at the door. Demons, witches, ghouls, and every beast from the furthest reach of imagination made their way through the witching darkness, whether by plush carriage, windswept horseback, or dew-kissed foot, over the marsh and hillsides to the glowing countenance of the manor, that pulled, like the moon itself, every half forgotten nightmare known to mankind into its awaiting arms.

The entry hall yawned wide, welcoming every guest that wandered through those open doors; the living, dead, and those suspended in between were invited to feast and dance and display their terrors. A grand staircase of ebony wrapped its way to the upper floor like the Midgard serpent, where rooms of every earthly delight beckoned those who could hear their call. The halls and adjoining rooms were decked in lavish tapestries, embroidered with scenes forgotten to man and time, cast into brilliant life as the candlelight caught the decadent gold and silver thread. Furniture of every century crowded the rooms, where time carried no power and busied its hands elsewhere.

Shelves, tables, and book cases carved with unholy and cherubic features served as altars for mankind’s bygone nightmares– carved stone Gods, bones of beasts that passed in and out of existence unknown, photographs caught in silver of faces that had never been or who would one day be, and in every room, books, thick with whispered secrets, archiving the innumerable follies and atrocities committed by the hands of man and monster since the dawn of perceivable time.

These objects and their histories go unnoticed, as the evening is not about secrets, or those harsh faiths of eras past, or even the departed; it is about revelry. Down the flights of stairs where feet make not a sound, to the front hall where dawn will soon beckon through the open door, they enjoy the sights, the sounds, the feast.

The banquet table, a stately piece of nostalgia brought overseas from the old country, was alluringly burdened with a feast as varied and elegant as the guests that ladened their plates and lips with its fare. Swollen gourds of every shape and size, bulging pumpkins and golden squash among them, served as decor and seasonal crockery, their innards disposed of and replaced with punches, simmering stews, and pattes. Beside them lounged fragrant loaves of bread, still steaming despite the advanced hour, slathered with fresh butters and jams of every fruit to bloom on earth since the fall of eden. Beside these gathered platters of cheeses, in blocks and wheels of gold and ivory, veined with mold. Fresh apples, red as the devil and twice as sweet, dipped in molten candy and bittersweet chocolate were piled high on platters like so many delectable corpses. The roasted bodies of fowl, cloven-hoofed beast, and other, less familiar flesh, shimmered with grease and tantalizing flavors, the smell of which filled the hall and beckoned out the windows into the pre-dawn murk.

Cider and mulled wine poured ceaselessly from barrels older than the country, decanters of glass so fine its lip could cut flesh, and simmering cauldrons that still held tight to the tastes of the centuries of dark arts they had birthed. The sounds of goblets being filled and meeting in garbled toasts could be heard across the dining hall, among the tittering gossip and bellowed “hullos” that come naturally to those who have not made the other’s acquaintance in a millennia.

And all around they danced. They screamed and howled and fed and cackled over the music as it swelled and cantered, instruments of string and brass and polished wood dueling in harmony beneath a vaulted ceiling depicting all that was once known of heaven as the floor upon which they danced reflected the inferno which they all knew so well.

Those intimate with eternity are the most familiar with endings. Over the revelry, the debauchery and ecstasy, came the sound of a blackbird’s morning trill, the first in a dawn chorus upon which they all cease their dancing, feasting, and laughing to listen. Again it comes, cutting like a scythe announcing the harvest. Not a soul remained in the manor, which was not empty nor abandoned, but existed only in the way of unexplainable things. The birds continued their chorus, the dawn continued her climb, and the first of November arrived.

by Ariel Moniz

It was the first night. I was hungry and ambitious, lusting for food, sleep, and spirits to burn down my throat. I wondered if it was just the yearnings of my mortal body, something I could easily ignore. It was probably better to have the warmth of a shower and the kiss of sleep than to just sit in the car as it idled. It was maybe all the hours awake that was keeping me over-aware, eyes darting franticly at all the noises around. You would think me a shadow floating swiftly from the car seat out into the street. I felt the cold grip my ears and the dirty fumes of exhaust groan out into the air as the car puttered off down the street. My driver, of course, knew the importance of this night. How the journey would eventually have concluded here at the very house I believed to have burned down.

There was maybe a bit of fear mixed with my wonderment of such a place. It was younger than me but had experienced deep pain. The estate itself was old but the house was a project of my parents and now it all was mine. I buried my animals here years ago, creatures of deep love and loyalty, taken by various events of life. It was here I had tricked fate with a bet that would chain me to bitter traditions. One's that I could not change for the betterment of modern man. This is where the devils burned my parents and the priests and taxmen came to take me away and my property. My luck, however, has always even outplayed my inner needs and vastly outwitted the needs of destiny.

I wondered about the sanity of the man or woman that had taken on the reconstruction of the house in my absence and who was without the need of my money to pay for the venture. I pulled my coat tightly around me, the nights here had always been just a bit too uncomfortable but never enough to freeze to death. I waited for my driver to trek it back with the bags and open the front door for me. I heard no announcement, nor did it appear anyone else resided within, yet the warmth in the fireplace suggested otherwise. I grinned at the feeling of familiarity, it was as pristine as the day I had fled it.

It was impossible to know how I knew to flee back then. I just did and it wasn't even to run away from the very thing that killed my family. No, it was under a completely different guise to escape with a common girl, beautiful and simple, her black hair and smell still haunt my dreams some days. It, of course, didn't last very long as she was needed elsewhere to wed and have a family, something that wasn't meant for me on a human level. I of course was already married but it was not what many would think to be a traditional marriage. It wasn't a physical one in almost any sense of the word. I hung my coat and withdrew a notebook as I settled in front of the fire.

The pen itself probably materialized due to the urgency of the words, but as I scratched onto the empty pages my wants and needs so too did the book itself write back to me. I smiled, my lover was an ancient thing, and I had just told her the news of the house and the hunger I felt. I went and sat at the table where my wife had prepared a meal and a whiskey to bid me goodnight. On my napkin I noticed she had left her lipstick-pressed lips, I kissed them childishly and devoured my meal into the night.

On the Second day, I noticed the house had come alive with noise. As I woke and the curtains drew themselves, I noticed a young girl waiting by the door knitting something. I coughed for some water and the poor girl jumped straight up startled. I chuckled and stretched as the clothes around me began to wake as well. Dancing in a circle around me, dressing me piece by piece. When I was young it took me a while to get the hang of the momentum in which the clothes flew over my flesh, but now I could do it asleep.

I reached out and grabbed the cup of water the young girl had waiting for me, and my eyes widened at the purity of the liquid. I had forgotten that the freshwater spring by the house had been blessed years ago by the blood of animal warriors, long before the rise of mankind. I had bathed in those waters for years and drank it as often as I could to keep my senses nimble and royal. The house had truly awoken with life as the staff had finally shown up and properly adjusted all the clocks to be synced up correctly, a note I had written in the book last night, more as a complaint than I want.

Some would say the house was magical but it wasn't and it was very plain. No more magic here than the people that inhabited it. I was the battery that fueled this house. It probably had sat lifeless for years without much of anyone even noticing it. I could sense that even the grounds around the house were coming alive once more. The garden had finally bloomed new flowers and the animals that once avoided this place were now caught quite a bit off guard by all these new senses that were coming from the land around me.

I grew tired quickly here, all the forces around me draining me in all senses. At the end of the first few days, I realized I would black out the last remaining hours of the day and wake up somehow on my bed. It was concerning for I was always a bit dirtier than I remembered. My clothes were always a bit skewed, and dirt beneath my fingernails. The energy that I was providing to this space was at its utmost peak. I even saw the wounds of smaller inland animals heal and their diseases fade away. The old woman that always took my coat had started to look more lively and even started wearing glittered eye shadow.

I picked away at the dirt under my nails as I faded deeper into the bath. The young woman scrubbed my shoulders in urgency. I lifted a hand and she stopped. It was my lack of understanding of what this place was that led to what would occur. The knife she plunged into the side of my neck hurt truly though I felt nothing really as the blood poured out black and red. What a sight to behold as my head was held underwater, flashes of another woman grabbing my notebook and darting out of sight. As my thick blood floated above me on the edge of the bath water, I felt all my sense ache. I felt empty, truly tired, all my powers fading. The energy I was pouring into the land had been taken from me and now so was my life.

I let death claim me completely. I understood the task I was given by the knife. I was the sacrifice needed. My blood would sustain generations of humanity and spawn witches and lead innovations. I was bred to be this very thing since birth. Maybe I came here always knowing, or even feeling some sort of fucked up purpose, but as all of my life faded, I simply smiled as I finally got some real sleep.

by Sebastian Blanchette

There isn't a time or place left that I could tell you how I feel. Did you ever love me? Was any of this real? They are questions that have become mixed in with these city lights. It's a pain that is wrapped around me by the cold air like a cloudy blanket I've been here before. I am familiar with this pain. Yet, I am shaking with fear and sadness. I am breaking my heart to see A way out of these cycles Am I just a man of suffering? The shoes seem to fit more and more. I can feel the changes in the air It's not just the cold but the hollowing of my soul. I recall the journal you gave me so long ago. A book to fill with my writings, stories and memories. Its laid empty this whole time There isn't anything anymore Left to say or to be. Maybe there was a reason for me. or maybe I was a second choice. I have nothing left to hold me down. All at once I am lighter than air I am just the boy my Father made me to be I'll pass by with the breeze over houses and trees Maybe up here up at the highest height I'll see what it means to be just me.

by Sebastian Blanchette

The hour of midnight was cleaved open by the ringing of a telephone. It reverberated through the valley, thickening the fields of late summer wheat with the sound. There between the yawning fields and the hills that migrated ever skyward rested a farmhouse, which cast its shadow into the night and was known to the sparse inhabitants of the valley as kin to the river and the woods that huddled thickly on all sides.

The farmhouse, which was built with beams of those same forest’s bones and stones carried in from a quarry that served its time now as a lake beloved in high summer afternoons, had housed a family, as most houses have at one time or another. That family, referred to as sturdy farm folk by the kind, and less favorable words by others, kept to themselves, the animals, and their farm duties with the exceptions of holy days, when mass or other devotional inclinations might lead them to make a pilgrimage to church or someone’s front stoop.

Many families that traced their roots to the valley had dwindled into the dusk of the years, losing generations to the greedy hand of war, the booming call of industry, or the silver tongued allure of academia in far off universities. Still, the houses never fully emptied, the scents of evening meals and the glow of muted fires never fully abandoned the valley to that witching darkness.

The farmhouse loomed over the dead end of the village’s one winding road, better known to the hooves of cattle than any sparse automobile or even the booted feet of workers weary from work beneath the glaring sun. The front yard busied itself from dawn until dusk with roaming chickens, cats that stalked vermin from the attic to the furthest of fields, and children, blonde haired and bare footed, exchanging cries for laughter with the frequency of September storms. If you were to ask, in a friendly exchange with the grocer perhaps or the pastor after mass, in that offhanded way of country gossip, how many children the farmhouse and its keepers managed, or really much else about the family outside of the recipe for the mother’s rhubarb pie that she brought to the Easter picnic each year, you’d be left with little more than a shrug or a shared whisper of curiosity.

What was best known about the family was that there was never a lonely one among them for all the company they kept within those walls, they had always been there in the valley like wild garlic or the riverbed, and it seemed they always would be.

Now if you had asked anyone in the village or valley proper what they were up to now, no one could quite remember the last time the family had come by, to the one room chapel or the bakery on Main Street, but no one honestly put much thought into remembering. If they had, they may have also wondered about the last time they had heard the bellowing of a cow being herded into the barn out of the evening chill, or the last piercing squeal of a pig being led to the chopping block behind the barn for slaughter. No one noticed how tall and thick the wheat had grown over these blistering summer months, how they had waned from green to gold and still sent their collective whisper into the early mornings and timid dusks.

The phone rang, fracturing the night as windows in the distance awoke into curious gold. As the night stretched onwards over the spectral hour of deepest night, the farmhouse remained dark, silent in between those shrill rings, like the beating of a furious heart.

By Ariel Moniz

The family had lived there for some time now. The walls had trinkets and photos of all the different events and members that have come and gone throughout the years. The house looked lived-in and had the scars of children that were now adults. Certain rooms had hosted memories of heartbreak and broken promises, while other rooms were converted from baby rooms to music poster-filled walls.

The youngest child had finally left for college and as the car pulled away from the well-paved parking lot, the mother and father waved tenderly goodbye. The daughter looked at her rearview mirror staring at her parents until they were out of sight. A few drops of the winter rain started to come down on the pavement and the mom and dad rushed inside to avoid it. The door had a certain weight to it as it shut behind them. The mother rushed away and hid in the nearest bathroom. The father called out after her asking her if she wanted a drink but she barely grasped it.

She responded faintly and ran into their nearest bathroom, holding back her sobs as she braced the bathroom sink, peering at herself in the mirror. She needed to pull herself together. It wasn't her first child to leave for college, but she knew it would be her last and she felt the weight of time and the emptiness of all her children's laughter rush out from her home like a lifeless wind.

She took a deep breath, unbuttoned the top of her jeans to get more comfortable, and opened the bathroom door. She stood at the frame of the door for a minute just staring at the painting of trees that were hanging in front of her. They had bought it a long time ago and had moved from place to place with them as the kids grew. It was placed in a very unnoticeable part of the hallway due to having a plain color palette that didn't match the rest of the house.

She had always loved it though. It was a rather simple piece, just trees with beautiful green leaves on the edge of a forest-like assortment. She closed her eyes and remembered a time before the kids when she and her best friend would hike up mountain paths and would see things just like the painting in autumn when all the tree had lost their leaves. She smiled about that time, simpler and more innocent times. It made her laugh a bit as she regretted none of it and she felt fulfilled, the memory made her feel better and she move into the hallway. As she made her way towards the kitchen where she assumed her husband was getting his night of freedom ready, she peered quickly back at the painting. It struck her as odd but she hadn't ever noticed a black bush by the base of one of the trees. It looked out of place and new but she shrugged and moved forward toward the sound of her husband making whistling noises in the kitchen.

The months dragged on. Facetime calls turned into texts and just like all the other kids before the distance and typical life affairs got in the way of communication. The mom frowned at her phone, she knew they would all be apologetic during the holidays but she still wasn't used to the emptiness of the house. She made herself tea as she went to her bedroom to get ready for the day. It looked sunny out, so she put on shorts and a light top. She was going to meet her husband during his lunch break and try out a new local food truck. As she walked down the hallway she looked at the painting on the wall in confusion. Taking a step back into the bathroom and staring at the painting with bewilderment. Her husband must have changed the painting. It was eerily similar to the one they had before.

It occurred to her that the forest was laid out the same way the previous painting was. This one just looked like a dying forest. Trees were laid bare and leafless. Some looked to be cut down and were dying. The color scheme even looked different. It now merged well with the colors of the other frames and bookshelves around the house. Perhaps that's why she hadn't noticed till now. It just seemed to fit in so well with everything it was barely noticeable. She shook her head in frustration and ran out to meet her husband. Questions burning on the tip of her tongue.

He had no answers for her, unfortunately. He claimed the painting had always been that way since they had put it up. Even mentioning that she liked it cause it matched with the rest of the house. It confused her cause she was certain that it had been a different painting at one point, but she wasn't in a mood to argue and less about something as silly as a painting. She would probably bring it up to the kids when they got back home for the holidays and see if they remembered a different painting.

It was really bothering her though. Every day she would walk through the hallway and every day she would stare at the painting for a while. It never changed or moved. It certainly didn't feel familiar. She slowly forgot what the original painting looked like. What the leaves on the trees looked like and how the colors splashed vividly that it mocked her life as a mother. Matching the mess that was her children's childhood.

Then on the brink of the holiday season late in the evening, she noticed something odd about the corner of the painting. As if It was a shadow cast by the shading behind a tree trunk. What once was a bush was now a whole human-like figure. It sent chills down her spine, and she immediately took the painting off the wall and into the garage. She was done with it and feeling the insanity that it brought.

The next morning she had her husband take it to the dump and after much rationalizing, he finally agreed and sped away with it on top of their other rubbish. At least now she had peace and could come up with something to cover the empty space of the wall. She made a mental note to go to the store find something with her husband when he had time and pick something just for them.

Time is ever-consuming, however, and the holidays were busier than normal. As the kids and their significant others arrived, so did all the errands that had to be done to make their days home special. It was the youngest that reminded her first. Asking about the empty space on the wall outside of the bathroom. Her mother brushed it off as a matter of preference. It wasn't until they were all sitting talking at dinner that the old boy spoke. He asked about the painting that he had made all those years ago and why it wasn't on the wall anymore. The middle child made a joke about a lack of artistic talent and the youngest just sipped down her wine quicker.

Their mother sat there at the end of the question for a second, pondering why she had forgotten that her oldest had made it. How it was one of a few pieces that survived from his time at art school. How he was so happy to see it on their wall as the other siblings got older. She didn't know what to say. She just shrugged and allow her husband to come up with something. In the end, it was decided that it just was something that happened and that they were sorry if they offended their son in some way, that they completely forgot why it was there and just got rid of it to better match the house.

It was then that her husband exclaimed that he had stored it in the garage hidden behind his tools. That he hadn't thrown it but rather kept it for himself for some other space later. All the kids laughed and ran out to go see it. Their mother approached slowly from behind with worry and astonishment in her chest. She knew it was different than the way they had left it but more so that it was something she would have to get rid of herself later in private for her own faith suggested something darker under the pastels and acrylics.

There behind the tools, covered in what appeared to be very long paper was the painting and as their father withdrew it from its place by the wall the paper fell to reveal the painting's distorted glory. All the kid's voices quieted to a hush and then to complete silence. What was before their eye's sat a horrific image of insanity. The colors were uncomfortably distorted and what looked before like a shadow of a figure now proudly stood in the center of the painting blood running down its eyes. Words were written in an etched fashion on the trunks of the darkened dead trees. The brush looked to be aflame and soot was clearly smeared all over. With darkened glowing red lettering the tree trunks read:

“Where did all my happiness go?”

“I am all alone in here”

“Why do they not call me?”

“Will this emptiness ever not haunt me”

That's when the figure screamed from the painting. A woman's scream, a resounding scream. One that was matched by their mother as she screamed from behind them. For, the figure in the painting was her and the emptiness she hoped to hide away in her son's painting came bleeding out.

By Sebastian Blanchette

It doesn't seem to me that only flesh and blood hold a thing such as a life force. Whatever this energy that carries our meat bags around truly is, it must also inhabit things that are by our definition inanimate. Things that are both small and that have towered over us for ages.

I was small then, when I felt an attachment to insignificant things. Bits of shoelace and sheets that I wrapped around me like armor. It's was very lucky of us to be surround by small plastic toys and aging books. These things had true meaning in them. Not simply for the words the books held but for their placement as bricks in my ever growing tower of knowledge.

Where books had their dragons, the plastic toys had their true personas played out in derivatives of that learned fiction. Wars would be played out under the legs of my bed frame. Stories constructed deep in innocent imagination, magic running straight from my flesh to their fragile plastic figures.

These insignificant things somehow acted as both my creations and parts of my core self at the same time. The very dirt I ran on as a child, the aged single walled constructed house, and the pot hole littered easement are threaded into something that looks like my home, but feels like a memory.

Time has now passed and though the plastic toys are gone they still feel alive. It may just be an overwhelming imagination, but I still touch my car as if it was my living stead. I still have the toy armies in my head fighting for innocent truths.

In this perishable world where time consumes all things, are we not to be obliterated as well? Creatures of bleeding, aging, blasphemous power, will we not be consumed by time until nothing is left. As it is so, I hope to find all my things whatever or wherever is next. They are parts of me, and where ever they end up, I sense I will follow.

by Sebastian Blanchette