Risk for a Wish Granted

Years of studying Botany finally paid off. Mother always said that it was a useless Major, and that I should be studying “Western Medicine” and not Apothecary of sorts. Chance, that it was my love of fantasy worlds that drew me to the unknown. And maybe my open-mind led me to discoveries that others could not fathom, plants that myths and legends speak of. However, fame had come with a price, my undying commitment to the hunt for the Flora of Legend.

Mind you, the other scholars would poke fun at my attempts of convincing them that their scope of research was far too limited. There were so many plants that have been lost in ancient text and forgotten in the minds of those who claim to preserve the craft. Still, I perused every lead, every shred of information in order to discover the flowers of fable, and still, I went further in testing their properties. Poisons. Healing properties. Limb regrowth. This were the moments that I believed the stories labeled “Fiction” in the libraries. 

There was one plant, however, that eluded me. In time, I would make it my life’s work to obtain a sample of it’s petals and nectar. Known to the common-folk as Blossom of the Gods, ancient scrolls tell of the most beautiful flower that, when ingested, bestows immortality but at a price. However, nothing that I am able to find indicates what exactly that adverse effect is or entails for those who have discovered and eaten this rare plant have not scrawled a single note about even the taste.

Locating this unspeakably rare flower has proven understandably difficult.  Given what information I have, clues to the singular location where it grows. Whispers tell me to find a divergence of trees in the Amazon Rainforest after allowing yourself to become lost within its immensity and, only then, will Blossom of Gods can be found. After a simple drop of blood is placed upon a leaf, the flower will bloom. This is all of the information I am able to find.

So I am here, traveling through the thicket and broken stumps alone. Of course I’m afraid. What if I die here? More than likely, there are predators just beyond my vision, hid away in the green blur, waiting to pounce. Lost?Hours must have passed by  now. What have I gotten myself into? Maybe Mom was right…

Alas! No, it can’t be. Have I found it? Something shifts in the air as I step into the mossy clearing. No doubt this is holy ground. A raised platform centered in the space between the trees. I cannot even hear birds chirping anymore. Rising with each step, I begin to make out the leaf in which I must shed blood. My heart is racing as I approach the glowing plant and raise my hand directly over it. With a click of my pocket knife, I press the blade against my palm, piercing the skin just enough to drip the crimson liquid onto the leaf.

Suddenly, it draws itself into the ground. I wait. For a moment, it seems like nothing is going to happen, until an indescribable petrichor fills my nostrils. All my mind can grasp is euphoria as a glittering orchid-like flower rises from the ground. Without a second to dwell on the implications, here sits my life work, I tear a petal from the flower and it descends underneath. Immortality at a price. What is the price I will pay for this? Perhaps it is watching my loved ones pass from this world onto another. Steep yet fitting price. No guess I could have materialized could prepare me for the senses that the forsaken Blossom took from me.

Days later I woke up in the hospital. I could hear them talking around me, yet, as I tried to open my eyes, there was just blackness. I screamed and the nurses were forced to restrain me. When my mother came in, I could hear her sobbing and she pressed a fresh loaf of bread at me. But, the only reason I knew it was bread was the warmth and texture.

I only now understand what price the Blossom of the Gods had taken from me in exchange for endless life. First, my sight, for not appreciating the beauty and seeking more than what I deserved. Second, my sense of smell, something I had taken for granted while working as a Botanist. No longer can I resume my career. Instead, I returned to the place where the flower bloomed for me to find all those scholars from times past awaiting me. I felt their presence and they told me what I must do now.

Protect it. The flower chose me as it does not give it’s blessing to all those who come across it.

Confessions of an Empath

Image result for empath art

My single hope is that this post softens the hearts of those who know an Empath. Perhaps, even bolster those who share this confusing gift. I hope you enjoy.

Emotion. Not exclusively human, rather, felt by all. Some suppress it, others allow it to take it’s course. Still, I find myself inhaling it all.

A wave washes me out into the sea of those around me. I am dizzy from the bombardment of the lapping water. Struggling to stay afloat while hearing the trifles of my friends echoing in my ears.

Suddenly, something grabs me. It’s twisted testicles circle up around my legs, tightening every second. I recognize it as familiar. It is, in fact, my own emotions. And immediately, I am drowned. Pulled into the depths of the abyss.

I try to breathe, but even this is hard. And yet, I still lend my heart to those around me. Few who say they are my friends use me then cast me aside. My generousity bleeds with a new wound and my trust dwindles a little less. I can hear their whispers in my head.

“You are nothing,” it says. Then, I hear it on my own lips.

I start to wonder how much more my soul can take. My body aches for the pain of others stronger each day. Genocide, injustice, hatred screams in my head. But that’s not all. My own life only cultivates this feeling of confusion.

Exhaustion overcomes me and I slump to the ground at the shore of my mind. I gasp for air until I can breathe once again. But it is short lived. My own life takes a turn and I am carried out to the sea to fight once again.

Time passes and I realize the gift. I step onto the beach and take in a breath of fresh air. I surround myself with those who do not decay my bones, rather build them up. They are beautiful, scarred souls like mine. It feels kindred.

Each day I take my battered soul and gently lay it before me. Numerous scars from past and present battles covering it. Almost unrecognizable. There are those who may laugh at the sight. Others, may find it grotesque.

But still, a smile stretches across my face. For it is these scars that give me strength. Darkness cannot overtake me, no matter how long I battle. I understand that only those like me, who truly feel the tears of others, can battle such evil.

We are warriors, brothers and sisters. We are given this gift because we are strong, not weak. Our soul mates need us daily, and friends will need us too. Remember, though, take care of yourself first. For without understanding and rejuvenation, we will wither into dust.

Do not see this as a curse. Darkness is not always something to fear. It is part of life and it gives us true appreciation for all that is light. We were chosen, not only to fight the darkness in our own lives, but others as well. And not just by hearing the cries or anger of those around us, but by feeling it stronger than we thought was imaginable.

Take care, my fellow Empaths. Know that you need not walk the path alone.

A Glimpse of What’s to Come

After The Wanderer Trilogy, I plan on writing a compilation of short stories. I will be working on it from time to time, but I plan on being meticulous in how I write these stories. Here is just a taste of the very beginning. Do you plan on reading this? 🙂

 

shadow people

A WARNING

 

Contained in the bending of this book are the extensive and detailed notes of Edward L. Sutton, Independent Journalist and Author. Obsession – the reality of ‘mythical’ beings, particularly ones he dubbed Omens of Change. Current state of Mr. Sutton – deceased. I am just an interviewee.

When he finally spoke to me, I warned him not to publish this. The Others. They told me that they would kill him if he did anything more than speak to the Chosen. And they did just that. To be clear, I wish to remain anonymous for fear of what the world will think after they read this. That is, if they choose to believe it.

You see, the world is crumbling. Humanity is weak and afraid. They commit unspeakable crimes against one another. Hate speech, assault, rape, and murder run rampant. And yet, we live in our subdivisions and follow our own monotonous routine, caring little of the suffering of others. Still, we occasionally find ourselves pulled from the mundane and out of our comfort zone. Usually, it is within the unconscious mind. We remember these experiences. And you may believe these are nothing more than a coincidence. I am here to tell you that the concept of chance is more of a myth than these creatures.

My warning is this, dear reader, be vigilant. Once you dive into the contents of this book, there is no turning back. You will know more about the universe than you may want to. And sometimes, the truth is terrifying. I guarantee you that these stories are nothing short of that. Many of you will not be able to stomach what you find within these pages. Clarity is a risk. But it is what you do with this information that will determine your fate. The Others, they will be watching. And if you displease them, they will come for you.

Pray to whatever deity that they NEVER come for you.

Although, you could have already met these creatures before. Perhaps you were already deemed one of the Chosen, but do not yet understand what that means. That, my brothers and sisters, is why I am allowing this book out into the public. To finish Edward L. Sutton’s work. His single goal was to unite all of those who have sensed the Omens. Nonetheless, he did make it relatively convenient for us to find one another through his writings. Tales that will outline different events that you may have witnessed. If so, follow the trail, allow the Other to contact to you however they wish, and find the rest of us.

They are waiting. So am I.

-Anonymous

Back to the Writing Prompts!

writing prompt

“Even canned goods go bad eventually.”

That was what his mother always told him. And that was before the bombs dropped. Now it was just Trevor. Well… not just Trevor. There were others. But they had no clue how to survive this chaos. So Trevor had to take charge. He told the others what his mother had taught him. Sometimes they would listen. But they were just kids. Most of them were under 12.

“Come on guys!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. The younger children had to, yet again, take another potty break. “We have to forage for food. We don’t have enough for even a meal!”

“Why can’t we go to the store?” one of the ten-year-olds asked. Her hair was matted and dirty. “Where is mommy and daddy?”

Trevor already knew it was coming. Another crying fit… from all of them. “I already told you all. Your parents died in the explosions.”

Everyone burst into a loud sob. He wanted to leave them, so badly. But he couldn’t let them die. And that’s just what would happen. They would starve. What he really wished for was an older adult. He was only eighteen and this was way too much responsibility for a teenager.

Where had the adults gone? In his rural suburb, they were in a town hall meeting. He was in charge of watching the children while the parents talked about what Mayor they were going to vote for in an upcoming election. Trevor always thought it was stupid. What difference would a small-town Mayor make anyway? Everyone knew everyone. If they had issues, they would sort it out with their fists or their words. He volunteered, against his mother’s wishes, to watch the children this time.

“I don’t want to vote anyway,” he snapped. “It’s a stupid election.”

But that was what saved Trevor a week ago. No one saw it coming. Hell. No one could see what caused the crater in Evergreen. Bombs? A meteor? Either way, it was another week walk to the closest town. And these kids were not making it easy to keep moving.

When they had all finally stopped crying, they were on the move again. Trevor had picked some wild blueberries and some oyster mushrooms for the group. And yet, there was another argument about what they liked to eat.

“I don’t like mushrooms.”

“I want a cheeseburger.”

“When can we find someone to feed us real food? Like chicken nuggets.”

Trevor sighed loudly, ignored them, and continued to lead them to the next down over, Baskerville. When these kids got really hungry, they would eat whatever he provided. Even mushrooms.

As they were trudging down the asphalt road, something caught a young girl’s eye. She pointed, but did not speak. The shimmer of the containers reflecting off the sunlight was beautiful. Or was Trevor becoming delusional? He hadn’t slept well in days. Food was scarce. Whatever he did find, he usually gave the children, leaving nothing for himself. Perhaps, he was becoming delusional.

“Canned goods.” He said to himself. The group cheered in unison while looking at the pictures on the wrappers. Ravioli, soup. It was enough to bring a tear to Trevor’s eye. His stomach started growling.

That was when he felt something sticky on his hand, underneath the can. He turned it over. A large hole was on the back of it. The contents were all over his hand and they did not smell good. He flipped the can upside down to read the expiration date. As he read the date, his heart sank.

“Even canned goods go bad eventually.”

 

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