Dissociation

  She opened the door into the classroom, her eyes open but her mind shut. The students stared at her as she walked in, the music pounding her eardrums relentlessly. She looked at all of them, their eyes half-closed as the droning of the lecturer continued over her dramatic entrance. She sighed, and sat herself down.
  Reaching down, she pulled an assortment of books, pens and papers from her bag, placing them upon the table carelessly. The unfocused eyes of her peers studied her every move, seeming to revel in her tardiness and enjoying a spectacle of mess and incompetence. She ignored them all. The music was ramping up, and she nodded her head to the beat, as though it was cheering her on as she set about the impossible task of confronting life.
  Finally, her studying peripherals were in place. She sat herself up, looking forward to face the lecturer whose attention was more on the blackboard than the students he was supposedly educating. Words that made up information were plastered across the board, but it made as much sense to her as the world to a child. The lecturer turned, his mouth moving and his hands gesturing, but she could hear nothing.
  The other students had shifted their attention once more, except for the one sitting next to her. The boy smiled at her and opened his mouth, his teeth seeming to clack and his tongue moving in the manner of speech. But the music had reached a crescendo, and it dubbed over his mannerisms with discordant melodies and riotous singing. She stared, observing his movements but comprehending little. Perhaps he was praising how she looked, or maybe he was scolding her for being late. Perhaps the music was too distracting for discernment, or maybe she just didn't care.
  She turned away from the boy, looking forward with a strange emotion boiling within. It was something between anger, sadness, loneliness and laziness. It was a dangerous concoction that swirled and bubbled, steaming over her heart with unforgiving ire.
  She looked out at the crowds around her, and let the music wash over her ears, slowly decreasing in intensity, but a comfort nevertheless. She stared at the lecturer, who was now looking at her with a mixture between curiosity and annoyance. She glanced at her notes, which seemed to stare back at her with judgement for their obvious disuse. She reached for her earpieces, and stopped.
  Maybe sometime she would face the conglomeration in her chest with absolute certainty. Perhaps one day she would face each member of the student body with sharp eyes and a sharper mind, removing them from their adverse states and bringing them into perfect enlightenment. In some distant time, she might confront the lecturer for his wrongful dissertations and hypocritical thinking, unveiling the truth of his terrible worldview. One day, she might confront the world for all the problems that it gave each being, for all the sorrows she experienced and all the fury that it incited; for the pains it gave her and everyone else.
  Maybe one day, but not today. Her hand fell from her ears as she placed them on the table, letting the earpiece remain. She let the next track play, slowly resting her head in her arms. The students stared at her, the lecturer glared at her, the world frowned at her, but she closed her eyes. Someday, but not today.

Wishes to Pass

Standing at this precipice
At the edge of darkest darkness
Before the peak where the world ends
Between the shadow of death
And the light of life
Can you still hear my tired song?

Content to play second fiddle
Always in view, but never seen
Slow to move, slow to speak
A terrifyingly weak existence
Below this meek persistence
I grew ever smaller through time

Even so, swallowing this bitter pill
This proving of the death march
This void encapsulated soul
Caught between desires and desire
Trapped in the box of personal design
I'd scream to leave but I'll stay inside

But then a lens provided eyes
A widened view for a lower price
Sweet relief from lonely life
The bigger world in a whole new light
But the shadow's there, just weaker
I knew I never should have wandered

A majesty too bright
Not illuminating, but blinding sight
A pain too real, a life too light
Stardrop honey, moonbeam jam
The throes too sweet for dying men
I'd let myself taste once again

But darkness shall always
outlast the light
No matter the strength
No matter the time
Beyond it, the cycle always lies
I'll sink again, but that's alright

So please forget this wretched child
Weak and whimpering,
pale and sickening
A failure, a fraud, a hopeless fool
It is undeserving of anything real
I'm nothing but a simple tool

For though you spoke of future
A brighter time and better place
Of hope for it to grow and nurture
Couldn't you see the loathsome truth?
All the hope that was left
What I'd stored for myself

I'd long given to you.

Farewell.

Important Conversations

  I’d spoken a hundred thousand times to the statue but since the moment I’d first met it, its responses were always stone cold. Not that they were lacking in content, but there’d always been an undercurrent of apathy and disinterest.

  “What would you like for lunch today?” I once asked, and the reply was stronger than silence could ever have been.

  “Cereal is not a lunch food, statue, but even if it was we can’t make any, seeing as how you forgot to buy the milk the other day.”

  Instead of apologising, the statue immediately discussed the current state of political affairs. However, it was filled with so many disingenuous assertions that I knew it didn’t believe in half the things it was saying. In fact, I knew nothing of politics and I could understand a little of what he was saying, which was already a big red flag.

  I interrupted it, “yes that’s all very interesting, but what about lunch?”

  It was a while later that I found myself eating cereal by the bedside, having taken the time to purchase milk for myself. Perhaps I should have done so from the beginning; the process would have been so much faster. I laid the bowl in front of the statue but it refused to touch it. “Don’t you know that cereal has lots of protein? How will you grow big and strong?” I questioned, but there was no answer. How could there be? I was completely reasonable; any response from it would have been the opposite, on account of my being right.

  Instead, the statue responded with a long monologue about the intricacies of the public transportation system. I countered with an equally unrelated quote from the journal of meteorology and climatology, stating that global warming would significantly change the landscape of housing. There was no rebuttal, for I had won simply on account of being more researched.

  “It feels as though I have won this argument,” I said smugly. The statue did not reply, and I knew it was sulking.

  In this manner we passed the day, bantering uselessly with baseless information neither of us knew or had ever sought out. It was a relationship founded on shaky ground, both poor in substance and in authenticity, but it was one I maintained for the sake of future times, when the statue might be more passionate and receptive about things that really mattered.

An Item of Significance

  As Clark stared outside the window, the woman behind the desk continued to punch numbers into the keyboard with relentless efficiency. He could hear the unforgiving clicks of the peripheral, its cold, plastic frame resisting her fingers as she continued to key in his information.

  He sighed. He really would have preferred to be at home right now, but his mother had given him two choices: obtain his bank card, or lose his computer privileges- so really, she had given him no choice at all. With her nagging following him, he'd left the house before she could say the words that would actually bind him and his blasted conscience, grumbling his way to the nearest bank outlet. 

  What felt like years later he was still standing there, thinking about all the (relatively) important things he could have been doing instead. The videos he could be watching, the games he could be playing, the things he could be drawing… certainly activities infinitely more significant and meaningful than this dull process of endless waiting for something he didn't even care about!

  The woman didn't seem to notice the boredom that painted his face. Perhaps she was purposefully ignoring it, or she would have increased the pace she was working at. "Alright that's the account transfer complete," she said in a robotic, melodic voice. "Just type in a 6 digit number of your choice in the keypad over there, and I'll have your card ready in another few minutes." 

  He grunted in what he hoped was an appreciative manner, which was difficult considering all the seething that boiled under his skin. He didn't even think about the six numbers, slamming in a random code he'd probably remember later, maybe. He just wanted to be home right then, and anything that sped the process was more than welcome.

  The woman didn't even flinch at his aggressive speed that denoted his lack of consideration. She simply smiled, nodded, and continued her work. He went back to staring outside the window once more, truly beginning to comprehend the phrase, 'bored out of one's skull.' An eternity later, she materialised behind the desk (had she left? He hadn't even noticed) and handed him a shiny yellow card plastered with numbers and logos. 

  "Here's your debit card, sir, thank you for your patience. We hope you enjoy this free service by Your Friendly Local Bank! A friendly reminder; please do not misplace or damage the card, as a police report will have to be made. Furthermore, the creation of the next card will be charged on your account. Thank you, and have a nice day!" Stifling a sigh of relief, he swiped the card from her fingers and stalked out the glass doors with no delay. The feeling of freedom and productivity was almost palpable: he was finally free of this irritating, unwelcome responsibility! 

  He stuffed the card into his pocket thoughtlessly, whistling as he walked down the pavement back home. The cars on the road seemed a little brighter, the day felt slightly cheerier, and the people looked marginally friendlier. He wondered which game he should play when he reached home. There was an RPG he'd bought ages ago gathering dust on his shelf, but he'd recently been addicted to a platformer that continually challenged him… 

  Out of nowhere, a man in a sequined vest jumped at him, brandishing a straight, black and white stick in artistic swirls and twirls. "Ho there!" the man shouted. He accompanied his greeting with a deep bow, removing the ridiculous top hat from his head and placing it across his chest as he did so. Clark's first reaction was to recoil in shock, but the emotion soon faded into excitement when he realised who it was: a Magic Man!
  "Greetings, mortal," the man said as he straightened himself. His hat was replaced on his head with a garish amount of flourish. "I am Calumnia Machiniato, virtuoso of the four winds and prodigy of the transformative arts! Today is your lucky day; for today, I have chosen to favour you with my mastery of the metaphysical!"
  Clark laughed and clapped his hands together. Magic Men always gave such superfluous introductions, but there were far fewer as the years went on, and he'd always been fascinated by them and their magical abilities.
  The excitement seemed to please Calumnia, as he smiled and spread his arms. "You seem ecstatic mortal, and you should be! I have powers other practitioners only dream of, and I feel generous enough to show a few today! What would you like to see first? My repertoire is expansive..."
  Clark pointed at the ridiculous hat on the Calumnia's head. "Make a rabbit!" he said with an almost childlike disposition. Without hesitation, the Magic Man pulled his hat off his head and reached within. After a short struggle, he hauled a snow white rabbit out by the ears.
  Clark shouted in glee. The Magic Man smiled and replaced the rabbit on his head, covering it with the hat. "Child's play, mortal. What would you like to see next?"
  "Make some cloth!"
  Calumnia obliged. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out unnatural amounts of colourful cloth, tossing it carelessly to the side whilst smiling all the while. Clark was thrilled; he picked the cloth off the pavement and rubbed it into his palms, checking if it was real. "You don't see to be able to give me a challenge mortal. It appears that I must show you something beyond your imagination. Tell me, do you have a fifty dollar bill?"
  Nodding excitedly, Clark, whipped out a week's worth of his lunch money without hesitation. He pressed the scrunched up bill into the man's hand and stepped back, awaiting the grand spectacle. Calumnia smiled mysteriously, and raised the bill high into the air between his two fingers. "You have given me something incredible mortal, for within all things there is life, to varying degrees. With the gift I have been given, I can see this bill has an especial quality of significance, and so I will restore the life that it has. Behold!"
  Calumnia raised his other hand and slapped the bill into his palm, squashing it and making a loud clap that jerked Clark into jumping. Calumnia closed his eyes in intense concentration and waved his arms about his head in a ridiculous manner, mumbling strange words under his breath all the while. As he did so, Clark swore that the Magic Man's hands began to glow. The world around seemed to bristle with energy, and goosebumps ran up and down Clark's skin as Calumnia continued his chanting and waving.
  With a final shout and a swift movement, the Magic Man threw his hands behind his head, and threw them forward again, splitting them apart and releasing...
  A butterfly!
  The butterfly was not normal however, the pattern on its wings were exactly those of a fifty dollar bill! It flew around Calumnia's head for a while, before resting on Clark's shoulder. Awed and slightly scared, he stiffened, trying to get a closer look at the now-living money without moving his head.
  "That, is my ultimate power, mortal. Giving life, to the lifeless," Calumnia whispered dramatically. The butterfly left Clark's shoulders to rest on Calumnia's own. "I know you have been impressed by my unparalleled power, so I leave you with this."
  Calumnia tossed a shiny coin toward Clark, who snatched it out of the air and looked at it. Calumnia's own face was printed on it. "A keepsake, to remind you of the power that exists within me, and within this world. Tell your associates, and I can be there."
  Clark nodded and Calumnia marched past him, his sequined vest glimmering in the sunlight that left colourful imprints on Clark's eyes. Shaking his head to clear his mind, Clark once more set off for home without looking back once. If he had, he might have caught Calumnia stuffing a fifty dollar bill down his pocket.

  Back at home, Clark changed and dumped all his dirty laundry into the collective basket, rushing up the stairs to his room. He pulled out an unused photo frame from his drawers and pulled out the back. Carefully, he removed the insignia coin from his pocket and taped it on, replacing it within the photo frame and setting it on his table. He smiled happily; that had been the best Magic Man he had ever seen, and it was definitely the highlight of his day.
  He turned on his computer, logging into his social media accounts and bragging about the great experience that he'd had to all his friends, all the while shooting glances at the coin that reminded him of the significance of that day.
  It was of great surprise and displeasure to him when his mom stormed into his room an hour a later, a wet and now-useless debit card clutched in her fingers.

A Memory of Bliss

  "Hold close to my side. I don't want you wandering off again, alright?"

  Jason looked up at his mother, slightly confused.

  "I mean it. I don't want to spend an hour leading a manhunt again. Just stay close to me, okay?"

  Jason did as he was told. As he clutched at the arm of his mother, the world passed him by, blurry and nondescript. Strangers were faceless and unknowable, full of motivations and knowledge he couldn't possibly yet comprehend, but that was not important. At least he was by his mother's side.
  The shopping mall was full of bright lights and colours, but most of them held little meaning to Jason. The bits and baubles inside display cases, the mannequins and powerful lighting; all of it was irrelevant to him, but that didn't mean he couldn't be fascinated by them. A cartoon played on a TV screen, and he slowly drifted away from his mother's arm.
  "Ohh no you don't. I got you." He heard her voice as his own arm was grabbed in a grip that was immeasurably firm but impossibly gentle. He looked up and the face was as clear as day, as sharp as knives, as real as reality could get. She gave him a rough smile, torn between amusement and annoyance, and pulled him closer to her side.
  "We are getting these groceries and we are leaving. No distractions."
  He nodded. No matter the pretty colours and wonderful lights, no one was more luminous or wonderful than mother. A constant, solid as stone and immovable as mountains.
  The groceries were purchased, lugged into a shopping cart, and pushed out into the car park. This time, Jason didn't wander off. Instead, he kind of helped, placing his tiny hands against the cold steel of the cart and heaving as hard as he could. Sometimes he could move the cart with ease, and other times he felt as if it was taking his entire body strength; a variable he could never understand on trips like these. He heard his mother laughing.
  Eventually they reached the car. He tried to assist again reaching his tiny hands up and trying to reach over the cart, but his mother shooed him away. She loaded everything into the trunk herself, slamming the door with distinct satisfaction. As she dusted her hands, he ran into her and hugged her. He was a little surprised himself. His mother placed her hands around his head. "What's wrong?" she asked in a quiet, warm voice. He clutched her legs tighter.
  "I love you mommy," he replied. He wasn't making sense right now, but he just felt as though it was the right thing to do at that moment.
  "I love you too, sweetie." He thought he could detect a hint of choking in her voice.
  They piled into the car. She put the key in the ignition as he settled in the back, throwing his hands up and about. The car began to move, inciting him to kneel on the car seat and gaze out, laughing as the shades of grey, white and black of road and tarmac, the green and brown of  trees and shrubbery, became indistinct hues blending one into another as they gathered speed toward home.
  "Put on your seat belt sweetie," his mother said, and he obeyed. He sat himself back down and pulled the latchplate down, letting the strap fasten him to the seat and buckling it with a satisfying click. He always loved that sound. Secretly, he pushed the button that unbuckled the seat belt and reinserted it, hearing the click come once again.
  "I heard that," she said. "Keep it buckled, please."
  He giggled, and repeated the action, trying to make the click as quiet as possible.
  "Alright kiddo, if you want me to pull over and lock down that buckle with super glue, feel free to keep trying."
  He laughed and left the buckle alone. He didn't want to be super-glued to his seat."
  For an immeasurable length of time he sat in that car seat, straining himself to stare out the window into a blank and unrecognisable landscape. He wondered at the way things seemed to bleed into each other, at how their lines blurred as his mother drew faster and faster. Then, he thought that perhaps they were not driving faster and faster, but that the world was simply bending around them. Then, he realised that it didn't matter, because he was in the car with his mother, and everything was outside it. He was safe within, not without.

  Suddenly, something occurred to him that he hadn't noticed before. He was alone with his mother. That shouldn't be right.
  "Mommy?"
  "Yes, sweetheart?"
  "Where's daddy?"
  Silence filled the air. There was no noise for a time, not even the hum of the engine. "He's... not here sweetheart." came the reply, "he had... other things to do. But he'll be back."
  "When?" he asked.
  "When he's ready," she said.

 Jason frowned. That didn't sound like an answer at all. He looked outside the window with ease, but the world beyond had disappeared. "Mom, where's Dad? How come we're out grocery shopping alone when he should be here, helping you. Pushing the cart, loading the trunk... he should be doing all that. Where is he?"
  "I don't know sweetie... I don't know when he's coming back." He heard a strain in her voice.
  The belt buckle felt abnormally tight around his midriff, and he straightened up slightly, letting the strap readjust itself over his body.
  "But Dad should be here right now; helping us, helping you."
  "It's fine, we don't need him for now."
  "But-he-should-be-here," he insisted.

  He looked directly at where her head should be behind the headrest. His eyes were completely level with it. "How come you've never told me why Dad wasn't around?"
  His mother was definitely crying now. "Because you were just a kid. How could you understand our world of adults? How could I ruin someone who was perfect to you? How could I ruin you like he ruined me?"
  "I'm not a kid anymore, mom. I deserve to know the truth."
  "We all deserve to know the truth, but we're not always prepared for it. Please, go back to being a little kid."

  There was no car. They were standing in empty space, staring at each other surrounded by darkness.
  "I can't. Please. I want to know."
  She wept tears from tired eyes, cheeks lined with care and hair grey with stress. She was no longer luminous and wonderful, but sad and forlorn, her glow of love and courage replaced by depression and exhaustion.
  "Everyone makes mistakes. History repeats itself. Love is temporary, and frugal in more ways than one."
  "I've heard that all my life, from sources other than you. Those are abstract reasons; concepts of human nature. I want to hear what you have to say."
  His mother looked at him. There was a smile on her face. It was the type of smile that she'd given him when he'd finished secondary school, when he'd graduated primary school, when he'd painted his first picture, when he'd drawn his first character, when he'd said his first word, when he'd smiled at her face, when he'd lain in her arms, dirty and unsightly, but alive.
  "I'm sorry. I can't. I wish I could, but I can't. I have to go."
  Suddenly he was a kid again. He was in the shopping mall, surrounded by strangers. The colours were blinding and lovely, bombarding him with feelings and sensations he didn't care one whit about. His mother was right there, staring at him with regretful eyes as the world swept around them. "Don't leave me," he cried.
  "I'm sorry I can't stay."
  "But you're here right now!"
  "I have to go."
  "Don't leave me..."
  "I love you."

  Jason woke with tears in his eyes. He sat up, wiping them away to stare outside the window. A bird tweeted at him from the treetop, as real and alive as the world was. He stared at the photo of his mother on his bedside table, and lay back down. She had never answered his questions. She never would. She'd been his mother, but she'd never been his friend.
  He turned and buried his face in the pillow, dampening it. Perhaps he could fall back asleep. Without his questions and anger, it had been such a good dream.

Boxed In

  Sharon tried to scream as the warp in dimensional space sent her flying through infinity. Her entire body felt both stunted and elongated at the same time. Despite the speed she knew she must be travelling at, she felt completely stationary; if anything, she felt immovable, as though her being was fixated in an abstract point. The world bent around her, distorting and blending before she finally seized. There was no warning; one moment she was progressing, the second she was not. Or was it one moment she was fixed, the next she was not? Perhaps there was no difference between either scenarios.

  As her environment finally settled, she analyzed her surroundings in fear and desperation, wondering what horrors awaited her in this new dimension. She was seated on a soft, immensely comfortable couch, in front of what she perceived was a television screen. It appeared to be playing some sort of comedy show, with a strange focus to slapstick. It was all so weirdly normal, considering she had just been transported through space-time.

  In fact, there was nothing overtly unusual about her surroundings at all. She was simply at someone's apartment, seated on the couch, watching television. There appeared to be no one else but her around, which made the silence slightly eerie, but nothing particularly unsettling other than that. She might have felt right at home if she hadn't just experienced some form of dimensional travel.

  Eventually, she found the courage to move from her seat. She checked around the house, looking for any other signs of life, but there were none. Under the bed, in the other rooms; she truly was alone in here. She opened the fridge and discovered that it was chock full with food. The sink in the kitchen was perfectly functional, and the water that spilled forward felt real enough. She even drank a little, and there were no immediate averse effects.

  She looked out the window and the world was out there, albeit strangely quiet and empty. Though there were cars in the parking lot, there was no one around; no random stranger going about their business, no child playing around in their spare time. Perhaps she had arrived in a world that had died.

  No matter. She would just have to leave this house and find out more about it. Perhaps it would give some clue as to how she could return to her own time and place.

  She left the kitchen and strode past the couch where she'd first found herself. The front door was nearby, and she reached for its handle.

  YOU WILL DIE.

  The voice rang like a gong in her head, reverberating through her skull and making her clutch at her temples in pain. She was sent to her knees with tears forming in her tightly closed eyes. When vision returned and the pain was reduced to a dull aching, she opened her eyes and searched for the source of her terror. But there was nothing around her. A particularly comic scene played on the screen, where a man did a back flip after being slapped in the face.

  "Who's there?" she said, cowering against the door.

  I AM THE MASTER OF THIS SPACE, the voice rang inside her skull again. This time, it did not cause any pain, though it did make her knees tremble.

  "What do you want?"

  TO LIVE. IF YOU TOUCH THAT DOOR HANDLE, YOU WILL DIE.

  She shook her head, pulling herself to her feet, "Why? Why will I die?"

  THERE IS NO REASON. TO LIVE, YOU MUST NOT TOUCH THAT DOOR.

  She recoiled from the object of death immediately. She looked around the room, trying to find other ways to leave. If she could not leave by the door, perhaps there were other means. The window, she thought, and moved toward it. She reached for the latch that unlocked the glass panes, smiling slightly.

  TOUCH THAT LATCH AND YOU WILL DIE.

  Again, the voice forced her to her knees. The tiles felt cool to her fingers, but it did nothing to soothe the pain that rocked her mind. She retched as she knelt there, trying to think through the pain. Why would she die? Why couldn't she touch these objects? Who was the master of this world? As the pain receded, she found enough courage to stand. She was a trained professional: she could sit on this couch, analyse the problem, and solve it. She didn't believe in any gods. Omniscience was impossible.

  The TV played before her, but it might as well have been a blank wall. She'd entered a mode her colleagues had mockingly called 'the praying mantis'. She was wholly committed to picking apart the problem and finding solutions to it.

  The answer came within seconds. She'd examined the words, found a flaw, and constructed a plan. All it needed was a little bit of string, and a weight: perhaps a spoon. She found both sitting together in a kitchen drawer and smiled. Perhaps luck was on her side. She tied the string around the neck of the spoon and made a large loop at the string’s other end. She then approached the doorway and with extreme care, looped the string around the handle. Her fingers had not touched the handle. She grinned, and used the spoon to pull it downward. The door opened.

  YOU ARE A REBELLIOUS ONE. LEAVE THROUGH THAT DOORWAY AND YOU WILL DIE.

  There was no excruciating pain this time, but she backed away from the door regardless. She almost cried. Freedom was right through that entrance, tantalising beyond belief. But she could not leave, and she did not want to die.
  However, methods to escape were not exhaustive. There was still the kitchen window, and the other rooms had windows and escape routes too. She would persevere through this until she could find another way back to her own world. Omniscience was impossible. Any problem had a solution.
  She would find an alternate route.

  YOU CANNOT TOUCH THAT PIPE. YOU WILL DIE.
  YOU CANNOT MOVE THAT STOOL. YOU WILL DIE.
  YOU CANNOT ENTER THAT ROOM. YOU WILL DIE.
  YOU CANNOT CROSS THAT THRESHOLD. YOU WILL DIE.

  She worked as long and as hard as she could. She picked at multiple different solutions, explored every angle, tried every possible combination: different tools, different items. She did not tire, she did not break, but every moment seemed to be sending her backtracking instead of forward. There was no way out of the house.
  Soon, she sat on the couch, angry and exhausted. The audience on the TV screen laughed uproariously at an obviously unfunny joke. She was tempted to throw something at the screen, to smash it to a million different shards and crush those shards between those fingers... but she did not. She had been forbidden to touch the TV, or she would die. She did not want to die.
  She sat on the couch for a long time, not watching the program or even contemplating the situation. Her body slowly sank deeper and deeper into the cushions. 
  HM. THIS IS THE WAY THIS REALITY SHOULD BE. NO HUNGER, NO THIRST. SIT THERE. WATCH TV. 

  I F Y O U L E A V E T H A T C O U C H , Y O U W I L L D I E .

  Sharon didn't know how long she'd been there. She'd curled up in a fetal position, staring blankly at the screen as it played the comedy show. There was always new content, but all of it was exaggerated and ridiculous. True to the Being's word, she did not hunger or thirst. She could sit on that couch and live forever, or she could move from it and die. She did not want to die.
  So she continued, an eternity spent in nothingness, with no progress or productivity. No next step, no moving forward- nothing.
  But at least she was alive.

Beneath the Tree

  There was a wonderfully tall tree on the hilltop that Jason always liked glancing at. It was at least five times taller than him, had long branches bursting with green leaves that shaded a large area beneath it, and gave off this fresh, wonderful smell that he could breathe in even from the pavement.

  However, he’d always been a little too busy, too in a hurry, to take any time to visit the tree. He’d lived in the area for at least two years, seen the tree almost every day on his way to somewhere or other, but had never actually been beneath its shadow before. Sometimes, he would pause on the sidewalk for half a moment, staring wistfully at the tree, before shaking his head and pressing onward, his mind pulled back to more important and urgent matters.

  However, the tree remained a constant, always in the back of his mind. Free days were few and far between, but on the morning of one, Jason decided that he needed to meet the tree. At the very least, he would spend a few minutes just standing near it; perhaps he could touch the bark, grab a leaf and find out what the fragrance was like up close.

  His resolution was set. On the morning of his intended trip, the calls started coming in: projects, work, papers, contacts; he silenced his cell phone and turned off his computer. He put on his cap and laced up his sneakers, humming all the while. His phone vibrated on the table, but for once, he didn’t even notice it. He could finally meet the tree.

  He stepped out of the house, feeling light and light-headed. The door seemed to lock itself before he set off down the path, curiously excited. The pavement was surprisingly empty as he strolled jauntily, trying to contain a sudden urge to whistle.

  Soon, he came to the spot where he would always pause for those half-moments. The tree swayed gently in the distance, seeming to dance to the breeze that now gently caressed his face. He breathed deeply, immersing himself in the scent that had become so familiar. Climbing over the fence- had there always been a fence there? He’d never noticed- he felt his sneakers sink into the grass that was taller than expected. Though they tickled at his legs, they were mere nuisances in his journey to that wonderful tree.

  In a much shorter time than he expected, he was right at the edge of the shadow of the tree. He smiled up at its leaves, and breathed deeply. It was a momentous occasion, and he wanted to feel every angle, every particle of that point in time.
  He stepped forward.
  The world became slightly darker, though the aroma grew stronger simultaneously. He took another step, and every step after that was easier. Soon, he was standing next to the trunk of the tree. He rested his hand against it, enjoying the rough texture of the bark. It was everything he had imagined.

He sat down beneath the tree, resting his back against it. He could see his house from here. Time seemed to slow; the breeze was even gentler, the grass was comfortable instead of intrusive, and the tree bark felt softer than down.
  Abruptly, he heard rustling before a head appeared over the hilltop. It was a freckled face with green eyes and red hair; she was his age.

  “Hello,” she said. She didn’t look the least bit surprised to find someone else beneath the tree.

  “Hi,” he replied. Somehow, it felt natural that both of them should be there at the same time. They stared at each other for a second, an eternity, before she walked beneath the leaves, up to the tree, and sat down.

  For a long while, they sat there, staring out at the buildings beneath them. Perhaps time froze; he couldn’t tell. He said nothing, she said nothing, and they existed beneath that tree for an untold length of time.

  Soon, she rose from her seated position, and left. There was no warning, no indication; she was simply gone, her only trace being the flattened grass where she once was. Somehow, he felt a sudden lack, as though she had been vital to the experience, even if she hadn’t done anything. In mere moments, he felt dissatisfaction with the tree.

  All he could think about now was how much happier he’d been when there was someone else to share the tree with him.

  Maybe she’ll come back, he thought. So he sat there and waited. She did not return.

  The sun began to set. Every prick of the grass seemed to sting, the bark poked against his back, rugged and deformed. He looked at the tree and sighed, mild anger simmering in his heart. He got up, and left without any intention of coming back. He no longer smelt the fragrance in the wind.

  

  When she returned, the man was no longer sitting there. Slightly disappointed, she sat beneath the tree. Staring out at the houses beneath her, she felt a sudden lack. However, she rested herself against the tree and breathed deeply; recapturing that feeling she’d had when the shade had first enveloped her.

  The sun disappeared beneath the horizon, and the stars began to appear. She looked at them and smiled. She’d been here a thousand times, but each moment seemed more alive than the last.

  She would return tomorrow.