I had an active imagination when I was younger – I dreamed up elaborate histories for the fictional worlds that inhabited the landscapes around my childhood home.

This is sort of a “description” of the world I’d imagined around my home, but it’s also partly a story of a single day – or maybe a single year.

This is typed up from a notebook where I jotted them down, so it’s a little rough. But it’s interesting, so I thought it might be worth sharing.

Enjoy.

Gomez: The Kingdom of the Elves, perched high atop a forested hillside – jutting out into the swamp.

With it’s flat top and steep sides, and the deep forest perched atop it – a reminder of the elder days where the elves lived in safety, hidden away from the prying eyes of men.

The Valley of the Pines – cut by the Great River – divides the elder forest from the younger forests to the north.

The Great River, which feeds into the swamp, which stretches for miles, eventually turning into a marsh of salt waters where it meets the sea.

The Great River tumbles its way down the valley from the mountains to the west, carving its way among the ancient stones, moss-grown pools where some say you can still see fairies playing in the summertime.

Deeper to the south, the forest continues to stretch through great folds in the land, carved east to west by some long-dry river – or perhaps by the rays of the very first sunrise.

Far to the southwest, the ruins of an ancient civilization. Overgrown now with trees, save for the few stone-paved areas that still stand warm in the sun, through time is wearing them thinner and thinner. Silt covers the once shiny stones, and grasses and small shrubs grow in what was once a bustling square.

The ruins are empty now, all but forgotten, even by the trees.

Further south – the great wasteland of the southern desert stretches across endless miles – impassible to all save the wind.

Pine trees and dense groves of pines mark holy places in the world – even if elves and men have forgotten them and no longer worship in the old ways.

To the West – the once great Western Forest now stands in ruin – an open plain of scrub grass and bushes. A blight years ago wiped out all the trees here. In between scraggly & thorny bushes, the remains of ancient forest temples still stand.

To the North – a younger forest grows, thin in places, for this is the home of men. In places there are great clearings – fields for the food of men.

Further north, the Icy Mountains – the White Mountains loom. Here is a land of ice and snow. Nothing lives here for long. Even the Sun seems somehow weaker the higher into the mountains one goes.

In the morning, at sunrise, the mountains in the West glow blood red in the summer… and sparkle like pearls in the winter.

Deep in the valleys a thick mist clings to the trees and the rocks, still whispering its sorrowful song.

The leaves – Golden in the Sunrise.

The air – the breeze from the Sea to the East: the Breath of the Sun.

The Midday sun bears down in summertime, but the forest remains dark and still and cool.

Evening is falling and the mountains in the West are a black silhouette against a deep red sky. The chill wind comes down from the mountains and twists its way among the trees and rocks – the rocks, now cold in shadow – the trees, now long shadows crisscrossing on the ground. The silence that falls upon the forest is so intense – none dare break it.

Night falls on the Deep Forest.

The elves move now in the moonlight – nothing more than the flickers of shadows to the eyes of men. Little else stirs – the forest at night is no place for mortals.

Even the rocks and trees seem filled with malice to the eyes of anyone brave – or foolish – enough to venture out into this deep dark.

This is the Landscape of my Youth.

In the middle of it all is the Green Tower, the meeting place of all the good peoples of the world – elves, men, and dwarves. An ancient structure, full of mystery – none know all its secrets. Whole sections of the tower – including the uppermost floors – remain sealed forever, their keys lost in the depths of time, but their doors built to outlast the ages.

As of late, the elves have retreated deeper into the Southern Forest. The swamp has grown, pushed by the force of the sea deeper inland. Soon, the Kingdom of Gomez may become an island among the swamp – which itself may become a great lake, as the land continues to sink.

The Great Waste to the South continues to move and shift its ever changing sands.

The fields of men seem ever more common.

And somewhere, hidden amongst it all, lies the secret to the Green Tower and the ruins of the world…

I’m going to warn you now, this is another “sappy” post, so if that’s not your thing, turn back now.

This is a continuation of this story.

From up in heaven, the angels looked down upon the world. From the glory and the light they looked at a black spot upon the brown face of a sad and lonley world, and saw a demon. This was the demon, the one who had walked in the light for a time, who had sailed in bliss upon the blue sea and upon the green hills. Though none of the angels would admit it, each felt in their own heart that fate had been unkind to this pitiful creature, to leave him writhing and crying and sobbing with wet tears in the cold mud of an unthankful world.

The angels watched as the demon cried out – cried in a voice that no demon had ever used; cried out with a sorrow so pure, that it peirced the walls of heaven and brought tears to eyes that had never before known pain, never heard the sound of unhappiness, and never contemplated the consequences of loss.

And when the demons wail finally stopped, and he lay upon the cold ground in a sleep that was not far from death, there was silence in the kingdom of heaven for the first time since the creation of the world.

But from that silence a voice began to grow – no one knew whose it was at first, as it began so softly, that many thought it was meerly a thought in their mind. But slowly, like the first flower of spring, like the dawn of a new day or the whisper of a summer’s breeze, the voice grew, and the song that it sang began to flower and spread among the angels.

Gently at first they sang, weaving the sound around their hearts to heal the wounds of a thousand years – and the song grew.

Softly at first they sang, the dreams of endless choirs of angels whispering in the morning sun – and the song grew.

Like the voice of a mountain stream, or the rustle of the leaves in summer, their song twisting and turning in the air – and the song grew.

Like the crash of waves against the sea, an endless rush of water and air, the song grew in force and volume. With each new voice a new harmony was created, until the very foundations of heaven quaked with sound, and the angels – heedless of any danger – sang louder and louder, their song growing to fill the endless void above, sweeping around them and lifting them up on high. Their song touched the sun, touched the stars and the moon and all the worlds beyond – and still it grew, filling, flowing, rushing, racing, rolling on waves of joy and sorrow and misery and pity and unhappiness and peace and love and fear.

And then a single lone voice rose above the waves of tone. It was clear like a thousand crystals, and cold like the ice beyond the void. This voice sang no words, but its song was filled with love and joy and sorrow so deep that it echoed in all creation – from the highest tower of heaven to the lowest pit of hell. And when it stopped, with an abruptness so sharp that many of the angels started as if cut by a knife, clearly it could be seen that this was the angel, the one who had befrended the demon, who sang this final chord.

And all the angels and people of heaven looked down as one upon the face of the Earth, and the cold body of the demon lying prone in the dark mud.

…To be continued. The ending will depend greatly on how things go for me in the near future. Is this an allegory? You betcha. Stay tuned for updates.

This is going to get a bit sappy, so for those of you reading this who aren’t interested in that sort of thing, just move along.

This is a story I wrote the other night. It came to me as I was lying down in bed for the night. It kind of explains how I’ve been feeling lately. Or something like that.

Once, there was a demon, a great ugly, bloated, disgusting, nasty little thing. He wasn’t a greater demon, he was a lesser demon – one of a million lesser demons, crawling around in filth and doing what demons do.

One day, an Angel came down from heaven to the land of the demons. She was a pure Angel, white as snow, and wherever she went, beams of light came streaming down from heaven to light her way, and flowers grew in her footsteps. Her hair was like a million strands of gold, and it streamed behind her like a gown, shimmering and billowing in her pure, untainted radiance.

And it just so happened that as she passed, this one demon looked up from the mud and filth he was wallowing in and saw the Angel, and the Angel saw him, and she smiled and greeted the demon with fair and courteous words, her voice ringing out over the din of the other demons like a thousand golden trumpets blaring at the first sunrise of the world, when everything was perfect and all the plants and animals that ever were sang for the first time and greeted the first heavenly rays of light.

And something happened to the demon – something that had never happened to him before. He was shocked that this pure and beautiful Angel would dare to speak to him, a lowly demon. And something changed in that demon. He looked upon the image of the golden Angel before him, flowing with light and glowing with heavenly radiance, and he felt that his heart would burst – a heart that he had never felt before. And the demon was filled with a desire to leave the filth and evil of the demon world, and make himself worthy of this pure creature that was before him, and, not knowing what he was doing, he raised his hand, and to his surprise and everlasting joy the Angel reached down and took his hand, and lifted him up. And the Angel and the demon walked the Earth together, and the demon felt that he would do anything to stay with this Angel, for she was the most precious thing in his world. And he looked at the Angel, and the Angel looked back, and there was love in their eyes.

But the Angel could not return to heaven, not with a demon. So the Angel stayed on Earth with the demon, and the demon knew bliss for the first time in his life. The sound of the Angel’s laughter was a million drops of water bubbling in a new formed stream, just thawed from the winter’s snow. The light in the Angel’s eyes was reflected as though through a million scattered gems, a billion tiny rainbows lit by her inner light.

But the demon was still a demon, though he wished with all his heart that he was not. He poured forth all his power and his will to try to become something other than a demon, but it was not enough. And slowly, gradually, like a stream carving its path through soft earth, the light of the Angel began to fade. And the Angel laughed less and less, and her eyes became dark, like the dark of the deepest night, when the moon is gone and all the stars have faded into the depths of time. And the demon saw himself through the Angel’s eyes – saw himself for the demon he still was, and would always be. Saw his clawed hands, his filthy skin, his black teeth. He smelled his own stench, and saw with horror and revulsion the work of all his years in the filth of demon land, causing misery, pain, and suffering. And it seemed that his heart would break, when he saw the Angel standing steadfast beside him, her light fading,
her smile vanishing, her voice silenced – because he knew that all this was his doing. No matter what he did, or how hard he tried, the demon was still a demon.

And then one day, the Angel left – called back into heaven in a shower of light that blinded the demon so that he couldn’t see. And when the blare of the trumpets and the song of the light had faded, the demon was alone, and all the world was dark. Clouds covered the sun and the moon and the stars, all the streams ran dry, the animals went silent, and the only sound was the rustle of dead leaves in a sorrowful, moaning wind that echoed the moaning of the demon in his black, cracking, crumbling heart. He knew that he would never see the Angel again, and all the light was gone from his life. He could not go back to the demon world. He could not rise into heaven. He was doomed to walk the Earth alone and empty hearted, filled up with pity and sorrow – sorrow so deep he felt as though he would drown in it, sucked down forever into a cold, black, slimy pit, to rot and be forgotten.

The demon cried for days; his tears shattering upon the hard earth and bringing back memories of the sound of the Angel’s laughter, which only made him ache for her all the more. His disfigured body shuddered with each moaning sob, his body wracked with guilt and pain and sorrow. He cursed himself, and he cursed his lot in life – cursed fate for putting him in that place where he was able to catch a glimpse of real beauty, only to deny him the strength to change himself and then take away the only thing that had ever brought him true joy.

His strength exhausted, his tears used up, the demon fell into a deep sleep, and as he did, he secretly hoped that he would never wake. But the demon was tormented in his sleep with his memories of the Angel, of her radiance and beauty – though it was always slightly faded in his memory; faded by the darkness of his own soul. And so the demon slept, and dreamed, and it felt like he had died.

…To be continued? We’ll see.

UPDATE: Continued here.

As the heat crept up his back and into his body, he gradually became aware of the fact that he was eating pepperoni from a plastic package. He heard the crumpling sound of the plastic as his hand, without direction, picked the pieces up and moved them into his mouth. From the taste, and the feeling in his stomach, he knew he had been standing there eating for some time. Like water melting from ice, he remembered getting the pepperoni from the fridge; his hands groping for the opening to the package. Walking to the heater, and turning his back to it.

He continued to eat.

What is that ringing noise? It was a sudden sound. It stopped, and then started again. Oh yeah, the phone. His feet moved, and he turned away from the warm heater and into the bedroom. The phone was on the floor. He bent to pick it up, and his hand clasped the hard plastic shell while his arm brought the receiver to his ear.

“Hello?”

Someone was intruding into his world. Another human voice – but was it human? How could he be sure? The sound came from the plastic thing in his hand. He supposed it was someone actually talking to him; this was the sort of thing you were expected to do. Talk to people on the phone. People, humans; other beings with thoughts and feelings of their own. He was aware of his own voice, speaking; his mouth moving, not to eat now, but to form sounds which whatever was listening on the other end of this intangible line would interpret as words, as speech.

When he put the phone down he couldn’t remember what he had said. The sounds – no, the words – he had heard floated in his memory like drops of blood in alcohol, slowly mixing; and slowly dying. Something about coming out after work for a drink, that’s all he could remember. Well, it might be a good idea.

A drink. He had a drink. Or maybe he went and got one after answering the phone. He couldn’t recall; and it wasn’t important anyway. The can was red, but that was only an after-thought. It was the same thing he always drank. Supposedly it had a sweet flavor, but he drank it like it was water, the taste hardly registered. Soon, the caffeine in the drink (the words “Code Red” bubbled to the surface of his mind, but they were lost; disconnected, devoid of meaning without context) would bring more thoughts, more memories to his mind. He’d be awake for a while longer. Best to be as awake as he could. And besides, it was time to go.

Keys in hand, jacket against the cold, he stepped out into the night. Just another day…

-Keithius