A walk in the storm

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We had a fairly large storm two weeks ago. After half a day stuck in side and two trips out to try to keep up with the snow, I got a bit of cabin fever and took my youngest, the one most like me in many ways, out into it for a walk.  We trudged, clad in parkas, boots, face shields and mittens, the half kilometer or so to the highway near our home.  The wind and snow blew and more than once we debated turning back, but we persevered until we reached the middle of the normally busy two lane road.

“Look up that way” I told him pointing north, “what do you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Look that way” I directed him to the south, “what do you see?”

“Still nothing.”

“What do you hear?”

“The wind in the trees”

We kept walking, crossed the highway, down a sideroad to a small creek that had only a skittering of ice on it.  We tossed rocks until they broke through.  Threw long branches like spears, sticking them into the ice until the surface looked like the grounds of a medieval  battle.  We walked on, up he road until we reached an area where a small grove of ancient pine stood, likely over a century old.

“Do you hear that?”

“The creaking?”

“Yes, cool eh?”

“Is it dangerous?”

“No” I laughed, “It’s just the trunks rubbing together in the wind. See how they all grew from the same point at the bottom?  Likely it was one big tree that was knocked over by lightning or wind years and years ago and new shoots grew from the trunk to become almost separate trees”.

“Cool.”

“What have we not seen since we left the house?”

“People, cars, animals.”

“Yup.  I like this. Its what I do when I go outside in the snow or at night sometimes.  I wander. It’s like we are the only people left on the planet.”

“Cool” he looked around, threw a rock or two into the woods at a small pond full of ice. “I like it too”.

“I find it calming.”

He nodded.  “I’m getting cold, can we go back?”

“Sure.  Hot chocolate?”

“Sure.”

And we headed back, calm, quiet and content if a bit cold and windburnt.  My thirteen year old hold him my hand like he did when he was much smaller for a good portion of the return trip. We saw no cars, no people, no animals the rest of the way.  We heard nothing but wind and snow blowing.  We were alone in the world and okay with it, because that’s the kind of people we both are.

And it was good.

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The Story

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It sits in my file on my desktop.  It peeks at me. It calls me to finish it. I do not.

I know it will be my last tale, my last fable.  Something said it should not be completed.

So I do not.

Magix are real.

And I see it every day and I think about it every day and I ponder nuances of its ending, its middle, it’s pace.

It begins at the end, for now.  The end of what I tell you.  The end of what will be written

It never truly will end, for you see it ends in the middle, though as mentioned, the end, the end you see, it is at the beginning.

So you need to end it yourself.

But I warn you.

Do not read this story.

If I ever publish it.

It doesn’t, won’t end well, for you, for me, for the characters.

Evil is real.

The beginning maybe should be moved to the end, where the end should go, but I can’t do that.

It serves as a warning, a precursor, a threat, of what will come. It gives you a sense of wonder and perhaps, fear.

The middle, builds, as middles should.  It builds on the fear from the end at the beginning, and as a climax seems ready to drop like the proverbial second shoe.

I should say no more.

The end, well, it is a beginning and isn’t a beginning really a path to the end.

There is death, oh, so much death. Unforeseen though hinted at in the beginning or more appropriately the “beginning” which is of course the end, but not the end, or again, to confuse you, I am sorry, the “end”.

And by reading the story you complete the circle and thus I have transferred to you the responsibility of truly finishing that I dare not complete.

But I should.

Stories are magic, they are telekinetic as they take a thought and drop it word by word, phrase by phrase, sentence by paragraph by chapter into your head from the authors.  Then, you play with it, interpret it, modify, criticize and change it the way you think it should have gone.

Should Tim have just stayed home?  Should he have just stayed at the party?  Should he have avoided the strange man in tatty old clothes who handed him the devices and the sachet and the monocle?  Should he have run away? Should he have just accepted his fate and not ate, sipped and donned and seen the evil that hides within society and thus be forced through the magix of clarity to deal with said beasts? Should he have hidden from facts and continued life as a human sheep destined to be consumed by the evil that pervades the world around us?

Should he?

Would you?

I cannot.

It must be told, this, story.

I am sorry.

I said too much.

Forget about Tim. He is not real. There is no Tim.

Forget about the aforementioned “evil” and those who know magix and exist in our world and are real and know of the evil that is around you EVERY DAY ALL DAY LONG.

And forget I just said that.

Forget it all.

Read no more.

I feel compelled to finish the story.

Just don’t read it.

I guess more appropriately I should say… “story”.

Be afraid.

or do not.