Memories of time
There’s a sort of unpleasant chill in the air when you begin walking through the snow. You never really see where you’re about to step so the hesitation involved in finding the right footing is quintessential to the experience of these lands. As one’s mind drifts in and out of the frozen wastes, its physical presence continues to expand for miles and miles, seeming like it would never end as if any direction you walked or ran in would never let you escape.
To wake up from this experience was a rare thing. Not many had mastered the art of leaving this place. To find yourself among the snows was considered a feat only meant for the elders who came before you. We never found out how they did so but they managed to leave this tundra at some point. Some say it’s probably why we still keep them around. It’s not like there isn’t usable meat on their bones, but knowledge of the past can be the only gateway we can hope for. We wait around for them to breathe the few breadths we can supply them with, in the hopes that someday they are able to impart us knowledge of the land we so desperately need.
Two members of our tribe take the western trail once a fortnight. Their return brings all the fuel we will have till the next trip occurs. The complete journey is known to take between two to four days, depending on who ends up going. Traditionally, it has always been decided by timed rounds of combat but these last few years, we have seen more equitable outcomes based on chance. It has taken a long time to convince the various groups in our little community to adhere to this system, but it is what has presented the least grievances when the travelers don’t return from certain trips.
I remember the last bit of tantalizing history an elder was able to give us. It was 5 months ago. She was in a haze as best I can tell but her mind seemed clear enough to believe what it was describing. She spoke of thin slivers of vibrant matter emerging from the ground. They would dance with the wind like nothing she could describe. “And they weren’t sharp and pointed like the snow. I remember stepping on the ground in their presence and they would bend and morph underneath my feet. It’s like they had a life of their own. They would play with you, move with you, and if you caught them in the right mood even tickled the underside of your feet!”
She went on to describe how these little beings would change colour, shape, and size with time. Sometimes they would become massive when you’re not looking but also disappear if you played around too much and they didn’t like it. “You had to look after them”, she said. “It was sort of a chore but it was quite worthwhile once you got used to having them around. If anything, it seems even more worthwhile now that I can’t see them again”.
It wasn’t long before she shivered herself back to this world and to the rest of us. We hoped she remembered what she told us so we could ask more questions, but they usually never do. We don’t know if these dreams they have were ever real, but honestly, I hope they were. They feel real enough when you hear them and after a point I really can’t tell the difference.
A short story inspired by images of imagined landscapes based on my work. This is part of a series of explorations in free writing and world-building that I would like to grow further.
Written May 24th, 2022
Movements
“I sensed that you were looking for me?”
The voice had a subtle tone to it. He expected me to be appreciative of his presence but also aware that this was not his first choice. To be frank, I didn’t think he’d show up. There are only so many times people bump into each other and treat it as a coincidence. The clarity one gets from a conversation of a decent caliber is a hard thing to mask, what’s more, it leaves you with a lingering need to chase this feeling. Its almost intoxicating, to know that there are ways to trick your brain into complexities and mental gymnastics that can exhaust you, yet leave you satisfied.
While it didn’t matter why he actually chose to finally come here, his presence was useful. The alter was nearly ready and the rest of the group would be here soon to deal with what’s left of him and others. I almost felt bad for them.
No one truly knows what cause they are vessels to. Most have a sense of something larger than themselves exists, out in the ether. Beyond the reach of time, space, and the boundaries of understanding, there is something that can ensnare the path your life takes and hold onto it. The balance that can be achieved if this path coincided with what one’s nature allows them to do is the mystery I try to solve.
Much like the natural forms of tectonic plate movements coinciding with the travel and formation of stable climate-specific species, there are moments when the specific alignments of place and presence make themselves known to one another. It is at these moments when we see there exists friction in the fabric of reality. Forces that shear the shimmering threads of reality, splitting, folding, bending them until they break.
These do not have to be permanent though. The opening of these threads unveils the layers/ strands of the threads, now open and charged with the energy of vibrant matter, ready to connect in unexpected ways. They can connect to themselves or to each other or even better, to threads that were not visible to them before, or perhaps were not threads at all. Whatever these now become is the new fabric of reality, reshaped and ready to be experienced.
Why is any of this important? I do not know. My best excuse is that the wrong threads cross when I encounter that man each time and I’ll now blame it all on the fact that it just happened again. It won’t happen again though. There won’t be much of an opportunity for it after tomorrow.
A short story inspired by images of imagined landscapes based on my work. This is part of a series of explorations in free writing and world building that I would like to grow further.
Written May 21st, 2022