Tales from The Eighth World

Select writings of ours are contained herein.

While the colors on the walls were faded and the stone was cracked and chipped, the vibrant air was still apparent. Beneath the once-colorful-now-bleached hanging cloths, on the hard, dusty ground, he sat. The sunlight streamed in from the wooden lattice covering the top of the courtyard. It felt warm on his skin. The air was still. Nothing moved but the particles of dust floating in the afternoon warmth. At that moment, where he was did not matter. How he got there wasn’t of any importance. He knew that he could exist here, in harmony with nature, and that he could leave his old life at the door. And that was enough.

․°ʚ 🪷 ɞ°․

In the end, everything would become dust. That’s what she told herself, anyway. It didn’t help. Nothing could truly help. A hug and some kind words from a friend gave some relief, sure, but it was temporary. Leaves crunched beneath her feet as she walked. Objectively, the trees were gorgeous this time of year. She didn’t notice. In the end, wouldn’t everything turn to dust? Why should she care about the trees? The trees didn’t care about her. No one did. The leaves crunched beneath her feet.

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Inhale. Exhale. Breathe in. Breathe out. Golden light filtered through the leaves cast partial shadows on the soft grass. Warm fingers, intertwined with their own. Somewhere far away, a brook burbled. Relax. Breathe with me. The face of the person in front of them was like water shifting sand around at the bottom of a riverbed, constantly in motion, never solid. The grass tickled their legs as they kneeled in front of the other person. You’re losing focus. Stay with me. The wind was picking up, whipping their hair around their face and causing the leaves to rustle about like newsparcel in a mail-carrying bag. The world seemed to smear with the gusts, blurring and running like paint on a hot canvas. You won’t remember any of this in the morning. Mind disconnected from body. They were ascending into the sunlit sky.

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A cold wind swept across my body. Pollen drapes across my shoulders like a shawl. Snow waits upon my head like a hat, well placed by the uncaring hand of nature. Sunlight streams down through the clouds and struggles to warm my icy skin. I have seen the rise of revolutions. I have seen the fall of cities. I have watched armies march past, men and boys eager to be slaughtered like animals. I have sat through floodwater, trying its might to wash everything in its path away. I have sat through a raging fire, unleashing its unseeing wrath onto the land around me. I have been a seat, holding up the weight of children and adults alike. I have been a platform upon which creatures have been sacrificed. I have shared in the joy of watching many a passionate kiss between lovers. I have watched eons pass by. And I will watch many more. I am unmoving. I remain.

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The air smelled of roses, but not quite roses. Like ocean spray intertwined with petals. The water lapped softly at the stone shore. The radio played barely audible static. They opened their eyes. The light filtered in through the window ajar, pink in all its serene glory. The couch was soft under their cheek, smooth but firm. They sat up. Feet grazing the hardwood floor, then, the carpet. Rough under their bare skin. They shuffle over to the desk. The chair creaks as they rest their weight upon it. They pick up the pen. The ink begins to flow. A floral breeze drifts past the windowsill.

․°ʚ 🪷 ɞ°․