The March Waters

The stillness of the air weighed heavily on the landscape. The lake, melted during the false summer, was paved over again.

Every kid in the neighborhood was under strict orders to stay off the ice. After the first melt happens, you can't trust its solidity.

The best part about even the mildest of late winter storms is that school shuts down but parents still have to work. By 10AM all the boys, and a few of the girls, had started an epic hockey game.

That night, they all bristled at the injustice of their punishment. After all, they'd been right.

The Postcard's Promise

As Harland dug through the ruins, he found a hidden and weathered desk. On it, an old postcard displayed a faded, scenic landscape. Flipping it over, he read delicate handwritten words:

"Dear Wanderer,

May this postcard be your journey's memento, reminding you of wonders witnessed and truths sought. Let it inspire your quest for knowledge and enlightenment. With each step, the world and you transform. Embrace the magic within, letting it guide your path. Uncover the mysteries. Remember, great adventures start unexpectedly.

Safe travels,

A fellow explorer."

Harland cherished the postcard as a symbol of inspiration and continued his exploration.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Sentinels

With the heavens above, eyes perceive blackness below. The silhouettes of lonesome silos dotting a barren landscape gives way to perceptions of ancient obsidian obelisks, sentinels erected by the offspring of some long-forgotten civilization, sating deities of seasons past.

Against a moonless night, one can appreciate the unencumbered band of the Milky Way, glorious gold and white light from hundreds of thousands of stars, blues, oranges and reds, sparkling beacons of potentialities adorning the night sky.

I repose beneath a blanket of starlight, and the encircling melody of coywolves lulls me to sleep as I long for dreams of you.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Dreams In Green

Standing here on this frigid night, I look out over a frozen landscape, and I can't help but wonder why?. There is still hope. Maybe one day, this land will come back to life, the trees will grow, the water will flow, and the air will smell fresh and clean.

I can still feel the excitement coursing through me, the sense of wonder at seeing something so beautiful. The land of ice and snow holds a strange sort of magic.

But the land is not dead. It's only sleeping, waiting for inspiration or something green to grow the days away.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Driver’s Ed

If you slow down for a yellow light, the cops will write you a ticket. Of course, if you blow through the light, they’ll write you a ticket for that, too. Half the drivers resist but soon give up, half try to hide. I didn’t believe my friends when they first told me. Then people started collapsing due to the stress of the situation. I’d seen rockets explode on liftoff, coyotes violate dogs. Yet I didn’t expect this at all. Our lives are just daydreams in a dead landscape. It’s now a crime in Utah to harass cattle with drones.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is on the pavement, thinking about the government.

Listening To Punchdrunk Lovesick Singalong On Repeat

David waited at the red light. He scratched at his scalp as the skin peeled away.

Diane wrapped the glassware in last Sunday's edition of the Times. She remembered having to nag David for months before he wrote those thank you notes.

David cursed so that the driver next to him turned and offered a look. He stared straight ahead and debated offering an apology.

Diane loaded the last of the boxes into the trailer. Her father offered a hug that she refused.

David pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition, and cried.

Diane watched the landscape blur by.

This is post number 1,111. Thank you to every one who has read one of these stories or contributed one of their own.

Winter

I peered suspiciously beyond the chipped lacquer of the oaken balcony. I had seen this before. The wind was coming.

Somehow, this place had now become my opus. I mean to say of course that it had supplanted my imagination. The verdurous landscape below appeared at times surreal; dioramic. And yet, at almost the same moment, conscious; alive to the rhythmic pulsations of the earth. Living in the trees was an idyllic stillness; in the air, an inscrutable entropy.

Soon, without warning, the wind would be be upon us, and a pervasive cold would grip the house for many days.

From Guest Contributor L.S. Worthy

Worker

The sparse landscape spread in every direction. There were mountains to be sure, a flat white one to this left and a glass tower to the right, but there was no food within actual reach.

Jim crawled forward, then back, then to the left and right. An observer might think his path random, but Jim's instinct told him that the best way to find food was this haphazard approach.

He panicked when the giant approached. Only its torso was visible above the horizon, but Jim went hurdling in the other direction.

He wished he'd never left the hill this morning.