Timothy fell asleep about an hour later, eyes glued to the three fun-having elves under George’s bed. They whispered, and giggled, and poked George in his hanging arm time and again. Sometimes they blew out some more confetti from the empty palms of their hands, and sometimes they made faces at him, pulling at their ears and crossing their eyes.

Around two o’clock, he jumped up. A pair of feeble hands were pulling at his leg.

Another one was holding his nose, and he felt quite like he couldn’t breathe anymore.

Hinky was sitting on his chest.

All three elves were thrown off the bed.

“We need food. Can you make us a cup of hot chocolate? And some gingerbread? Please...” they choired, batting their eyelashes innocently.

“I can’t. Sorry. Jena’s going to have a fit if I do. She weighs the cookies and the cocoa, and just about anything we have.”

“Cookies?” they repeated in a choir, and before Timothy could open his mouth again, they were off through the door.

“Oh, no, no, no... What am I going – Come back, elves!” Timothy whispered loudly, wrapping himself in the blanket to follow them down the stairs to the freezing-cold kitchen.

He ran as softly as he could. This was it – the night when he would get thrown out. The elves were definitely making an infernal noise without giving the faintest amount of consideration to the trouble in which he was about to get.

″—no milk—” Timothy could hear as he paced fearfully.

And then, BANG! went the cookie jar, presumably against the counter. And then its breaking scream echoed through the Orphanage. Timothy covered his ears, expecting Jena to shoot out of her room and give him a spanking and the directions to the door.

But it didn’t happen.

“Absolutely hysterical!” Hinky kept repeating. “These cookies are stale! Ew! And there is no milk. And no gingerbread. I most honestly dislike this place. Poor – what’s his name?!”

“Tim-something, I think,” answered Stinky, sprinkling some sugar on a slice of bread which he threw into Timothy’s face without even tasting it. “Mouldy!”

Timothy numbed in the door. There were cookies everywhere, covered in the broken glass of the jar, and there were crumbs all over the floor. Dinky was, as quietly as always, trying to shake some off the sole of his yellow right sock.

“Oh, my God! Elves? You need to stop it. How am I going to explain this to Jena? She’ll—”

“Tim-something! Good morning! Would you like a cup of cocoa?” inquired Stinky, shaking the powdered-cocoa jar heartily.

“The lid doesn’t fit properly! Don’t—”

But Timothy bit into his thumb instead of finishing the sentence, as the outburst of brown powder covered the wall and the counter.

“By my striped socks! It’s snowing!” Stinky cried happily and threw himself on the

counter flailing his arms up and down to make a cocoa angel.

Little Timothy shook. He didn’t know what else to do but grab the cinnamon pack in the upper drawer and hide it under the blanket he wore.

“Stinky! Hinky! Put an end to it! Dinky, stop jumping around! You’re crushing the cookies! Look at the mess you’ve made! Oh, God! Jena’s going to –”

“What’s that smell? Could it be—” Stinky inhaled deeply and took a few steps forward.

Timothy retreated. The elf was obviously picking up on the scent.

“Cinnamon,” whispered Stinky happily. “Hey Hinky! Dinky! Can you smell this?”

“Oh, spare us! You stink of it! Tim-something, you’d better get away,” advised Hinky in a bored voice. “Cinnamon drives him mad.”

So, Timothy broke into a run with Stinky close behind. They went up the stairs to the common room, and down the stairs to the laundry room. They ran past all the doors on the first and second floor and ended back on the ground level. Timothy saw no other way but to lock himself in the kitchen and, as he ran inside, he very graciously delved, face forward, into the tiled ground.

“Give me the cinnamon!” hollered Stinky, landing on his back and fighting to unclench his fingers. “Give – it – to - me!”

“Let go! You can’t have it! Don’t you understand? Stop it! Stinky!”

A door opened somewhere on the first level. Timothy’s heart stopped. The sound of heavy paces followed. The boy shivered. He let go of the cinnamon pack that Stinky tore open and poured down his throat.

“Get off! Now!” Timothy snarled. “I’m dead... I’m done! Oh, God!”

Pointy ears started to tremble to the rhythm of the furious heavy steps. Timothy looked around. He had to think fast, but he could not hide under the table, because he would be spotted instantly, and he could not hide under the sink, because he didn’t fit anymore. He very seriously contemplated jumping out the window – it was the ground-level window, after all, but the window was barred. And if he ran for the door, she would be there to wave goodbye. Forever. He curled on the ground and started to sob, just to make matters worse.

But the elves suddenly grabbed at his arms and pulled him out of the way. Then, they blew their mesmerizing confetti in the air and time suddenly started to run backwards, restoring everything to what it had been.

When Jena walked in, the only thing amiss was the number of crushed cookies in the unharmed jar atop the counter. She rubbed her eyes, made a snide remark, and left the kitchen.

“I can smell the disappointment,” whispered Dinky. “I bet she would have liked to find chaos and blame it on somebody. I strongly dislike her.”

“So do I,” Timothy whispered, wiping the blood off his upper lip. “This doesn’t look good.”

He stared at the red stain on his fingers and gave Stinky the bad eye. The elf shrunk in a corner and shielded his face, staring back at him through his fingers.

“If this happens again, you will have to go.”

“Ha-ha!” Hinky snorted.

Timothy frowned at him, and the elf retreated carefully, searching for Dinky who had disappeared behind the boy.

“All three of you will have to go,” said the boy. “I can’t have you tearing this building to pieces.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have come,” complained Stinky. “This was a mistake. Hinky insisted... And I said to him, I said ‘Hinky,’ I said, ‘we should not go to that particular ugly building where there are no flowers and no trees, and not an ounce of happiness!’ But does Hinky ever listen?”

“He never listens,” wailed Dinky, pulling the hanging blanket over his head. “He never listens and he always gets us in terrible trouble.”

Timothy could feel the blanket slowly slipping away as Dinky started pacing about with its other end on his head.

“Of course he doesn’t...” followed Stinky. “He thinks he’s oh-so-smart, he does! He walks in old Klaus’ bedroom and stuffs his pockets with bangers. He makes them from paper and uses long fuses, and he lights them, he does. Old Klaus always punishes the three of us for all of Hinky’s wrongdoings, when his pants explode, when he wakes up with ribbons in his beard, when he finds himself chewing on rubber pancakes and when the snow stops falling!”

“I don’t— He doesn’t! Oh, shut up, Stinky! You terrible liar, you!”

The boy heaved at the blanket, throwing Dinky off his feet, and the latter rolled under the table and squeezed in among the chairs.

“It can’t possibly be anyone’s fault that the snow stops falling,” he whispered, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “So, what will it take to make you sleep, elves?”

The three little boys gathered around Timothy.

“My sock is torn,” said Dinky, shoving his pink, fat toe in Timothy’s face. “This little piggy is cold. If you sow it for me, then I’ll go to sleep. I promise.” He batted his long eyelashes rhythmically and Timothy barely refrained from patting the top of his head as his large ears flapped with his every move.

“And my bell is broken. It doesn’t jingle anymore, see?” complained Hinky, shaking the large ornament on the long end of his red velvet cap. “Can you fix it?”

Timothy shook the bell unsuccessfully. The piece inside must have fallen while they were busy ravaging the kitchen, he thought, so he threw a quick look around.

“And my right ear itches. Can you scratch it for me? Right there, on the top. And don’t pull at it, Tim-something!” he said threateningly. “It’s not funny. Old man Klaus always pulls both of them when I – presumably – upset him. It’s how they came to be so long and full of personality.”

“Yeah... you should be careful there. Hinky is very sensitive about his ears. He might get offended or something,” said Hinky, breaking into laughter. “He polishes them and hangs ornaments by their tips. Old man Klaus always says that he’ll hang them on the wall to replace the antlers in his room... when we’re gone forever...”

All three elves fell silent. One climbed a chair, the other sat down on the cold tiled ground, and the third started to sing.

Jingle bells, jingle bells,

Jingle all the way,

Oh, what fun it was to ride

In a one-beast open sleigh...

Jingle bells, Klaus is angry

He will make us pay,

Hinky’s guilty, Dinky’s innocent,

Jingle all the way!

Dashing through the dust, one cold Christmas noon,

Hinky wished the lonely sleigh would fly him to the moon.

He packed up a sandwich, told Dinky to get in,

And then he danced and then he sang,

‘oh, let the fun begin!’ Oh!

Jingle bells, Klaus is mean,

Stinky is a victim,

He took the reins cause Hinky cried,

‘There’s Fluff! Old Klaus just kicked him!’

Jingle bells, jingle bells,

Rudolph’s red nose froze,

It didn’t glow and it fell down,

So, Rudolph lost his nose...

We didn’t know the way up to the twinkling stars,

The night was dark and we were scared we would end up on Mars,

Cause Hinky pointed up, the planet was quite red,

It glowed and winked so Hinky said to use red Mars instead

Of— Rudolph’s nose, Rudolph’s nose,

Klaus was kicking Fluff,

The sleigh was missing, the reindeer noseless,

Klaus had lost all his stuff.

Jingle bells, Klaus was mad,

Fluff was getting tired,

We thought we’d shoot at evil Klaus,

The firework... misfired.

We turned the sleigh around, the moon was high and white,

I couldn’t see because the night was really, awfully bright!

Dinky grabbed my sleeve; he tore my best pullover,

As old-man Klaus was scolding Fluff

We dived to run him over.

Jingle bells, Klaus is evil,

He bullies all his elves!

He yells and fumes, and loves to laze

And chain elves to his shelves...

Oh! Rudolph’s nose, Klaus could see

Was resting on the ice,

He bent over and picked it up,

What came next wasn’t nice.

’Cause kids love all his toys, they leave cookies and milk,

Klaus takes and packs the milk and cookies and sells them to his ilk.

We hate his toys and hate him too, we slave until we tire,

So Hinky, Dinky and little Stinky set his toys on fire!

Hey!

Little Timothy was startled. He wrapped the blanket tighter around his freezing body and, for a moment, he rested his chin in the woolly texture. But Stinky was not done just yet.

“On the first day after Christmas, old Klaus gave to us—

Three stupid names, and thus:

On the second day after Christmas, old Klaus gave to Hinky,

A spanking and a shovel.

On the third day after Christmas mean Klaus gave to Dinky

The same fate as Hinky and Stinky.

On the fourth day after Christmas, bad Klaus gave to us,

Three stupid names, a spanking and a shovel, and he cursed us to vanish and thus,

On the fifth day after Christmas, the elves all gave to us

A farewell party from hell.

On the sixth day after Christmas, Mrs. Klaus gave to us

The honour of cleaning up.

On the seventh day, we packed; Klaus set our bags on fire,

He said it would serve us right.

On the eighth day after Christmas, everybody gave us

A farewell party from hell, the honour of cleaning up, and our stuff was set on fire—

“Okay, I get it!” cried Timothy. “Enough with the singing, please...”

Stinky wrinkled his freckled nose. The tips of his ears looked like they were going to catch fire too.

“But there are four more lines! You have to listen to the whole song. It took ages to put together...”

“I must get back to bed. If Jena checks—”

“Will she turn on the lights? Will she look under the cover? Will she check for a pulse?”

Timothy hesitated. “No... I think not... Definitely no!”

The elves lined up in front of him, elbowing each other and giggling. Timothy checked himself in the mirror of the dirty window. He looked all right, even though his hair looked rather messy, and his eyes were red with fatigue and fear. At the end of the day, he didn’t care anymore if he would be thrown out of the Orphanage and that Jena hated him because he was “not fit for adoption and because he was using up their resources”. After all, it was not his fault for being unwanted.

“What’s so funny?” he asked and found in his reflection that he too was starting to smile due to the contagious elves’ giggles.

“Well, you should have seen your face!” said Stinky. “Check for a pulse! Good Christmas, this is positively hysterical!” he said, choking on his own laughter. “Listen, Tim-something, we’ve sealed the world in a bubble. You are, so to speak, where you should have been right now, and that is in bed, but you’re not... err... how do I put this?”

Hinky yelled at Dinky who was slapping his own flapping ears and making an infernal noise, then he said, “It’s a stuffed you!”

Timothy was surprised, but he didn’t want to ask any more questions. Instead, he reached for Stinky’s right ear and started to scratch its pointy end. The elf’s big eyes shimmered with innocent tears.

“You are a good boy, Tim-something. I knew it to be true! And then I said to him, I said—”

“Shut up, Stinky!” whispered Hinky.

″—There is this boy –”

Hinky grabbed him by the ear and pulled so hard that Stinky let out a squeal.

“Why did you do that?” asked Timothy, stupefied and angry. “He was just being nice, he was!”

Dinky hiccupped, and his ears flapped to the rhythm. “He spills the beans. He always spills the beans!”

“This is insane,” Timothy muttered under his breath. “I’ll look for a needle and some thread, Dinky. Stay right here!”

He made a few steps and turned to look at the elves. They were all waiting patiently, filed in a comic line of flapping ears, pointy ears, and curly red hair, so Timothy ran to the common room and stole a needle and some thread.

He wasn’t particularly good at sewing, but he had to do it for every other child-resident of the Orphanage, so he didn’t mind helping Dinky with his torn sock and his freezing “little piggy”.

When he was done sewing the sock – which Dinky refused to take off – he took a coffee bean and pierced it through with the needle, then he hung it inside of Hinky’s bell.

“Time to go to sleep, elves,” he wished to say, but no sooner than he opened his mouth, he woke up, fully rested and with no worries in mind, in his own bed, when the old lady called him down to breakfast.

#fantasy #magic #prose #theprose #christmas #elves #Rudolph #winter #orphan

It happened on a cold, rainy evening. A solitary crow was croaking in the only tree in the garden of Saint Thomas' Orphanage. Feefee, the children's cat, invited it hungrily to fill her empty stomach, occasionally throwing a look back at the window as she paced softly along the branch.

A shabby dinner had just ended, mostly leaving their hunger unsatisfied. Some of the children had lined up in the window, shouting at Feefee to come back inside. The cat meowed disappointedly, feeling the branch ahead with a soft paw. The crow stared at Feefee with an air of disapproval, then croaked again.

"I wish we had a man around here... Maybe this would start feeling a bit more like a family and a lot less like an orphan house... It would all be better. At least, we've had worse than this, so let's just be thankful."

"What good is it anyway?" one of the girls replied, staring sulkily at the woman.

"Oh, Jena," answered the old lady. "I know it all seems quite hopeless, my darling, especially with the new little one we found outside the door, yesterday evening, but I'm positively sure somebody will—"

"Somebody won't," answered the girl. "We're running out of food, and clothes, and here's another mouth to feed, and—"

"I thought about calling him Andrew," the old woman interfered. There was an aura of hope and possibilities around her that frightened Jena and her ever logical way of thinking.

"Listen," whispered the girl. "You said the same about each and every one of them. You said the same about Timothy, remember? And he's still here, ten years of age and growing ever older. I just don't see how we can manage to feed all—"

At that moment, little Timmy left the broken swinging chair in which he had been resting and broke into a run. He didn't know where to go and he didn't really know what to do. It seemed very much like he was about to get thrown out or forsaken somewhere far away from this place that he had never really liked to call home.

A soft-paced rain had started, and he stopped in the door, pondering whether he should step out or just go to his crowded room and go to sleep.

"I hate them! I can't stand them! Especially that Jena and the way she always makes me look like the bad boy... I am not a bad boy... It's not—maybe it's my fault that my parents left me here... I should just— I won't be sorry. I won't cry. I must not cry!"

He slowly started his way back to the dormitory. The building had grown somewhat quiet – a time of the evening he would have usually enjoyed but for the unfortunate discussion he had overheard.

Across the hall, the large staircase was covered in icy, unwelcoming darkness. He disliked the thought of climbing among the shadows, but he could hear Jena coming, closer and closer, and he really did have no other way of getting out of her way.

"Timothy!" she shrieked, seeing him starting up the stairs. "How many times must I tell you?"

He broke into a run again.

"You are not supposed to run! Timothy! Timothy? Get back here!"

He didn't dare climb down or look behind, so he ran all the way to his room. The other children had not yet arrived, so he locked himself in and hid under the bed.

A chain of loud knocks followed. Timothy covered his ears.

"I'm not here! I'm not here!" he whispered to himself time and again.

Soon enough, the old woman's voice put an end to the loud banging. Timothy sighed with relief as he dragged himself out and sat on the bed unhappily, counting Jena's steps as best he could.

"What a night!" he said to his reflection in the window. "And I guess nobody is indeed coming, so I might as well just give up. I mean, look, Timmy... You're great and all, but the Winstons gave up, and the Parkers gave up, and the Joneses and you just don't seem to fit with any family. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, darling, but you're just simply no good."

He had done a splendid job imitating Mrs. Layla's raspy voice and he congratulated himself silently. Then he stared at his eyes. In his reflection, they had grown rather wet and unnatural-looking, so he bit his lip and rubbed them hard. What good would tears do?

But then, something glinted high above, followed by what looked like a shimmering chain reaction. The thing these lights played on was rather large and ugly, full of cobwebs and dust, and had a torn corner. It seemed as though it had been nailed onto the frame, hanging over the steamy glass.

Timothy pushed the only chair to the window and reached up, praying that Jena and her unkind colleagues wouldn't spot him if they happened to lurk in the dark rain outside.

"Wow," he whispered, feeling the soft surface. "One, two, th-three. Four... Seven..." he whispered, touching the tweed pockets on what looked like an oversized calendar. "One-one... One-two... This doesn't seem right..."

He winced. He hated numbers just as much as he hated Jena because he had never learnt to count.

"It's called eleven, by my striped socks!"

"And twelve! By my jingling bell, you are quite an uneducated snob!"

Timothy turned around. His voice was stuck in his throat and he nearly fell over, tearing the large calendar off the window frame before he managed to stabilize himself.

"Who are – you?" he mumbled, grabbing the corner of the old, broken table.

"Who are you?" answered the voices in a duet. "We saw you first, so you ought to introduce yourself first," continued one of them.

Timothy rubbed his eyes.

"I'm—I am Timothy."

"Timothy what?"

"What?"

Timothy stepped down and wiped the swaying chair before seating himself, the calendar tight within his grasp.

"What-what? Oh, he is being ridiculous! I told you, I said 'Hinky,' I said, 'one must not pick the uneducated one,' I said. But," he followed, "does Hinky ever listen?"

Coming from the far corner of the bed, a small voice answered negatively. Timothy stared in the shadows. As if Jena wasn't enough! As if the newly-found kid wasn't enough! As if he was not scared enough!

"Hinky never listens, because he thinks he's oh-so-smart, doesn't he, Dinky? Doesn't he?!"

The same small voice answered affirmatively and a frightening pointy-headed shadow on the wall nodded to the rhythm of the words. "Yes, yes he does!"

"Says Stinky! Stop embarrassing ourselves, you cinnamon-stuffed pudding! I think he's about to have a fit!"

Timothy shook his head, squeezing the calendar to his chest.

"I don't like him," declared the first voice. "He certainly doesn't pop or anything!"

"Pop?" cried the first voice dramatically. "Hinky, you gingerbread-man! You lollipop, you!

He is not supposed to pop!"

Timothy shivered. "To pop?" he asked in a desperate whisper, feeling his feverish forehead with a trembling hand.

"Oh, look at this, Stinky! Look at him! I think he will actually pop!"

"Don't pop!" whispered the voice in the corner, and the pointy-headed shadow shook its head nervously again.

"Oh, Hinky! Out of all the misbehaved boys in the world, you had to pick one that grows blue in the face!"

"He's quite funny, isn't he? I think I'll give him a piece of candy. Here, boy! Here!" said the second voice and followed with a whistle.

The candy struck the boy in the cheek. He looked around ever more scared, for there seemed to be nobody else in there but himself and a frightening shadow on the wall opposite him.

"He's funny cause he doesn't see! You had to pick a blind one, Hinky! And I said to him, I said," continued the first voice, turning towards the shadow," 'Hinky, don't go picking one that can't possibly see us,' but does Hinky ever listen?"

"Hinky never listens," came the answer from the corner.

"Shut up, Stinky! Just shut it! Old man Klaus will throw a tantrum, you know he will.

And it won't be my fault! Kid! Stop growing blue in the face! Hey, Dinky, is he supposed to look like that?"

The shadow shook its head amply across the blotchy wall.

"Catch him!" cried the first voice. "By my striped socks, he's about to—"

Little Timothy hit the ground with a loud thud. Nobody in the whole Orphanage seemed to have noticed the sound.

"Pick him up, Stinky! You made him sick with your unbearable cinnamon stench! I have told and told you to change that perfume once and for all!"

Small footprints started to appear on the wooden floor as the owner of the voice made for Timothy's collapsed body. His arm was lifted slowly, apparently fearfully, as the unseen creature seemed to be sniffing the sleeve of his patchy jumper.

"I don't like this! He doesn't even smell appetizing!"

"By my jingling bell, you absolute cinnamon-roll you! He doesn't need to smell good.

Old Klaus will not eat him, and neither will we!"

A frustrated grunt followed as the boy's hand twitched in the air.

"It wouldn't hurt you to get over here, Hinky! Come, help me out. And you, Dinky! Get here!"

Two other sets of footprints appeared. Timothy opened dizzy eyes and struggled to mute a scream of horror when he saw his arms floating freely.

"He's heavy! I propose we retrieve the calendar and scamper away. What do you say? What do you mean no? Don't you contradict me, Dinky! Heaven knows I could have been rolling in the snow up North right now if Hinky hadn't broken Rudolph's silly nose!"

Nearly on his knees, the boy pulled an arm free. The unseen beings screamed as they threw his other arm down.

"Who—what do you want?" Timothy asked tremblingly. "If it's this old thing," he continued, pushing the calendar in front of himself (to which three voices yelled "yes" in a choir), "then you can have it. Just go away! I'm about to be kicked out of here anyway and I have no idea where I should go... So I guess one more night under this roof won't hurt me, but I just can't have invisible people prancing around this room."

The three voices disagreed in a choir.

"You saw it and you took it down. Now, dear boy, you must play the game which, by the way, is twenty-five days long."

"What?" whispered Timothy. "You said you wanted it back. Take it and go!"

"By my striped socks! He's throwing us out!"

"Wait, Hinky. Just wait. You don't want the calendar, boy? Do you have issues?"

Timothy threw the calendar on the floor.

"Yes, I do. Three of them. Hinky, Stinky and Dinky, I believe. Go away!"

"Rude!" muttered one of the voices. "Come on, lads!"

The calendar went floating through the air above the three sets of footprints that were making for the door. For a moment, Timothy felt quite sorry for throwing whatever they were out of the room and then, as clear as day, he could see them.

One elf on the left wore a blue attire. He had no shoes and his ears were so pointy – as far as Timothy could see from behind- that they nearly reached his temples. One elf on the right was about an inch shorter and had a head of curly red hair only partly covered by some sort of red-velvet cap with a bell on its hanging end. As for the one in the middle, he was taller than the two on his sides though very skinny. His pointy ears flapped when he walked and his arms stretched in an open hug around the necks of the other two.

"Elves?" whispered Timothy. "But—How?"

"What did you say?" asked the one on the left, turning with big bright eyes on the boy.

"Elves," repeated Timothy. "I've heard of you. What do you want?"

"What did he say?" inquired the one on the right. "I couldn't quite hear him over the sound of the fact that I don't care!" He rolled the calendar and tucked it under his arm.

The elf on the left grabbed the one in the middle by the shoulders, turning him around.

"He can see us," he whispered. "Good evening, dear boy, good evening! If I may... yes... well, I am known as... Stinky..." He shoved his chin in his chest, shaking his head desolately, and he continued hopelessly, pointing at his two companions. "This here is Dinky, and this is Hinky. We are Christmas elves, not regular elves. We—"

"What do you want? Have you come with news for me?" asked Timothy.

He was starting to grow excited. Never had he heard good news save for "the Joneses will foster you, Timothy" which had ended badly when he had lost their dog. Moreover, he had never received a present before, and he quite regretted the decision to give back the calendar.

"News?" repeated Hinky. "Have we got news for you, indeed. You, dear boy, have been chosen."

"What do you mean?"

"He means the Calendar let you see it because it wants to play with you, dear boy," answered Stinky. "You must help us take the game all the way to the end, or we will vanish forever at exactly 24:48 on Christmas day... And we will never return... Ever..."

He hiccupped.

Timothy felt quite sorry. "You mean you will die? All three of you, or only you?"

"All three of us will disappear," answered Stinky dramatically, "and do you want to know why—"

"Don't start!" interposed Hinky.

"Because he—"

"—Shut it, Stinky! I said –"

"— decided to steal Rudolph and the sleigh and he convinced the two of us to get in it.

Then he flew it all the way above the clouds and –

"— Honest mistake, really—"

"— The next thing we knew, Rudolph didn't have his red nose anymore, the sleigh was out of control, and we crashed on the workshop. Old Klaus threw a temper tantrum and he cursed us. And we are set to vanish forever on the twenty-fifth unless somebody plays the game." He brought the calendar back to little Timothy, and the boy took it happily.

"Did you make a huge mess?"

"Did we!" shouted joyous Hinky. "We broke through the roof and hit the tree which collapsed with the top in the fire. The workshop was eaten by flames, and there are no toys left. All the fireworks went out. Luckily, people thought it was a very strange Aurora Borealis or something..."

Timothy climbed his bed and urged them to come closer. The elves went running around the room, messing up the other three beds and throwing whatever looked like confetti.

The boy gasped in horror.

"Don't worry!" said Hinky. "It doesn't show to just anybody. Only to those who can see and, frankly, this old thing," he said, letting the calendar unroll freely, "has been hanging around your room for at least half a year."

"We were starting to be worried," interfered Stinky. "Nobody saw it until tonight... It's almost December, you know, when—"

"Do you have any food?"

Timothy shook his head. He was feeling pretty hungry himself, but the thought of meeting Jena somewhere around the ground floor made him want to starve.

"We're hungry!" cried Hinky, and Stinky threw him a disappointed glance.

"Where is your friend, Dinky?" asked Timothy, looking around for his shadow.

Stinky climbed the chair to come face to face with the boy. He bore a massive cluster of freckles on his nose and a pair of very bushy eyebrows. Timothy smiled at him, and Stinky made a face after stinking out his tongue.

"Erm, sorry. We elves just can't help it," said the elf apologetically. "If you smile at us, we'll go like this," and he made the face again, screwing his mouth and sticking out his tongue. "We're bad like this, you see? Klaus likes to spoil his elves, so we're basically rotten... As for Dinky, he is quite... unnoticeable most of the time. He likes to be on his own so he just disappears."

"So why did he give you these horrible names? Is it because you burned down his workshop?"

A series of hiccups was presently heard from under a nearby bed, followed by an answer that came straight from the hiding place.

"So everybody would laugh at us."

"Oh, Dinky! You poor things..." whispered Timothy. "Will you come out now? I'm not going to hurt you!"

Dinky hiccupped again.

"He doesn't care about anybody hurting him. He's just... crazy like that. Let him stay under the bed. He'll be there all night long. Mind you, he'll even start singing himself to sleep. A piece of advice – stuff your ears."

Timothy gasped. They couldn't just sleep over, he thought, though the idea of where to put them simply would not come to him. He took the calendar and fingered its weird tweed pockets, wondering what their purpose was until, suddenly, the sound of steps and voices started growing nearer.

"Everybody, hide!" he whispered, distraught.

Knock-knock went his roommates. Timothy looked back at the hidden elves with his heart in his throat and opened the door.

#prose #theprose #christmasstory #christmas #fantasy #magic #adventure

There is beauty in silence, when the mind sings

with the voice of a million dreams and the courage of an army.

There is love in this body, for this mind,

for this loveless heart, for these wandering thoughts, spilling like waterfalls.

And this beauty I see, I taste, I summon...

There is magic in these hands, these eyes, that mouth that obeys the silence.

There is hope, trickling down my cheek, from the windows of the soul -

cracked open to let out the light.

#poetry

And when, at last, the darkness bows

before the mighty mind,

crimson though it may rest

deep in the long-forgotten past,

erased by rains and storms,

forlorn,

given to shame and suffering,

humanity shall rise.

Inadequate and brittle souls,

justice to crave and seize and bind in

kaleidoscopes,

luminescent memories,

moments and light-years,

nothingness unfolded.

Open your arms, man!

Prayer on a flaming pyre,

quiet though words escape you like

rumble from the skies,

suffocating love with

treachery and shallow

understanding; so ineffable

virtue,

wisdom,

x-rayed before

you multiply sins by

zero.

The dice struck the board and rolled over. Six-six-six. A man of the same age as the universe and his long-lost son, both examined the pieces, hunched over a black, dusty board.

“What is this game called again?” he asked.

His son picked up the dice and placed the three of them inside the cup. “I took the liberty to call it ‘A game of creation’, Father. And it's inspired by the games of the people of the Earth where, as you well know, I have spent most of eternity. Quite a prison for the immortal!”

“Quite a prison, indeed…” answered the man. “What are the rules?”

“They’re rather simple, Father. We’re playing chess – as Earthlings call it – on a Snooker board – as Earthlings call it – but I have taken the liberty to make the pieces planets in the Milky Way, and we’ll use these cues made of pressed stardust to hit the balls with. Now, we’ll strike with a ghost planet, and—”

“Why?” asked the man, raising his kind silver-eyes to behold his son.

“Because, Father, I have been among them and, while I well know that you still love them so, I weep for the damage they have done…”

With this, the man’s son grabbed the cue and bent over the board, and a ghost planet shot past Mars, swishing next past the Earth at a millimetric distance.

“Destruction is an integrated part of creation, or so I remember being taught,” said the young man, smiling at his father who had very slightly touched his cue to make him miss.

“So I remember teaching you, my son. But you are too quick to judge. Moreover, I also remember teaching you compassion and deeply-rooted patience. The Earthlings too have come to resemble your character, and I insist upon the fact that forgiveness is the wise man's greatest weapon.”

“I beg to disagree, my Father,” answered the young man. “I have never seen a place fouler and more infested however much I searched. The air they breathe is tainted; the water they drink they’ve infected with substances we’d only ever use to create the soil under their feet. They’re dying, Father, in pain and desperation, and they’ve forgotten the name of their creator, whom they call anything but Universal Being!”

The old man gently removed the cue from his son’s angry hand, then he replaced the ghost planet on the black dusty board and lifted his hands. The dust was raised thus, coming to float freely, gas rings and gas wombs, planets and stars and darkness to surround them.

“When I made people, I did not cast the dice, my son, nor did I strike the Earth billions of years ago to kill. I am acquainted with their ways but look at all the things they have created. Languages, mathematics, their theories of the world, of the universe, of the way to preserve their species whilst moving on to a new sphere—”

“Which they will taint all the same! They have engineered foods packed with chemicals! And animals that only live to meet their untimely death, to rot on the shelves or in garbage bins while the less fortunate starve to death!”

“This is not the point, son… We are not here to judge, and neither should we end their history because they fail to comply with our philosophy.”

The old man moved his long, white fingers with dexterity, and matter wielded by his force floated and danced, merging to give life to the darkness. Outbursts of light followed, and stars collided, blasting that patch of space to smithereens, all while his son watched transfixed with gladness. The swirling Milky Way started to spin unto itself.

“As I said before, I am acquainted with their ways—”

“But billions suffer! It is unjust and—”

“The wars they bring unto themselves, the greed, the slavery, it’s all a part of existence. Why did you suffer so while you were banished from the Heavens?” asked the old man, his hand resting momentarily on the shoulder of his grieving son.

“Because I meant no harm, and yet I harmed. Judge them as you’ve judged me, or let me judge them in your stead.”

A pair of furious wings stretched and just as quickly they retracted under the gentle glinting eyes of the old man.

“There will be no judgment save for the judgment they pass onto their own souls once they have moved on. You know this, and yet you choose to contradict me. Don’t be as proud as to sever our bond a second time, my child—”

“But you know what they made of me! A monster!”

“They only did what the limits of their minds allowed them to do. And yet I see, beyond your desire to destroy, that you are disappointed, for you have always hoped to right their wrongs… But this cannot be done, my son, until they teach themselves to love each other.”

The young man collapsed on the chair with his beautiful pale face in his hands. He sobbed and cried, and massive wings closed protectively around his slender body.

“Do you know why I wouldn’t even let you strike a replica of that sinful planet?” asked the old man in a near-whisper, caressing the long, white feathers on his son’s massive wings. “It’s because there is goodness there, son. There are talent and beauty hidden deep inside its people. There is kindness, though most often extinguished by the sorrows of their past experiences. But there is unity, my son… And as long as they can be united in hatred, they can also be united in love. There is wisdom too, though oftentimes hidden in the hearts of those who will not be listened to or understood, but that does not make wisdom non-existent. And while most of those they look up to teach them self-hatred that can only be expressed through hatred of their brothers, they are capable of self-love, although they may not yet know it. Look at this,” he said, at last, drawing his son’s hands away from his face.

The dark space that had been their board now glinted in a network of expanding lights, and it zoomed in, closer and faster, until the image of the Earth’s colourful lands came into focus.

“They poison their lands, as you observed, but the Earth is capable of cleansing itself. They kill each other, but their carcasses feed their planet. They taint the air at the cost of making themselves terminally ill. The Earth can clean itself, and it will eventually clean itself of people. No need to fret, my son. People unknowingly pass judgment unto themselves every millisecond of their lives through their choices.”

“But you told me not to judge… Why are you telling me this, Father?” asked the youngster, letting his cheek rest on the shoulder of his heavenly father.

The man ran his supple fingers through his son’s hair. “Because there will soon come a time when the cup will overflow. And all their hatred and judgment will return the people of the Earth to the state of recyclable matter. But the time and the means are not up to us to choose. Remember these words, my son: there is no greater virtue than patience and compassion. Though it may seem that oftentimes it’s evil that prevails, this misconception will bring the end much nearer to the present moment, for this living, breathing organism that we are a part of will always better itself. There is no need for greed and hatred, for wars and intended misfortune, for the universe only employs destruction to refine its structures, to give them long-lasting life and meaning.”

“Then… What shall we do, Father?”

The man stood up and wiped the former dark board with his flowing white sleeve, and space, the gas wombs and rings, and the planets and stars were changed to blinding light.

“We’ll start again. And this time, I’ll be the one choosing the game. It’s a personal best, for I have long studied the way gravity works according to the people of the Earth.”

His swift hands pulled a ray of light out of the brilliant mass of whiteness, throwing it his son’s way.

“This, my child, I like to call ‘the trajectory of light’,” he whispered loudly, as the ray sunk deep in the youngster's forehead.

And there was a new Earth, where trees reached the clouds and people exhaled fear that was consumed by the green plenitude and returned in the form of hope for them to feed their lungs and minds.

And so, the youngster smiled when his blue eyes opened again. In front of him stood the Universal Being, a spark above his open palm, and the Being’s hand closed gently around the hand of the angel to pass on the spark. And the universe trembled.

It happened on a cold, rainy evening. A solitary crow was croaking in the only tree in the garden of Saint Thomas’ Orphanage. Feefee, the children’s cat, invited it hungrily to fill her empty stomach, occasionally throwing a look back at the window as she paced softly along the branch.

A shabby dinner had just ended, mostly leaving their hunger unsatisfied. Some of the children had lined up in the window, shouting at Feefee to come back inside. The cat meowed disappointedly, feeling the branch ahead with a soft paw. The crow stared at Feefee with an air of disapproval, then croaked again.

“I wish we had a man around here… Maybe this would start feeling a bit more like a family and a lot less like an orphan house… It would all be better. At least, we’ve had worse than this, so let’s just be thankful.”

“What good is it anyway?” one of the girls replied, staring sulkily at the woman.

“Oh, Jena,” answered the old lady. “I know it all seems quite hopeless, my darling, especially with the new little one we found outside the door, yesterday evening, but I’m positively sure somebody will—”

“Somebody won’t,” answered the girl. “We’re running out of food, and clothes, and here’s another mouth to feed, and—”

“I thought about calling him Andrew,” the old woman interfered. There was an aura of hope and possibilities around her that frightened Jena and her ever logical way of thinking.

“Listen,” whispered the girl. “You said the same about each and every one of them. You said the same about Timothy, remember? And he’s still here, ten years of age and growing ever older. I just don’t see how we can manage to feed all—”

At that moment, little Timmy left the broken swinging chair in which he had been resting and broke into a run. He didn’t know where to go and he didn’t really know what to do. It seemed very much like he was about to get thrown out or forsaken somewhere far away from this place that he had never really liked to call home.

A soft-paced rain had started, and he stopped in the door, pondering whether he should step out or just go to his crowded room and go to sleep.

“I hate them! I can’t stand them! Especially that Jena and the way she always makes me look like the bad boy… I am not a bad boy… It’s not—maybe it’s my fault that my parents left me here… I should just— I won’t be sorry. I won’t cry. I must not cry!”

He slowly started his way back to the dormitory. The building had grown somewhat quiet – a time of the evening he would have usually enjoyed but for the unfortunate discussion he had overheard.

Across the hall, the large staircase was covered in icy, unwelcoming darkness. He disliked the thought of climbing among the shadows, but he could hear Jena coming, closer and closer, and he really did have no other way of getting out of her way.

“Timothy!” she shrieked, seeing him starting up the stairs. “How many times must I tell you?”

He broke into a run again.

“You are not supposed to run! Timothy! Timothy? Get back here!”

He didn’t dare climb down or look behind, so he ran all the way to his room. The other children had not yet arrived, so he locked himself in and hid under the bed.

A chain of loud knocks followed. Timothy covered his ears.

“I’m not here! I’m not here!” he whispered to himself time and again.

Soon enough, the old woman’s voice put an end to the loud banging. Timothy sighed with relief as he dragged himself out and sat on the bed unhappily, counting Jena’s steps as best he could.

“What a night!” he said to his reflection in the window. “And I guess nobody is indeed coming, so I might as well just give up. I mean, look, Timmy… You’re great and all, but the Winstons gave up, and the Parkers gave up, and the Joneses and you just don’t seem to fit with any family. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, darling, but you’re just simply no good.”

He had done a splendid job imitating Mrs. Layla’s raspy voice and he congratulated himself silently. Then he stared at his eyes. In his reflection, they had grown rather wet and unnatural-looking, so he bit his lip and rubbed them hard. What good would tears do?

But then, something glinted high above, followed by what looked like a shimmering chain reaction. The thing these lights played on was rather large and ugly, full of cobwebs and dust, and had a torn corner. It seemed as though it had been nailed onto the frame, hanging over the steamy glass.

Timothy pushed the only chair to the window and reached up, praying that Jena and her unkind colleagues wouldn’t spot him if they happened to lurk in the dark rain outside.

“Wow,” he whispered, feeling the soft surface. “One, two, th-three. Four… Seven…” he whispered, touching the tweed pockets on what looked like an oversized calendar. “One-one… One-two… This doesn’t seem right…”

He winced. He hated numbers just as much as he hated Jena because he had never learnt to count.

“It’s called eleven, by my striped socks!”

“And twelve! By my jingling bell, you are quite an uneducated snob!”

Timothy turned around. His voice was stuck in his throat and he nearly fell over, tearing the large calendar off the window frame before he managed to stabilize himself.

“Who are – you?” he mumbled, grabbing the corner of the old, broken table.

“Who are you?” answered the voices in a duet. “We saw you first, so you ought to introduce yourself first,” continued one of them.

Timothy rubbed his eyes.

“I’m—I am Timothy.”

“Timothy what?”

“What?”

Timothy stepped down and wiped the swaying chair before seating himself, the calendar tight within his grasp.

“What-what? Oh, he is being ridiculous! I told you, I said ‘Hinky,’ I said, ‘one must not pick the uneducated one,’ I said. But,” he followed, “does Hinky ever listen?”

Coming from the far corner of the bed, a small voice answered negatively. Timothy stared in the shadows. As if Jena wasn’t enough! As if the newly-found kid wasn’t enough! As if he was not scared enough!

“Hinky never listens, because he thinks he’s oh-so-smart, doesn’t he, Dinky? Doesn’t he?!”

The same small voice answered affirmatively and a frightening pointy-headed shadow on the wall nodded to the rhythm of the words. “Yes, yes he does!”

“Says Stinky! Stop embarrassing ourselves, you cinnamon-stuffed pudding! I think he’s about to have a fit!”

Timothy shook his head, squeezing the calendar to his chest.

“I don’t like him,” declared the first voice. “He certainly doesn’t pop or anything!”

“Pop?” cried the first voice dramatically. “Hinky, you gingerbread-man! You lollipop, you! He is not supposed to pop!”

Timothy shivered. “To pop?” he asked in a desperate whisper, feeling his feverish forehead with a trembling hand.

“Oh, look at this, Stinky! Look at him! I think he will actually pop!”

“Don’t pop!” whispered the voice in the corner, and the pointy-headed shadow shook its head nervously again.

“Oh, Hinky! Out of all the misbehaved boys in the world, you had to pick one that grows blue in the face!”

“He’s quite funny, isn’t he? I think I’ll give him a piece of candy. Here, boy! Here!” said the second voice and followed with a whistle.

The candy struck the boy in the cheek. He looked around ever more scared, for there seemed to be nobody else in there but himself and a frightening shadow on the wall opposite him.

“He’s funny cause he doesn’t see! You had to pick a blind one, Hinky! And I said to him, I said,” continued the first voice, turning towards the shadow,” ‘Hinky, don’t go picking one that can’t possibly see us,’ but does Hinky ever listen?”

“Hinky never listens,” came the answer from the corner.

“Shut up, Stinky! Just shut it! Old man Klaus will throw a tantrum, you know he will. And it won’t be my fault! Kid! Stop growing blue in the face! Hey, Dinky, is he supposed to look like that?”

The shadow shook its head amply across the blotchy wall.

“Catch him!” cried the first voice. “By my striped socks, he’s about to—"

Little Timothy hit the ground with a loud thud. Nobody in the whole Orphanage seemed to have noticed the sound.

“Pick him up, Stinky! You made him sick with your unbearable cinnamon stench! I have told and told you to change that perfume once and for all!”

Small footprints started to appear on the wooden floor as the owner of the voice made for Timothy’s collapsed body. His arm was lifted slowly, apparently fearfully, as the unseen creature seemed to be sniffing the sleeve of his patchy jumper.

“I don’t like this! He doesn’t even smell appetizing!”

“By my jingling bell, you absolute cinnamon-roll you! He doesn’t need to smell good. Old Klaus will not eat him, and neither will we!”

A frustrated grunt followed as the boy’s hand twitched in the air.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to get over here, Hinky! Come, help me out. And you, Dinky! Get here!”

Two other sets of footprints appeared. Timothy opened dizzy eyes and struggled to mute a scream of horror when he saw his arms floating freely.

“He’s heavy! I propose we retrieve the calendar and scamper away. What do you say? What do you mean no? Don’t you contradict me, Dinky! Heaven knows I could have been rolling in the snow up North right now if Hinky hadn’t broken Rudolph’s silly nose!”

Nearly on his knees, the boy pulled an arm free. The unseen beings screamed as they threw his other arm down.

“Who—what do you want?” Timothy asked tremblingly. “If it’s this old thing,” he continued, pushing the calendar in front of himself (to which three voices yelled “yes” in a choir), “then you can have it. Just go away! I’m about to be kicked out of here anyway and I have no idea where I should go… So I guess one more night under this roof won’t hurt me, but I just can’t have invisible people prancing around this room.”

The three voices disagreed in a choir.

“You saw it and you took it down. Now, dear boy, you must play the game which, by the way, is twenty-five days long.”

“What?” whispered Timothy. “You said you wanted it back. Take it and go!”

“By my striped socks! He’s throwing us out!”

“Wait, Hinky. Just wait. You don’t want the calendar, boy? Do you have issues?”

Timothy threw the calendar on the floor.

“Yes, I do. Three of them. Hinky, Stinky and Dinky, I believe. Go away!”

“Rude!” muttered one of the voices. “Come on, lads!”

The calendar went floating through the air above the three sets of footprints that were making for the door. For a moment, Timothy felt quite sorry for throwing whatever they were out of the room and then, as clear as day, he could see them.

One elf on the left wore a blue attire. He had no shoes and his ears were so pointy – as far as Timothy could see from behind- that they nearly reached his temples. One elf on the right was about an inch shorter and had a head of curly red hair only partly covered by some sort of red-velvet cap with a bell on its hanging end. As for the one in the middle, he was taller than the two on his sides though very skinny. His pointy ears flapped when he walked and his arms stretched in an open hug around the necks of the other two.

“Elves?” whispered Timothy. “But—How?”

“What did you say?” asked the one on the left, turning with big bright eyes on the boy.

“Elves,” repeated Timothy. “I’ve heard of you. What do you want?”

“What did he say?” inquired the one on the right. “I couldn’t quite hear him over the sound of the fact that I don’t care!” He rolled the calendar and tucked it under his arm.

The elf on the left grabbed the one in the middle by the shoulders, turning him around.

“He can see us,” he whispered. “Good evening, dear boy, good evening! If I may… yes… well, I am known as… Stinky…” He shoved his chin in his chest, shaking his head desolately, and he continued hopelessly, pointing at his two companions. “This here is Dinky, and this is Hinky. We are Christmas elves, not regular elves. We—”

“What do you want? Have you come with news for me?” asked Timothy.

He was starting to grow excited. Never had he heard good news save for “the Joneses will foster you, Timothy” which had ended badly when he had lost their dog. Moreover, he had never received a present before, and he quite regretted the decision to give back the calendar.

“News?” repeated Hinky. “Have we got news for you, indeed. You, dear boy, have been chosen.”

“What do you mean?”

“He means the Calendar let you see it because it wants to play with you, dear boy,” answered Stinky. “You must help us take the game all the way to the end, or we will vanish forever at exactly 24:48 on Christmas day… And we will never return… Ever…” He hiccupped.

Timothy felt quite sorry. “You mean you will die? All three of you, or only you?”

“All three of us will disappear,” answered Stinky dramatically, “and do you want to know why—”

“Don’t start!” interposed Hinky.

“Because he—”

“—Shut it, Stinky! I said –“

“— decided to steal Rudolph and the sleigh and he convinced the two of us to get in it. Then he flew it all the way above the clouds and –

“— Honest mistake, really—”

“— The next thing we knew, Rudolph didn’t have his red nose anymore, the sleigh was out of control, and we crashed on the workshop. Old Klaus threw a temper tantrum and he cursed us. And we are set to vanish forever on the twenty-fifth unless somebody plays the game.” He brought the calendar back to little Timothy, and the boy took it happily.

“Did you make a huge mess?”

“Did we!” shouted joyous Hinky. “We broke through the roof and hit the tree which collapsed with the top in the fire. The workshop was eaten by flames, and there are no toys left. All the fireworks went out. Luckily, people thought it was a very strange Aurora Borealis or something…”

Timothy climbed his bed and urged them to come closer. The elves went running around the room, messing up the other three beds and throwing whatever looked like confetti.

The boy gasped in horror.

“Don’t worry!” said Hinky. “It doesn’t show to just anybody. Only to those who can see and, frankly, this old thing,” he said, letting the calendar unroll freely, “has been hanging around your room for at least half a year.”

“We were starting to be worried,” interfered Stinky. “Nobody saw it until tonight… It’s almost December, you know, when—”

“Do you have any food?”

Timothy shook his head. He was feeling pretty hungry himself, but the thought of meeting Jena somewhere around the ground floor made him want to starve.

“We’re hungry!” cried Hinky, and Stinky threw him a disappointed glance.

“Where is your friend, Dinky?” asked Timothy, looking around for his shadow.

Stinky climbed the chair to come face to face with the boy. He bore a massive cluster of freckles on his nose and a pair of very bushy eyebrows. Timothy smiled at him, and Stinky made a face after stinking out his tongue.

“Erm, sorry. We elves just can’t help it,” said the elf apologetically. “If you smile at us, we’ll go like this,” and he made the face again, screwing his mouth and sticking out his tongue. “We’re bad like this, you see? Klaus likes to spoil his elves, so we’re basically rotten… As for Dinky, he is quite… unnoticeable most of the time. He likes to be on his own so he just disappears.”

“So why did he give you these horrible names? Is it because you burned down his workshop?”

A series of hiccups was presently heard from under a nearby bed, followed by an answer that came straight from the hiding place.

“So everybody would laugh at us.”

“Oh, Dinky! You poor things…” whispered Timothy. “Will you come out now? I’m not going to hurt you!”

Dinky hiccupped again.

“He doesn’t care about anybody hurting him. He’s just… crazy like that. Let him stay under the bed. He’ll be there all night long. Mind you, he’ll even start singing himself to sleep. A piece of advice – stuff your ears.”

Timothy gasped. They couldn’t just sleep over, he thought, though the idea of where to put them simply would not come to him. He took the calendar and fingered its weird tweed pockets, wondering what their purpose was until, suddenly, the sound of steps and voices started growing nearer.

“Everybody, hide!” he whispered, distraught.

Knock-knock went his roommates. Timothy looked back at the hidden elves with his heart in his throat and opened the door.

P:S:

This is the first chapter in a long, long story. Because I have written it for fun, I would appreciate any constructive criticism you might have for me. Thanks :)

Drenched, endless darkness

quenched by the uproar of light under the skin,

this self-expanding abyss,

bubbles or fireflies,

or stars in the making.

The touch of starless skies against the mind,

the sleeping, wandering all-seeing eye,

all-hearing, all feeling,

tight within these layers,

where meteors tear the shell to let in life,

to let out the light, the fires of blood

like lava, spilled across what is - used to be

Nothing.

Unknown, it spins, backward,

light-years deep, forgotten among the dusty hands of time,

a boulder, an egg,

a particle in the womb of the firmament.

Engulfed by the ocean, the thirst for immortal damnation...

Time spills the soul in the shell.