Cromwell the Hero!
Cromwell was once a hero.
I castles he fought, though death knew him not,
His father's had failed his spree.
In shadow was he, destined to be
No more than a grumpy old zero.
Until one fine day, his horse ran away
To a place where he thought he could hear
A chorus of birds, who loved to be heard
By brave men who once knew no fear.
For they knew all too well
This unfortunate spell
Was a gift from the goddess of Nero.
And only their song
Could undo the wrong...
Unfold the Great Cromwell,
The Hero!
The Haunted... What?!
"Somethin' the matter?" wriggled Carlyle, scootching closer to the stranger, along the bus booth bench, a slight drizzle catching the polycarbonate wall siding, separating bodies from the elements, while admitting a hazy view of the city dimming.
"What?!" said the old dog, his whiskers so profuse the chap couldn't tell if he'd been spoken to, at all. He certainly didn't feel sure, not with that big word ones use when they're disappointed already, asking if you "understand," or if you've, "understood."
He could picture ole Mrs. Tibby, with her massive arms crossed over chest and belly, looking down, frowning, with a treat in her other hand. But he weren't mad much.
"What's the matter?" he tried again with genuine small pup sincerity, twisting his head to mirror the lean of the fellow next to him. Surely, he was looking right at him now. Must have seen his mouth moving up and down, and figured he'd been talking to 'em all along, side by side.
The old timer's eyes gave a little glimmer of seeing, and he once again stuck his nubbly claw in his ear and gave a firm wiggle.
His jaw dropped.
"'What?' my ear--- It's haunted!"
05.02.204
The Haunted... What? challenge @AJAY9979
Minimal World
"That'll be $7.98," the woman, her gray hair peeking from under the bandana around her large, angular face, said as she bagged the watermelon and handed it to Luciana.
"I'll pay with my phone," Luciana replied.
The woman nodded, gesturing to the payment terminal on the counter. Luciana tapped her phone against it, and the transaction went through seamlessly.
"Thanks," Luciana said, taking the bag of fruit. "Have a great day."
"You too, honey," the woman called after her. As Luciana turned away, she gave her a once-over, it wasn't the first time she had seen her.
As Luciana walked out of the small market, she felt the heat of the sun beating down on her. It was a scorching summer day in Wisconsin, and the first thing Luciana did upon arriving home was to place the bag containing the watermelon on the table. The wicker tablecloth absorbed the impact of the heavy watermelon as Luciana sat down on the wooden piano bench and began to play. The fabric of her white dress with blue floral print rested on the walnut stool, doing little to alleviate the heat.
As the notes flowed, the painting displayed on the kitchen table was the sole listener, and Luciana its sole observer. Entitled "Minimal World," it depicted a greatly simplified landscape with clean lines and soft colors, featuring simple geometric shapes and ample negative space. The idea was to convey the beauty and serenity of a world reduced to its essentials. Not much is really needed to find happiness.
Luciana contemplated her thoughts to the rhythm of the melody. Her paintings, once ignored by the general public, were now appreciated by a large majority, allowing her to make a living from her art and exhibit it in galleries, museums, and even in official or private advertising campaigns. Did she really deserve this? Her art was minimalist and simple but encompassed a great sense of love for the world and society, infused with what she considered to be positive and important messages that invited reflection.
Still, for a long time, no one had paid attention to them, perhaps for some reason. She wondered if her success was fair. While many other artists, probably much more skilled than her, were living on the streets begging or creating very accurate portraits of the obliging people who stopped in front of them in the subway. Most people didn't have the time or inclination to truly appreciate the work of these artists. They hurried past, fixated on their own lives, rarely sparing a glance at the the artists that worked tirelessly, hoping that someone would acknowledge their talent and offer support.
Luciana's fingers glided effortlessly across the piano keys, and the music filled the room. The minimalistic painting seemed to absorb the melody, as if it were part of the artwork itself. Outside, the sun continued to beat down, just as Luciana beat the piano keys.
While Luciana played the piano in her sunlit living room, the library behind her suddenly opened without her even turning around. Her expression remained impassive and pensive. A blinding light, unlike anything compared to the sunlight filling the room, emanated from the space between the two now-separated bookshelves, and a six-meter-tall being entered the room, crouching to fit. "There's the watermelon, take it before it spoils in this heat," Luciana said dispassionately.
The otherworldly being floated towards the table, picking up the watermelon that seemed like a grape in its enormous hand, and checked its freshness by bringing it close to its wide mouth, which served as a nose and eyes—a sort of universal analyzer. "It's fresh," the being said. Luciana’s artistic career depended on that fruit, and no, she wasn't drawing watermelons.
Luciana stopped playing, having fulfilled her purpose: to summon the being, whose names were not spoken but played as melodies. They had taught her the melody during their first encounter.
"Yes, it's from the usual store, they have the freshest watermelons, just the kind you like," Luciana said, her eyes still fixed on her painting. "The fresher they are, the more citrulline," the being said, attempting a smile, which for its species meant opening its mouth to the sides—a somewhat intimidating appearance that Luciana had learned to ignore.
"Is something wrong?" the being asked, noticing her distraction. "It's just that, I don't know, do I really deserve this fame? I mean before meeting you, before meeting your race, no one noticed my paintings," she admitted. "Of course you do, that's why we fixed that little problem. Your paintings deserve admiration, they just needed the push that we give them. By the way, have you painted any new ones? So I can add the final touch?" the being said. "That final touch, it's like you hypnotize people..." Luciana hesitated. "Well, we just make them notice what they should notice, how amazing your creations are, that's all. And in exchange, we only ask for you to provide us with watermelons. I thought you were okay with it."
"I understand that Earth was your creation, just another ship of yours, and you signed an agreement with the Space Federation to give it up for experimental purposes, giving rise to the human race. That same agreement prevents you from intervening directly and disrupting the natural flow of our society or forcing anyone, which is why you chose this small action. And the fact that I’m the chosen one because, well, you didn't say it like that, but basically because I'm weak, a nobody. And I had a frustrated dream that made me easy to manipulate. Besides, who would believe me if I told them? An artist who imagines things wouldn't be anything strange. But couldn't you really get citrulline from somewhere else?" Luciana said, starting to sweat from the very act of speaking.
"It would be difficult to obtain watermelons in any other way. If we contacted someone with access to a watermelon field, it would be too obvious, and we don't want to cause any shortages or draw attention to ourselves—we don't want to be investigated. Besides, watermelons have the highest citrulline content on Earth. Citrulline is our source of energy, a powerful vasodilator necessary to make our machinery work, which essentially functions like your human body. That's where you came from, after all. Our reserves are running low, and our source was Earth until we signed the agreement. Of course, when we signed it, we didn't expect to encounter supply problems, but it's too late to go back now," the being said, and Luciana couldn't see any expression on his face, although the tone of its voice conveyed a deep sense of sadness.
The being approached her and placed its enormous, two-fingered hand on her shoulder. "The fact that you're concerned shows the goodness of your soul, and that's enough to deserve your paintings being appreciated. So don't worry about it, we're not harming anyone. You're a successful painter who purchases watermelons, and we get to keep our ship running. It's a win-win situation." The being's reassuring words and gentle touch brought some comfort to Luciana, but a lingering doubt remained in the back of her mind. Was this really a fair arrangement, or was she being taken advantage of in exchange for a taste of success?
The being disappeared the way he came, and this time Luciana didn't bother to bid farewell. Instead, without even checking that the library had closed properly, she headed to the bathroom. She thought that a refreshing shower might help clear not only her body but also her mind.
Luciana checked her mobile phone and saw a message from Matthew, her boyfriend. The last message they had exchanged was a sketch that Luciana had sent him for his opinion, and he now replied that it was impressive and that she should continue with the painting. In Luciana's eyes, that sketch was terrible. She thought to herself, "Not you too!" This was all she needed to decide to end the pact she had with the aliens.
She quickly sat down at the piano, playing the melody to summon the being, but no one appeared. Perhaps it hadn't yet returned to the ship. Unable to wait any longer, Luciana focused on the library, noticing that it wasn't sealed shut as she usually made sure to do after the visits. She pushed forcefully to open it, revealing a blinding light in the shape of a tunnel. She followed it, reaching a door, and on the other side, she could see what looked like spaceship pilot controls. She also heard voices, which scared her, so she hid in the doorway. Luciana saw another being similar to the one she had always dealt with enter from one side and hand a polka-dot backpack to another being. "Seriously? Another watermelon?" the other being said as they threw the backpack down a tunnel labeled "Waste for Shredding."
A Dragon’s Contentment
(From the barely-heard song of a Dragon whose name we do not know, but whose mind can be felt from very far away)
I live under a mountain, like a dragon from a book
But that’s not the kind of dragon that I am.
I am the kind of dragon that’s been eating little mammals
Since long before your species began.
I am the kind of dragon never featured in your dreams
(if you remembered me, you’d never from your dreams Escape.)
Because your world’s a tiny one, made of fragile things
And stuck together with bits of plastic tape.
I am the kind of dragon who lives under your Seas,
deeper than anywhere you can find.
I am the kind of dragon who will someday eat your moon.
Think hard about me, and I will eat your mind.
I am the kind of dragon that’s the lizard in your brain,
Setting off the deep instinct to run.
Stretched out in full,
I’m a dragon who is bigger than your world.
Be grateful I’m content with the Moon
And do not
(currently)
plan to eat your Sun.
The Garden Gnome Gambit
It was a Tuesday when I found myself inadvertently embroiled in a sequence of events that would later form the cornerstone of my memoirs - assuming, of course, that anyone would be absurd enough to publish them. The day began innocuously enough; I was merely an average person with a penchant for minor acts of rebellion and an unrivaled talent for making poor life decisions.
The incident that transformed my ordinary existence into a spectacle worthy of public exhibition commenced with a seemingly harmless endeavor: I aimed to set a record for the most garden gnomes repositioned in a single night. It was an act motivated not by malice but by a thirst for adventure and perhaps a subtle disdain for the gaudy ceramic figures that had colonized the neighborhood lawns.
Armed with nothing more than a flashlight, a misguided sense of purpose, and sneakers that had seen better days, I embarked on my nocturnal mission. Success was within my grasp until the silence of the night was shattered by the unmistakable sound of a siren. It appeared that in my enthusiasm for gnome relocation, I had inadvertently trespassed on the property of a retired police officer who fancied himself a vigilante of suburban peace.
Faced with the immediate threat of apprehension for a crime as ignoble as gnome displacement, I did what any self-respecting fugitive of garden decor crimes would do: I ran. The chase was less a testament to my athleticism and more an ad hoc obstacle course involving shrubbery, garden hoses, and the occasional startled cat.
My breaths were heavy, my heart pounded against my chest like a drum solo from a rock concert, and sweat coated my brow like a glaze on a holiday ham. The officers, undoubtedly bemused yet unyielding, were hot on my heels, their determination fueled by the prospect of apprehending a gnome bandit.
In a stroke of luck that seemed almost scripted by the fates, an open door appeared on the sidewalk, as if the universe itself had conspired to afford me a sliver of hope. With the police mere whispers behind me, I darted through the doorway, tumbling into salvation’s embrace. The heavy door swung shut with a thud that echoed my racing heart.
I remained still, crouched beneath the window, daring not to breathe as the sound of footsteps and radio chatter passed by, growing fainter with each passing moment. The relief that washed over me was a tidal wave of euphoria; I had escaped the clutches of the law with nothing more than my wits and an uncanny ability to spot an open door.
As my breathing steadied and the adrenaline that had fueled my frenetic escape ebbed away, I let myself bask in the fleeting illusion of triumph. Triumph, however, as I was soon to discover, is often a prelude to tribulation. Slowly, with the cautious curiosity of a cat nearing a suspiciously unattended bowl of cream, I rose from my sanctuary under the window, my heart still performing an erratic symphony within my chest.
I turned, expecting to face a room as ordinary as any other, perhaps cluttered with the mundane artifacts of domestic life. Instead, I found myself in a space that defied all conventional expectations, a room that would have made Salvador Dali raise his eyebrows in both confusion and admiration.
The walls were adorned with paintings that seemed to pulse and writhe in their frames, depicting scenes that oscillated between the fantastical and the macabre. Books were strewn about, their pages filled with indecipherable script that shimmered under the flickering light of a chandelier festooned with what appeared to be crystals, but upon closer inspection, were actually intricately carved bones.
In the center of the room stood a table, upon which was arrayed a curious collection of objects: a compass that spun in endless circles, a clock with thirteen hours, and a crystal ball that clouded and cleared intermittently, revealing fleeting glimpses of unknown places. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something else, something cloyingly sweet yet unmistakably metallic - the smell of blood.
But it was not the bizarre furnishings or the unsettling artwork that sent a shiver down my spine; it was the occupants of the room. Gathered around the table were figures cloaked in shadows, their features obscured, save for the glint of their eyes in the dim light. Each pair of eyes fixed on me with an intensity that rooted me to the spot, a rabbit caught in the gaze of serpents.
The silence was oppressive, a tangible force that seemed to squeeze the very air from my lungs. A voice, smooth as silk and cold as ice, broke the stillness. “Welcome,” it said, each syllable weaving through the shadows like a chill wind. “We’ve been expecting you.”
My mouth felt as dry as a desert, my tongue a useless slab of meat in my mouth. Questions pounded against the forefront of my mind with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Who were these people? What was this place? And, perhaps most pressingly, how had they been expecting me?
Before I had the chance to voice any of these questions, the figure who had spoken stepped forward, emerging from the shadows into the wavering light. The sight that greeted me was so startling, so absurdly out of place with the gravity of the situation, that I nearly laughed.
The figure was garbed in a robe that seemed stitched together from the night sky itself, stars twinkling within the fabric with a light that seemed both impossible and mesmerizing. But it was the face that captured my attention: it was covered by a mask that was nothing less than a giant rubber duck.
“Now,” the figure said, the duck’s beak moving comically with each word, “let’s discuss why you’re here.”
The rational part of my brain, the part that had been meticulously cultivated through years of dull college lectures and an unshakably pragmatic upbringing, screamed that none of this could possibly be happening. The world did not operate on the principles of surrealism and absurdity painted before my very eyes. Yet here I was, conversing with an entity that could only have leaped from the fevered dream of a deranged novelist, its countenance obscured by a façade that sparked an odd juxtaposition of fear and amusement within me.
“Discuss?” I echoed, my voice laced with incredulity, betraying the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me. “I don’t even know how I ended up here, let alone why.”
The figures around the table shifted, a symphony of whispers filling the space between us, their words indecipherable, yet laden with expectation. The duck-masked figure raised a hand, and silence returned as swiftly as it had been broken.
“You are here because fate has woven you into the tapestry of events far greater than the sum of your misdemeanors with garden ornaments,” the figure intoned, the absurdity of the statement doing nothing to diminish its gravity. “Though, admittedly, your choice of pastime is… unconventional.”
A snort escaped me despite the gravity of the situation. Unconventional indeed. Never had I imagined my nocturnal activities would lead me down a rabbit hole that made Wonderland seem like a guided tour of a suburban shopping mall.
“You stand at a crossroads,” the duck continued, its tone somber. “One path leads to redemption, the other to ruination. The choice is yours, but choose wisely. The consequences will ripple through the eons.”
I blinked. Redemption? Ruination? Eons? The words painted a picture so vastly different from my expectations of post-escape hiding that I couldn’t help but feel as if I had stumbled into someone else’s story, a protagonist by accident rather than design.
“And how exactly am I supposed to make this choice?” I asked, skepticism threading my words. “I mean, no offense, but this is all coming on a bit strong. Last I checked, I was just avoiding a trespassing charge, not meddling in the affairs of cosmic importance.”
Laughter, light and lilting, filled the room, emanating from the shrouded figures. It was not mocking but seemed imbued with genuine amusement.
“The bravery you displayed tonight, the willingness to defy the odds, it was merely a precursor,” the figure clarified, its tone warmer now, more inviting. “Your true test lies within this room. Choose an object from the table. It will determine your path.”
I studied the table, the bizarre items now taking on a new light of significance. The compass spun with wild abandon, the clock ticked irregularly, and the crystal ball… I stepped closer, drawn to its mysterious depths. Without fully understanding why, I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cool surface.
The room held its breath.
Then, without warning, reality bent. The walls, the figures, the entire room stretched and twisted, colors bleeding into one another as time and space contorted. I was falling, plummeting through a vortex that defied all laws of physics, the last thing I saw before darkness took me was the duck-masked figure, its eyes gleaming with a light that spoke of untold secrets and imminent adventure.
When consciousness returned, it tiptoed back, hesitant, as if unsure it was returning to the right person. My eyes fluttered open, greeted by a canopy of stars strewn across a sky so vast, so infinitely deep, that I felt I could drown in it. I lay on my back, the ground beneath me neither hard nor soft, but oddly insubstantial, as if I were resting on the concept of ground rather than the thing itself.
Sitting up, I found the world around me had rearranged its features once more, now resembling neither the peculiar room nor the familiar streets I had known. Instead, I was in a place that defied straightforward description. It was as if the universe had taken a handful of landscapes from a dozen different planets and woven them together into a tapestry of bewildering diversity. Mountains that shimmered with an iridescent sheen towered next to forests where the leaves sang in the wind, a melody both haunting and beautiful.
In the distance, a river flowed, its waters a swirling miasma of colors that no earthly palette could contain. The air was thick with a fragrance that was simultaneously new and ancient, filled with notes of jasmine, ozone, and something indefinably otherworldly.
As I stood, a sense of vertigo momentarily overtook me, not from a fear of falling, but from the sudden realization that I had profoundly underestimated the gravity of my situation. The words of the duck-masked figure echoed in my mind: a choice between redemption and ruination, with consequences rippling through eons.
I took a tentative step forward, half expecting the ground to give way beneath me. Instead, it held firm, the surreal landscape beckoning me to explore. As I walked, the reality of my circumstance began to settle in; I was no mere fugitive of a mundane justice system. I had become an unwitting participant in a trial that spanned the cosmos, my fate entwined with forces beyond my comprehension.
The river drew me nearer, its waters calling to me with a voice that was felt rather than heard. As I approached, an object caught my eye, half-submerged in the kaleidoscopic flow. It was a mirror, its frame adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift and change under my gaze.
Tentatively, I reached out, my fingers grazing the cool metal of the frame before grasping it firmly. Drawing the mirror from the river, I held it before me, taking in my reflection. But what stared back was not my face, or rather, not just my face. It was a visage that morphed and flowed, reflecting myriad possibilities of who I was, who I could be, and who I might yet become.
Each reflection was me, yet not me—different paths I could take, lives I could live. Each choice I had ever made, or might yet make, played out in an infinite dance of consequences, a reminder of the weight of choice and the power of action.
It was then that realization dawned upon me, as bright and blinding as the stars overhead. This was not a trial of cosmic jesters or a test by extraterrestrial beings. It was a journey of self-discovery, a trial by fire designed to reveal the essence of my being, to challenge me to confront my fears, my hopes, my very identity.
With a deep breath, I looked once more into the mirror, my gaze steady. The reflections slowed, coalescing into a single image, a vision of myself not as I was but as I could be. A version of me unbound by past regrets or future anxieties, free to forge my destiny with the raw materials of choice and will.
Armed with this newfound understanding, I turned from the river, the mirror in hand, and stepped forward into the unknown land that sprawled before me. For the first time, I felt a sense of purpose, a conviction that, regardless of the path I chose, the journey itself was the destination.
And though I could not have known it then, my adventures had only just begun. For in the realms of the infinite, every ending is but a new beginning, every choice a doorway to endless possibilities.
The Dark
I've seen everything there is to see in my city, or so I thought. The one thing I haven't seen is what it looks like when it all goes dark. The power had gone out, and soon the bombs begin to drop. I'm pretty sure this is the start of a war. This is how it begins, every time. A light in the dark, and the world goes silent but for the explosions, the sound of buildings so well engineered crumbling to the ground.
They're calling it the bombing of Wall Street. How creative.
You ask what the colors are in this beautiful mess, and here is my answer. Besides that sickening black, the colors are the colors of fall. Shades of orange, yellow and red. Nothing but these, and not even the sky is blue anymore, not even the sea. There is too much smoke in the air. I suppose I should add gray to the list. But not blue, and not green. Everything in New York City is dead. I can't go outside yet, the smoke is too heavy. I can't go outside yet, my heart is not ready.
Mer
I hear a man whistle behind me, setting my eye roll into motion. This is not what I had intended to do today. My plans involved sitting on a rock while the waves crashed behind me, inhaling the soft salt air so my voice could fill its space. But still, I would never pass up an opportunity like this.
I turn around, my long hair following behind me as it floats on the white sea foam, and I see the ship. The scene is extremely predictable. A group of men with long, straggly hair and untrimmed beards are dancing around to some song about the sea. It’s ironic; these old folk songs are pretty much always warning them about the dangers in the ocean, yet they choose to ignore these messages.
“Come on, girl! Give us a smile!” one of them says. I wait a second to let their excitement build before showing them my pearly-white teeth and giving them a little wave. This never fails to fill me with satisfaction, as all of the men on board are either missing teeth or missing limbs.
They applaud me and begin to call me closer. I see them clapping each other on the back and making loud, incompetent comments about my physical beauty. While this was exactly the goal, I can’t help but wonder if anything goes through their heads at all. The comments they make are sexual in nature, but even the most surface-level knowledge of marine biology combined with half a second of critical thinking would make them realize how impossible that is.
I start to do long dolphin dives towards them, the moonlight making the water on my skin glisten, while my tail glistens all on its own. As I approach the boat, the calming aroma of salt becomes mildew and rotting wood. They have a topless member of my species carved out of stone perched to the front of their boat, a reminder of why this plan works every time.
They scurry to the edge of the boat, where a fishing net hangs above them to fill me with a quiet rage. I wave at them again, this time to ask them to join me in the water. There is a hesitation, but their ignorant smiles are far more powerful, so I’m not worried about my success.
I begin to sing; the men are helpless. My voice puts them in a trance and the smell of body odor and booze gets closer and closer. They stare longingly at my figure, probably wishing I resembled the carving on the boat just a little more. They are so distracted that they don’t notice my once perfect teeth growing longer and sharper, with my fingernails following their lead. I give them the privilege of hearing my perfect laugh as their last sound of life.
Magilla Gorilla
It was a New York balmy 67 degrees. Inside the monkey suit was a high 75. To stay cool meant to continue moving. Tiny holes built in the suit allowed city air to flow through the interior and mix with perspiration keeping the wearer from overheating.
He watched people from all over the world walk the streets and sidewalks going to and fro in a sea of jackets and overcoats. As he passed by, heads turned, children squealed and tourists aimed their phones.
Some stopped for selfies, office workers chuckled, and a street performer included him in their juggling routine. Each interaction felt like family, a well-played performance in which he didn’t have to reveal the debilitating social anxiety he experienced each day.
His desire to connect with everyone was strong, but not enough to shed his protection.
For Marcus, the suit wasn’t a costume, it was a shield. His crippling anxiety to fit in caused him to use the suit as a barrier. He was convinced people were more comfortable with Magilla the Gorilla than Marcus the Man.
“Hey cool costume,” a young girl said. Her eyes were bright and wide with wonder. Her father waved to him and spoke in German. Not knowing how to respond, Marcus offered a gorilla grunt and thumbs up.
After waving goodbye to the family, he focused on a heavy walk, feet pounding against the pavement. A New York City symphony of honks and sirens drowned out the pace of his movements. Marcus reached his safe spot, under a towering Oak tree in a quiet corner of Central Park. The metal bench he sat on provided a modicum of privacy. Here he shed the monkey suit. Marcus took in a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs. He remembered the performer, the father, the little girl and smiled. The suit may have been a shield, but within its confines Marcus found a sliver of confidence.
He left the suit on the bench and headed back toward the city. He would face the crowds, not as a gorilla, but as a man.
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