| Fantasy Fiction posted December 22, 2013 |
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Fantasy Story
Enchanted Vines Of Wisteriaville 1
by michaelcahill
Stories are always for children. Indeed, when you are no longer a child, you find no thrill in a tall tale. It is life and death. When you no longer can view existence in awe, you have broken the connection to our forever, young souls. This is, in truth, a child's tale. It is the child that is within that is yearning, as it always has, for confirmation and love. It is to be found everywhere, if one would only use the eyes and ears and fingers and tears that have been given in such generosity to us, alone.
Is it only ants, that march with purpose, on my majestic, purple-flowered vine? Or, is it the story that only a child can understand? I have not been fascinated in a very long time. But, these ants are so industrious and purposeful, that they pause the march of sense and explanation that, all too often, plagues my mind. Soon, I realize that these are no common ants. They are tiny creatures on an inexorable journey that requires my attention.
Why it is me that can communicate with these creatures is unknown to me. Nonetheless, it is my task to tell their story, as I am the one that observed it. As in all things of wonderment, it is always when a little boy, falls in love with a little girl, that sleepy eyelids open wide and see once again, the thrill of simply being alive. I am that boy. I am that very lucky boy.
"We are Wishes".
That was a collective response to my very excited inquiry, "Who are you?"
Alouitious Samson Wish was the fancy moniker of either the spokesman, or the most loquacious of the group. I couldn't tell, yet. "Call me Louie, for they all do. As I said, we are all Wishes. We are but half the inhabitants of this world. The other half are called Dreams. We know little of them for they occupy the other half of the world.
The center of our world grows from the most barren of deserts in an unreachable part of existence that causes great debate amongst us. It is futile to seek the center of our world for it is ever expanding. That doesn't stop our curiosity though. We simply wish to know. We see where we might go someday, but long for the source of our existence. We know of your world and find it curious in its size and slow moving manners. We thought you asleep, but know now that you are simply unaware of what surrounds you. I am the great poet of our society, though I don't know why. I just like to talk, is all."
We spent the entire afternoon talking, until well past dark. No doubt my neighbors thought me daft. sitting there talking, seemingly to a plant. But, I am not one to worry about what people think. It seems that at one time these creatures were simple ants, living in my backyard, enjoying the topography and fruits of Maryville. Maryville, is where I live.
My home is known by many names, including a tongue in cheek reference to it as, The Curtis Club. To me it is Maryville, named from my heart for the little girl that keeps it. I believe it was my grandmother, that planted that Wisteria, outside my bedroom window. It labored there unattended for some time, as I recall. Then one day, I noticed that it had grown quite large. I realize it was probably a gradual process, witnessed be eyes that sometimes look, without seeing. . It would send out the wispiest of tendrils, seeking a grasp on a fence or tree, or even my own windowsill. It almost seemed laughable that something so delicate could even survive a slight breeze, let alone defy everything with its simple compulsion to seek. But, then another tendril would wrap itself around for support and before long another and another. It seemed independent in its growth, while at the same time, totally enslaved to the whim of the seasons.
Winter was harshest, as is its nature. There was not a leaf or tendril or truly even a glimmer of life to it in the winter. It appeared as a collection of dead sticks, all wrapped around each other, as though at one time there was a great purpose to it.
As Louie told me in our conversation, "winter offers no foreshadowing of spring even to those that have seen it arrive before. When hope is finally abandoned, spring simply enters laughing."
He went on to explain the nature of his world. It seems that the vine itself is the source of their sentience. It was simply happened upon one day, as simple black ants went about the business of survival. Upon entering the twisting vines, a knowledge came to them, that was different than anything they had ever known.
The simple question, "Why?" occurred to each that walked the enchanted vines. To leave the vine was to leave the curiosity to seek. In the early days, many simply marched up the vine and paused to reflect, only to succumb to the compulsion to march right back down. As soon as contact with the vine was broken, purpose returned to normal and they simply became ants again.
It wasn't that they forgot the vine. They forgot the question and midst the practicality of survival, wonderment was lost. As time passed, it became apparent that knowledge does not come without cost. Though enchanted, it was indeed a world of peril and treachery. Even curiosity can be a burden when so many questions are left discussed, but not answered. So, the years passed and with them came the means of survival. Death would still put its cold hand over the eyes of friends and family. But death was no longer naturaly occurring, but always through misfortune. Even at that, death was not always true death. But, a rainstorm that knocks your most beloved from the vine to the ground below, nonetheless, takes your dreams with it.
Stories are always for children. Indeed, when you are no longer a child, you find no thrill in a tall tale. It is life and death. When you no longer can view existence in awe, you have broken the connection to our forever, young souls. This is, in truth, a child's tale. It is the child that is within that is yearning, as it always has, for confirmation and love. It is to be found everywhere, if one would only use the eyes and ears and fingers and tears that have been given in such generosity to us, alone.
Is it only ants, that march with purpose, on my majestic, purple-flowered vine? Or, is it the story that only a child can understand? I have not been fascinated in a very long time. But, these ants are so industrious and purposeful, that they pause the march of sense and explanation that, all too often, plagues my mind. Soon, I realize that these are no common ants. They are tiny creatures on an inexorable journey that requires my attention.
Why it is me that can communicate with these creatures is unknown to me. Nonetheless, it is my task to tell their story, as I am the one that observed it. As in all things of wonderment, it is always when a little boy, falls in love with a little girl, that sleepy eyelids open wide and see once again, the thrill of simply being alive. I am that boy. I am that very lucky boy.
"We are Wishes".
That was a collective response to my very excited inquiry, "Who are you?"
Alouitious Samson Wish was the fancy moniker of either the spokesman, or the most loquacious of the group. I couldn't tell, yet. "Call me Louie, for they all do. As I said, we are all Wishes. We are but half the inhabitants of this world. The other half are called Dreams. We know little of them for they occupy the other half of the world.
The center of our world grows from the most barren of deserts in an unreachable part of existence that causes great debate amongst us. It is futile to seek the center of our world for it is ever expanding. That doesn't stop our curiosity though. We simply wish to know. We see where we might go someday, but long for the source of our existence. We know of your world and find it curious in its size and slow moving manners. We thought you asleep, but know now that you are simply unaware of what surrounds you. I am the great poet of our society, though I don't know why. I just like to talk, is all."
We spent the entire afternoon talking, until well past dark. No doubt my neighbors thought me daft. sitting there talking, seemingly to a plant. But, I am not one to worry about what people think. It seems that at one time these creatures were simple ants, living in my backyard, enjoying the topography and fruits of Maryville. Maryville, is where I live.
My home is known by many names, including a tongue in cheek reference to it as, The Curtis Club. To me it is Maryville, named from my heart for the little girl that keeps it. I believe it was my grandmother, that planted that Wisteria, outside my bedroom window. It labored there unattended for some time, as I recall. Then one day, I noticed that it had grown quite large. I realize it was probably a gradual process, witnessed be eyes that sometimes look, without seeing. . It would send out the wispiest of tendrils, seeking a grasp on a fence or tree, or even my own windowsill. It almost seemed laughable that something so delicate could even survive a slight breeze, let alone defy everything with its simple compulsion to seek. But, then another tendril would wrap itself around for support and before long another and another. It seemed independent in its growth, while at the same time, totally enslaved to the whim of the seasons.
Winter was harshest, as is its nature. There was not a leaf or tendril or truly even a glimmer of life to it in the winter. It appeared as a collection of dead sticks, all wrapped around each other, as though at one time there was a great purpose to it.
As Louie told me in our conversation, "winter offers no foreshadowing of spring even to those that have seen it arrive before. When hope is finally abandoned, spring simply enters laughing."
He went on to explain the nature of his world. It seems that the vine itself is the source of their sentience. It was simply happened upon one day, as simple black ants went about the business of survival. Upon entering the twisting vines, a knowledge came to them, that was different than anything they had ever known.
The simple question, "Why?" occurred to each that walked the enchanted vines. To leave the vine was to leave the curiosity to seek. In the early days, many simply marched up the vine and paused to reflect, only to succumb to the compulsion to march right back down. As soon as contact with the vine was broken, purpose returned to normal and they simply became ants again.
It wasn't that they forgot the vine. They forgot the question and midst the practicality of survival, wonderment was lost. As time passed, it became apparent that knowledge does not come without cost. Though enchanted, it was indeed a world of peril and treachery. Even curiosity can be a burden when so many questions are left discussed, but not answered. So, the years passed and with them came the means of survival. Death would still put its cold hand over the eyes of friends and family. But death was no longer naturaly occurring, but always through misfortune. Even at that, death was not always true death. But, a rainstorm that knocks your most beloved from the vine to the ground below, nonetheless, takes your dreams with it.
 Recognized |
I haven't had much time to edit this. I wrote this before my recent exposure to writing tips and improvements. Looking for reactions. Hopefully some critique but nothing to heartbreaking. hahaha. I would like to at least introduce some other stories that I have to get an idea of what is of interest. I always appreciate suggestions and input.
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