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A Life Pondered

by Casey Promise Thompson 9 months ago in Short Story · updated 6 months ago
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The Cycle

Art by Author

The eastern sun rose over the valley and I awoke to the western winds gently caressing my body. It was even colder last night, and I could feel the tug of fatigue and aching in my limbs. It was expected.

I have grown even more weak these last few weeks as the dark days have become more prolonged. I’ve lost all of my color despite how much I try to nourish myself with water and what little food I have left. I am stuck here with no way to speak. I can only watch the fleeting passersby as they go on about their lives with little to no regard for me.

Wilting, pale and stripped – it’s as if I’ve disappeared. I know that my time is near. I know I only have a few hours left until it is time for my body to shut down.

When the last good bits of me vanished and I was left with nothing, people had no need for me anymore. It’s something I have to come to terms with, for it’s merely my purpose here on earth.

I can not change it, for if I could, I’d muster all the strength I have and pull myself up and out of this bed and wander the fields and forests and dance and sway to the songs of the birds. I would play with the foxes and squirrels and would howl at and chase the moon.

But I can only lay here motionless, subject to the nature of things beyond my control.

The people who cared for me took what they wanted months ago, and now I’ve just faded into the background. Skin grey and lifeless.

Though the sun is warm today and so I will enjoy what little time I have left, soaking in its light like a constant companion. For I am but naked and bare – a stark contrast against the streak of dark blue sky now disappearing over the horizon.

I often wonder what will happen when I fall into my long sleep.

Will the flowers that surround me wilt and fade?

Will those that tended to me forget that I am here?

Will anyone miss me?

Photo by Miche Thompson

The sun is setting and my vision is dwindling like the fog that now envelops my space. The orange and pink hues that are stretched out across my barren limbs, give me the last bits of light to watch my body wither in sorrow.

I just saw a woman peek upon me through a window just now, but she did not stay to ponder nor worry.

I feel the wind stretching across my arms and I sink into myself and the bed that holds me. I watch the harvest moon rise once more amongst the growing clouds in its fullest glory, thankful I’ll have a bit of its light to help guide me to sleep.

I can feel it now, that plenteous pang of my needed slumber.

Like a weight, the darkness pushes itself unto me and suddenly I feel a tiny prickle.

A snowflake.

Now two, now five and now a flutter of snow comes pouring down in a soft bellowing motion. The wind, now so cold, has become unbearable.

It is now time. I feel it. Though it is more of a foresight. A determinant instinct.

I have played my part in the cycle of life and I must rest now. I no longer have the fight to make it through the coming winter.

The snow, now abounding, covers the landscape like a blanket to hush me to sleep. The sun has set. The bitter cold is now here. Off I go to dream of dreams and whisper goodbye to all who knew me.

I only ask that you not be sad for me because I’ll awake renewed – for I am but a pear tree and I’ll be back when spring is anew.

Short Story

About the author

Casey Promise Thompson

I’m a Visual Artist, Omnist, Wordsmith and Chronic Daydreamer. Most of my work is fictional/fantasy short stories and poetry. See more below:


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