The elevator stops when I reach floor three. My companion doesn’t move to leave and I think I understand when the door opens by itself. I am drawn from its safety into a floor that is cloudy. I can see everything in the clouds; they tell entire lives in flashes and when I move toward them, it is with a pull that is mesmerizing. I let Mnemosyne draw me into the fog.
She is made of remembering. She is the mist as it clears and the feeling of retrieving lost memories. There is a softness to her, the way it would feel to sit atop a cloud. When she offers me a hand, I don't stop myself from taking it.
She leads me through things I have forgotten, things I can't believe I have forgotten, but when I vow to keep hold of them, they have already disappeared again; I can feel them turn to fog, and when I reach for them they slip through my fingers. I watch as they fly away from me.
She seems to know her way through the fog and so I follow her. I don't let go of her hand as we walk; it is cool like the feeling of running one’s hand through dark clouds.
The memories curl around Mnemosyne’s fingers and dissolve into her cloudy form. She is watching me reach for them, and there is a sadness in her that I don't understand.
Her voice is the feeling of mist, and she tells me of things lost and things that won't come back. She shows me the way things fade and how she collects the world’s lost memories.
I am confused and so I ask her why. Why keep these things that don't matter enough to be remembered?
Her laugh is almost inhuman, but something about it calms my fears.
When she shows me the lost memories, I understand. Sometimes the most important things are forgotten; she holds on to them so they don't fade.
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this series is sort of a mess but i recommend reading in this order: 01 02 03
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins5 days ago in Fiction
Unfriended to Life
You will seldom browse Facebook when your work's unfinished...You will focus only on the bullshit job that you won't try to understand except for the times when you will encounter quandaries and problems that you won't be able to solve even if you were to ask someone for help.
By ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR6 days ago in Fiction
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