Driftwood (M)

This is a collection of sci-fi and fantasy short stories I have written. Some of them are funny: and of those, some are funny intentionally, but most, unintentionally.


brief introduction: this first one was written lazily a month or so ago, and I quite liked it but never bothered to post it. But now I wanna. It's kind of dumb. Lemme know what you think.

NOTE: this story is a bit mature. I'm not sure about the others I'll post, but this one particularly has some adult themes. nothing huge, just a warning I thought was necessary. anyway.
EDIT:

this content has been removed by the author
due to the fact that it is being submitted in a national contest by the author
sorries :3

...

EPIC.



That is all.

Haha, that was great. Brilliant.

One thing though.

"They already had their drinks, and were laugh laugh laughing away at some bloody stupid joke. Ephram was clearly being ignored."
The bold part seems a bit odd. It really doesn't flow. Also, a pet peeve of mine is when anything is repeated more than twice.

for SLUR :D written in about six minutes. it's REALLY dumb.

2. the rocksman

they called him “the rocksman.” He lives on the side of the mountain, the side you and I cannot see, the side that does not look over the valley. They say he is twice the size of any man, twice as tall and twice as wide and twice as strong. They say he looks like a statue and a man, and moves, but slowly. They say he lives in a cave on the rocks, then, and sits like a rock. And that is why they call him what they call him- the rockman. They say he has been there so long he is a rock now, or maybe he has always been a rock, a living walking golem who moves like a man, but has a body and heart of stone.

But since when has all they say been right?

When your grandmother’s grandmother, was a girl she was the most beautiful girl in the village. Her eyes were black like the feathers of the crow, like the sky when there is no moon. Her skin was flawless, her beautiful face framed by a curtain of perfect black hair that trailed down her back like a cape, like a veil of night tumbling down from the crown of her head.

She was just barely a woman, just barely sixteen years when one night she went to go to the top of the mountain, to dance under the stars, to dance in the wind. She left before daybreak, for the journey was long. She left before anyone in the village knew where she was going, before anyone had stirred. She took nothing with her, just the clothes on her back and the shoes on her feet. And she told no one she was going- no one had a chance to tell her of the mountain, of its secrets.

But the forest was strange that day. The trails writhed and contorted in strange ways, the trees bore strange markings she’d not seen before, signs written in strange tongues. The sun rose and she was lost; the sun reached its peak, and she was lost; the sun set, and she was lost. Confused and scared, she knew no longer where was north, where was south or west or east. The stars seemed strange to her, the moon too, and the trees and everything around her. That’s when she found him, standing on his ledge, outside of his cave, by the rocks. He was tall, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and a mane of long, dark hair. She was taken by him immediately, but not nearly as much as he was by her. This strange beautiful maiden he had never seen before- how lucky he was, to have found her!

“Have you lost your way?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “I came up the mountain to dance under the stars, to see everything from its summit. But now I seem to have lost my way.”

“Let me help you find it,” he said, and he took her hand. But he was not thinking. As he led her up the mountain trail, walking the paths that she had gotten so lost on, being guided by strange constellations, he ignored all he knew. He ignored what he was supposed to be doing, and brought her to the summit.

When they got there, the sight was breathtaking. She could see her own valley, and all those around it, and the forests and the smaller mountains and the plains and all the villiages and towns and roads, and the rivers that led off to a glittering sea in the distance. She could see the whole of the world, the whole of reality, all around her. “This is amazing!” said she. “Why has no one told me of this amazing sight before?”

“Because,” he said. “No one has ever seen it before… no one is ever supposed to see this much.”

She turned to him. “Then why did you take me here?”

But before he could answer, a voice- one with no face and no body, one that shook all the heavens and all the earth- said, in a roll of thunder: “this is my mountain, this is my seat from which I view all the world. I told you to guard it. I told you to never let anyone see!”

“I am sorry,” he cried out to the voice, throwing his head back and shouting to the heavens. “I was foolish. But please, don’t harm her. She didn’t know it was forbidden.”

“Someone must be punished for this, and she has seen to much.”

“Please,” he cried. “Take me instead. She didn’t know.”

“But I need someone to guard my mountain. What is to be done?”

The voice went silent. He seemed to ponder this for a moment, before he decreed: “You shall guard my mountain, but never again will you be able to guide anyone up my mountain again. As for her, she may go- but she must promise to never take anyone to my sacred peak again.”

She went free, down to the village, and told her story. No matter how many times they in the village tried to climb to the peak, they could never reach the summit as she has seen it- they could not see the whole world as she had, the forests, the deserts, the seas. They could never find the path she had taken or seen the strange constellations she had, or find the caves.

But they have seen the rocksman. In their travels, in their searching for the path as she had described it, they see him- a statue of a man, watching them through the foliage, and when they return, he is gone, or standing somewhere else. They say he guards the mountains, and somehow he hides the path as she had walked it, and somehow he keeps it all safe.

He has a body of stone, but surely there is the heart of a man in there. Surely he feels, for why else would he be so vigilant in protecting the beauty, the fantastic sight that she saw that day, when she stood on top of the world?

I very much hope this will speak for itself.

3. thoughts on your dustbins

They are square and yellow with black lids. They are on the side of the street every Wednesday. In the morning I look out my window. There they are. Your bins.

I like to look at them before the men come to empty them. So full of the pieces of your life. The rain collects on the indents in their lids some days. It fills up. Sometimes, if it has been raining all night but it stops before morning, the rain stays for a while. Leaves and bugs and things fall in the puddles. They drift all morning, in the pond in the indent on the lid over the bags filled with pieces of your life.

But that is only on Wednesdays. Monday Tuesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday I am at my window with the blinds drawn just so. But your blinds are not drawn. At least not when you come downstairs. Not when you go outside to get the paper. Not when you sit down at the kitchen table, in your robe, no underwear on underneath. Not when you open the paper pour coffee make toast read front section local news world news weather sports entertainment do the crossword read the funnies. Not when you get up. Not when you stretch. Not when you look at the clock, then get up sit down get up go back to the stairs.

They are closed when you go up to shower then get dressed then come down. They are open when your kids down with you, you put on their jackets, help them find their bookbags. They are open when you grab your briefcase, get in your car, go off to work. They are open when you come in around five, and the children are at the table doing homework. They are open through dinner, and then you close them. They are closed when you put the kids to bed, watch TV until eleven, and turn the lights out.

Here are some more things about the dustbins: every day at eight o’clock your spouse comes outside with the trash. Open the lid, drop the bag in, close the bin. No one looks in to see what fills them.

It is Tuesday night. It is eight o’ clock. You were at a meeting all day, and tired. Your spouse puts out the garbage. It is fuller than last week.

Wednesday morning they collect the rubbish early. I watch them take away the contents, heavier than last week. I do not bother to look in through your open blinds yet: there is nothing to watch today.