nathan723
What used to be lush, verdant sea grasses is now a pale yellow. The searing dust blows into her face, stinging her eyes. Tears make lines down her face. The blazing sun brings the seas to a boil. She sits down on the dry grass, in the relentless heat. It was a mistake, she thinks to herself.
She moved nimbly up the tree, I following closely behind. The powerful, dark arms of the tree were laced with moss. Our rope dangled loosely from the base of the branch. It was eerily quiet, but in a peaceful way. From higher up, we could see we were in the shadow of the mountain, its snowy peak barely visible through the thick leaves. We sat and talked for a little while on that mossy branch. We made sure the ropes were tight, and we made our quick descent.
On average, around 100 people commit suicide in the Aokigahara Forest in Japan, yearly.
It felt like the floor gave way. The violent tremor from below rose up through the floorboards. A pained cry rose up through the floor, along with hot steam, heating the room. The blood-stained bed was now soaking with sweat, as was the same man from before, sitting in a chair opposite my bed. He still held a gun, his cruel eyes still bore into mine.
'We've been expecting you'
I felt less disoriented now.
'Who are you?' I tried to say it with strength, but it sputtered out weakly just as earlier.
'Worked up some courage over your nap I see.'
He smirked.
'Who are you?' This time he was asking me. The lights moved over the window again. It was darker now, and raining.
'I'm expected.'
He stared at me as I rose out of the bed. His greasy hair curling over his eyes.
'What time is it?', the man asked forcefully. He was holding a gun.
The straw bed was stained with blood. I could feel that we were moving. I glanced at my wrist; my watch was gone. I coughed and tasted more blood, 'I don't know' came the weak response. A brilliant light swept across the window, illuminating the room and made the man squint, but he held a firm gaze.
'What year is it?'
'1923'
It was the only thing I seemed sure of. Or maybe not, since he chuckled and shook his head. The room shook again, and I closed my eyes.
By that time the sun was high overhead and everything his brother had said earlier was out of his mind. He sent his fly soaring through the air one last time and flicked it against the surface of a shady pool nestled under a fallen tree. He touched the surface once more, still nothing. He crossed towards the left side of the river and pulled his old sneakers, heavy with the cool water, out of the muck. He tramped up the hill over the soft ground, through the forest. He got into his car and went home.
Over the heads
through the crowds of people
swaying with the train
he can't tear his eyes away
the metro rattles and groans
all he can hear
is the pounding of his heart in his throat
she matches his gaze
something in his stomach drops
this is her stop
it is his move
There's always a different option.
A different outlook.
A different side.
Some say do it. Don't worry what happens.
But don't do it. It's better safe than sorry.
Isn't it better to say something and take the chance? Risk it.
Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know.
These battles of should or shouldn't catch us in the crossfires
Wish we were born without shoulders.
History is horrible. It can't be re written. What's done is done. You can't make additio. History is an unedited book, edited a thousand times over, to favor those in favor of history.
I wish, that, there could be more than one word for each day. I have already done this a few times. Intense is like....Darth Vader. It is Darth Vader. He is an intense person/cyborg monster. Go Darth Vader. You are intense.