Have you ever been to a place, high in the mountains or low in the wet valley where magic scents the air? You feel it laying on your skin, mixing with the sweat and making you feel as if you were a part of it. The chitter of small creatures speak of Faerie spells and Minotaur’s conquests. Do you know the feeling of knowing that you are a part of the flow of energy from one life form to another, from great dragons taking to the air to the smallest of merchild being born in the hollows of the sea?
The grass grows lush and full because of the morning mist that rolls down the ancient mountains, still covered at their peaks with snowy caps. The coolness of the mist a gentle wake-up to the woodland beings who begin to yawn and stretch as the great 3 moons ease down beyond the eastern lake. Even life in the murky bottom of the freshwater pool begins to suck in the morning and breathe out the last of the night’s dreams.
The tall primordial trees shelter the tender presence of the fawn until it’s time to step out into the light where it’s aura shines brighter than its pure white coat. She is a vibrant reminder that spring has come, things will change.
Can you remember the song of the birds threaded together with the pixie’s flute? Few could ever resist the enchanting melodies and urge to leave a token of appreciation for the flutist’s effort, even though your eyes could never determine the direct location of the winged musician. Things like this simply were not questions and were as much part of life as breathing, breeding, and dying.
But on this day, the stark reality of what has happened all that has changed is violently clear. Magic has died. Strangled from the land, tormented and destroyed, magic is no more in the fields of Lot, the Seas of Ka, nor the forests of our once great land. The sounds of life are still now. Even the wind has lost it’s will and the stagnate air reeks with the seeping oils of death and rot. All that was once beautiful and wild, now broken at the feet of our captors. Songs no longer sung, only fearful prayers of the last of the living that somehow a redeemer might have survived. But even those hopes are exhausting now.
Without magic, our world is slowly dying, gasping for life. Invaded by greed and jealousy, trampled by liars. Generations so distant from magic that they barely remember what it feels like.. and most believe it never existed. We’ve lost the name of the wind, forgotten the calls of the seas, and languish in this limbo place waiting for something to change.
I have strained my thoughts, closed my eyes in meditation, but I can no longer remember the name of this place as it was when it was alive. For now I can only call it Earth.
I hope you enjoyed my entry for this week’s writing challenge. I hope you’ll take it yourself and show off your creative writing skills. Have a great weekend! ~ C. ~