Got a short story? Post it here!

[Brittany]

We have a poetry thread, and I thought it might be nice to have something for prose, too. I have tons of little blips laying around that never made it into full novels, and I'd love to see other people's as well. I already know we have quite a bit of writing talent on this forum.

Some ruminations from earlier today:

He put his arms around me, and his touch was as light as feathers. In the heavy physical realm, his light body was barely tangible. "I don't want to lose you." he said, and I was startled by the amount of human emotion in his voice. I hadn't imagined the higher beings capable of showing something this close to despair.

"You're not going to lose me." I assured him. "Even if I die, I'll be able to come back to you all the sooner."

"Then you haven't understood the true meaning of the visions." The look in his eyes shook me to my core.

Upon his mention, the images rushed back into my head- my body hanging weightless in the air, pure white light streaming out of my eyes and mouth and consuming my entire being.

"Tell me." I urged him, and he stared at the ground. I was half sure I could see crystalline tears forming in the corners of his shining eyes. "David, *please*, tell me."

"This was your choice." He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"That doesn't explain anything!"

He heaved a long sigh."I'm not supposed to tell you." he said, his voice shaking. "It could affect your decisions. It could disturb everything."

"You've already said too much!" I was getting angry now. "You can't come down here and start all...all of THIS, and then pull that high and mighty divine ordinance act. You CAN'T. Tell me!"

He looked into my face for a long time. I could feel the waves of sorrow crashing within his being. "When you came into this incarnation," he finally said, "you agreed to bring something in with you. Within you. You can't imagine the number of beings who contributed pieces of their own essence- how many flames you carry."

"I don't understand." Was he saying I had other souls inside of me?

"You took those seeds so that, if the worst happened, their combined energies could be brought forth, using your own heart as a catalyst. It would create what you might call a weapon of love, with the potential to fully end this war."

"But what's wrong with that? That's good, isn't it?"

His face darkened. "If the process is activated, your body will be disintegrated in the resulting outpouring of energy."

"You know I'm not afraid to die."

"It's far more than that!" His eyes were stormy now. "Don't you see? When the seeds sprout, your consciousness will be fused with the accumulated experience of thousands of souls far more advanced than you and I. It will be a fusion at..." He placed a hand against his head, trying to find the right words. "You might say at an atomic level."

"But what does that mean?"

"It means that you- your personality, your identity, the self you recognize, the self the ones you love recognize- it will be obliterated in the blink of an eye. Your consciousness will immediately transcend the octave. Your will become someone, something entirely different from what you are now."

I stared at him as the words sank in. That's what the old man meant when he said 'ultimate sacrifice'...giving up not only my life, but the very nature of my own soul.

"It's not fair." My body suddenly felt numb. "How can they expect anyone to DO that?!?"

"I told you before. It was you who volunteered for this process. But it doesn't have to be that way! It can still be prevented!"

"How?" A wave of desperation was rising within me.

His eyes looked like dying coals. "I can't tell you."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him, though I knew my touch would pass right through his body. I felt tears streaming down my face. "David, what am I supposed to do?"

His body was beginning to fade. He was running out of energy to manifest himself in my vibration. "It is your choice." he said sadly.

"You can't expect ME to make that kind of decision! I'm just...I'm just a human!"

"It can ONLY be made by you." His voice faded away and he was gone, and I dropped to the ground, the weight of such dreaded responsibility crashing down upon my shoulders. Never in my life had I felt more alone.

[AnthroHeart]

I've more than once wanted to give up my individuality in order to experience unity. To have my beingness to be the beingness of Creator.

[isis]

"THE VICTIM" by Graham Hancock

Marilyn saw the thickset man in the lamplight two hundred yards behind her. Her route led down a darkened alley. She quickened her pace, heart thudding as she recalled the headlines screaming from the newsstands in the station: “SERIAL KILLER TAKES FOURTH VICTIM IN FRENZIED KNIFE ATTACK.” The man followed and was on her in a rush of footsteps, forcing his mouth down on hers, but she had her knife ready, sharp as a razor, and gutted him with a swift upward lunge. Ten more thrusts and he was dead. She smiled. Tomorrow the headlines would report her fifth victim.

[flofrog]

The Green Summer

by flofrog

friday, july 2 1971

By the end of the morning, Abel was getting into Geneva. He was watching his hand on the wheel. It was tanned, with a few white stray hair, and crossing lines. He wondered if that hand would ever save him from another gripping danger, or if it was done. This hand had, sixty years on end, been expert and courageous, obedient, flexible, loving.

The weather was veering to grey, and in the darkened and bluish light of the car, the hand was posing, eloquent, and rather beautiful after all, on top of the wheel. He sighed; the atmosphere inside the car was muffled. In this early July, there were few people in town. He parked the car and stepped into the bank.

Everything was grey and well behaved. It was rather pleasant to be in this quiet place when outside the sky was darkening. Abel would have happily sat down into one of the wide and comfortable grey armchairs. He could fall asleep while contemplating the new beauty of his hand that he had just discovered. His usual cashier was waving a courteous, friendly but firm inviting gesture. One had to move on and forget the grey armchair.
After a slightly humoristic exchange, tinged with all the Swiss refinement of the cashier, Abel walked away from the counter. He might have stayed a little longer. He was to walk to the workshop, then he would calmly go get lunch, and Camille would join him. He could really spend a half hour sleeping without seeming to, in one of the grey armchairs. He would sit erect, and with his white mane, his height and the new beauty of his hand, he was not much at risk. They would leave him alone.

The flight tower was communicating he had to go out, and not sleep. He shrugged and went out. Before, he waved to the young man who was now busy with a bejeweled stout lady. The cashier answered with an elegant gesture from his long and thin hand, and a half wink, quite Swiss-like and tasteful.

Abel got out and stood on the top of the steps. Everything was grey and bluish. The steps were in rather lavish grey marble. There was a small crowd gathered, a good twenty people or so on the steps, full of indecision while a big warm wind was swirling around.

The quay Gustave Ador looked chaotic. Bits of paper were flying in the air. Some people were hastily passing by. The lake had veered to a dark turquoise with snips of white foam. The sky was a very dark grey-green. One could feel the anger rise up. All at once the humid and hot wind died down. There was a vast silence. The traffic had practically disappeared save for one or two cars that soundlessly went by. Even the birds were silent, waiting. A wave of concern went among the gathering people.

Suddenly, on his right, Abel noticed the appearance of a slender and tanned back, slit by the intersecting of the two shoulder- straps of a black dress. The shoulder blades were sticking out. The skin was delicate, of a yellow ocher hinting at sunny holidays, physical effort, giggles, the skin of a teenager. He imagined slipping his finger between the straps to test the surface of the skin.

He noticed the nape of the neck and the slender neck rising up. He had always thought that the nape was the most vulnerable part. He was happy to see that he was right. The flight tower was messaging the thirties rather than the teenage years. At that moment, she lifted her left hand. That hand was closed into a tight fist. It stopped in mid air, at the level of her cheek, and stayed this way, motionless, out of place. The tanned skin was stretched over the knuckles, the veins made a little blue-green fork. It was much more beautiful than Abel’s hand. Then the hand changed its mind and fell down.

The silence was still there, but there was suddenly a chill-ripple of an unbearable lightness. Something intangible that you want to hold in check, and which you want to remember. He moved one step forward, turned right and said, “I think it’s going to rain.” The Headquarter was cabling, “Seldom something so stupid was ever expressed.” The Headquarter had sometimes been using, since 1940, a rather refined language.

She turned her head towards him. She had grey and yellow eyes, with a tinge of blue, sort of oyster color. Her hair, short and slicked backwards, was light brown with pale yellow waves. The face was charming, somewhat sharp, as if washed by a tide of sadness. She must have shared the Headquarters’ opinion as she didn’t answer and watched the quay again.

It was his turn to watch the quay. The city had taken a grey- green color. The wind came back. The trees started to twist. Noises reappeared in masses. With the twisted trees and the hot wind, the whole took a little tropical look. Suddenly the gathered crowd under the porch got out of its stillness. They were hastening to open umbrellas though it was not raining yet. People were talking to each other, obviously relieved that the silence had disappeared. Little by little they were leaving the stairs, pleased that the noises had come back. Abel found the whole thing splendid.

The young woman was silently waiting. The thin arm seemed to be cold. The black dress was made of wool and the narrow and tanned feet in their slim black pumps were not moving. He looked again at the little clenched fist that hung along the black dress, and the little blue fork, which had nearly brought tears to his eyes. He slightly bent towards her and offered to shelter her. The flight tower was transmitting, “No umbrella, you stupid idiot.” Which shows well that flight towers do not always have refined language.

She looked at him again, slightly lost. He told himself that she perhaps didn’t speak the language. She was bending her head, as if thinking about something totally different, then obediently lifted her hand to slide it under his arm. They stepped down the porch and took left on the quay. She was walking fast with long strides. He had been right about the athletic side of the tanned skin. The slim feet moved forward with regularity and energy. It was a very beautiful sight. He looked up. There was not many left on the quay. The lake was still of a magnificent dark turquoise. One could smell the delicious scent of the coming rain.

He stopped and took out his raincoat. She was gravely watching him. Then she started to stare at his face in a very methodical way. “ Excellent survey” transmitted the tower. The first drops started to fall. She was now checking his chin. They were beginning to have a very wet forehead. He told himself they should move, and he was not too keen for her to examine his neck with this totally impartial air. The neck is after all a pretty private thing.

They got into the smaller streets, going south/south-west towards the old town. They were still walking rather fast. They got soon their feet wet. Anyway, sheltered under the raincoat, they could only see their feet, although Abel was pretty sure she must have had another vision in front of her eyes, as she seemed so distant from him. A slight smell of wet wool was coming up from them, but the young woman smelled of something else too. Something like the scent of mimosa. He felt as if he was walking into a gigantic aquarium.

The street was starting to climb steeply. Her feet were glistening with cleanliness. They were firmly touching down on the loose cobbles. Drops were running along the smooth brown skin and turning around the slender ankle. Lining the street in the soft white-stoned gutters, the water was speeding in a mauve flow. The thunder was booming full force above the city. It was not cold. Abel was at the height of happiness.

They followed the rue du Puits St Pierre, then took right and arrived at the little restaurant where he used to meet Camille. They went under the archway and got into the room lit as if in the middle of evening. Suddenly it was dry and warm, with the noise of the rain outside. Camille was sitting in a corner at their table. He was reading the paper and seeing Abel, he got up. Things suddenly clicked, and automatically, the young woman walked up to him, and started to speak. Her name was Nellie, she was in Geneva for six months, working for the Red Cross. Everything was very precise, tidy, and clear

Abel would have gladly taken her hand and got her back outside near the mauve flow. The three of them sat at the table in a beautiful sort of wet dog smell. Camille was delighted. He was talking of his glider prototype, of the house in the vines and secondarily of Abel, the war and the beginning of their friendship. No information was filtering from the tower, whether refined or unrefined. Abel felt like he was hanging in mid-air. He was not jealous of Camille, he just was not really social that day, nor could he assume having interested a rather young and at times, silent woman.

They lunched happily and without compassion on some stewed rabbit with cream. She had excellent manners, liked a little wine, and showed sometimes in the middle of witty conversation, an ounce of sadness that fitted her well. The tanned hand was resting on the paper cloth, still closed in a lighter fist. The blue fork was still there. They ordered coffee, she didn’t take any. There was a small silence and they noticed that the rain has ceased.
She lightly insisted to share the bill, just what was proper to do. Everything was very normal, and courteous. They all stood up.

When they got out, the sky had some timid streaks of pale blue. The water was running noisily in the gutter, but the mauve had disappeared. The town, like all towns that have been soaked, smelt oddly like the country. Abel followed Camille who was strolling along with her. They went down through the Cour St Pierre then followed the rue de l’Évêché with the loud rumble of the rain pipes into the gutters. Little by little Geneva was becoming a well-bred city again. They parted at the bottom of the old town. Camille gave the young woman the phone numbers of the workshop, and of the house in the vineyards. Nellie gave hers. Abel said nonchalantly good-bye, and Nellie absently responded.