Fame had different meaning these days, and he had no trouble finding it online. Soon, everything he did was watched and applauded. Soon everything he did was watched and analyzed to death.
People thought he did things for bizarre reasons that he never even thought of. People thought he did the right thing when he felt he did the wrong and the wrong thing when he did the right. People hated him or loved him, threatened him, stalked him, proposed to him without ever having met him.
Eventually, he just had to get away.
He went to the woods, an obscure wood, one long since forgotten in the age of the internet. It didn't even have web cams. He was sure no one would find him here.
He was wrong.
He groaned when he reached the high point on the trail and saw her. He turned to leave.
"Wait, don't go!" she called out.
He turned and tried to put on a fake smile, knowing she was about to ask to take a selfie with him.
But then her face fell. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you," she said. "And I didn't mean to tell you what to do. I just meant that I don't mind if you stay."
He felt puzzled. "You don't know who I am?" he asked.
She shrugged. "No. Should I?"
He smiled for what felt like the first time in years.
They stood in silence for a while, admiring the view overlooking the surrounding trees. After a while, she spoke again, "It's nice to get away."
"It is," he agreed.
They chatted more after that, and climbed back down the trail together.
She invited him to dinner and cooked some fish she had caught earlier that day around an open fire.
The next day she taught him how to catch some of his own.
They spent a whole week together, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and on the last day, she kissed him.
"Do you think we could meet up again?" he dared to ask.
She shrugged. "Maybe," she said. "I come here every couple of months."
"Perhaps I can, too?" he suggested.
She smiled softly. "Call me when you need to get away," she said, handing him a paper with her phone number already written on it.
As tempted as he was to call her that very next day, he waited until the next time he wanted to go to those woods.
It took three trips before it happened. Someone else found them there.
The fan's eyes lit up, and he though, Oh no, here it goes.
But the woman did not turn to him. The woman turned to his companion. "You're The Naturalist!" the fan exclaimed.
The outed celeb smiled back. "The one and only," she said.
"Can I get a selfie with you?" the newcomer asked.
His friend gave the weary look he was all too familiar with himself. "Of course," she agreed.
Once the well-meaning interloper was on her way, he turned to his companion and asked, "You're famous?"
She shrugged. "Only in some circles," she admitted.
"I had no idea," he replied.
"It's okay," she said. "I like it that way. Sometimes it's nice to not be famous."
He smiled and took her hand. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, it is."
Friday, May 24, 2019
Saturday, May 11, 2019
Too Young
Just a prick and it's done. A simple ceremony. Too simple for the impact, being bound for life, for eternity, to her new master. But what choice does she have? She's dying and she doesn't want to die.
He doesn't seem so bad. A bit old, a bit weird. But she can deal with that.
And it's not like she's the only one. He has other servants as well.
This is fine. It will all be fine.
Margaret is 23 and she is too young to die.
After the ceremony, a quiet affair to echo its simplicity, she goes to live with him in his house on the hill. To call it a mansion would be a bit extreme, but it's pretty darn close.
Margaret's job is cleaning. It would be cooking, too, if anyone in the house were still alive. But Margaret's new master has a strict rule about such things and no one who still has a beating heart has ever set foot in his home. Or so he says.
The ceremony he requires in everything is a bit strange. Strange that there are more rules about what to clean and how and where to go and when than there were about the change that was required to get Margaret here. But she supposes these rules of the house are his to make, whereas the ceremony to turn her is much older, far older even than he must be.
Margaret does her job. She speaks to others in the house when needed. She reads the books available and watches the town where she once lived from afar. Her parents send her letters sometimes, until they grow old and die.
Everyone grows old and dies outside the house and Margaret watches their burial ceremonies from afar, and Margaret lives on.
They become legends in the house, and even though they have never caused harm and even though they never turned anyone who didn't ask for it, the village grows older and the village grows more fearful.
She never meant to hurt anyone, but when they come to burn the mansion, Margaret has to defend herself.
She is 382 years old, and she is too young to die.
It's strange to think of being ready to move on. It's stranger still to think that her master had chosen to leave her in charge.
The village has changed by now. They don't fear the house or those who live there. Margaret and her brothers and sisters have moved from being legends to being myths. Some assume no one lives in the house at all, and those who try to come see if the house is empty are politely turned away, unless they happen to be looking for something more.
Margaret has learned much from her master over the centuries, and on the rare occasion that someone mortal does learn what's really going on, she is the one who must now perform the ceremony to turn them.
There is less choice in the matter now, and more need to force the rest of the town to forget.
Margaret doesn't want to lose anyone in the house ever again, since that day so long ago when she was so young.
And in many ways, Margaret is still young.
Her master had lived in this house for nearly a millennium.
Margaret, on the other hand, is only 517 years old, and she is too young to die.
She considers them her children, though she will never have as many as her master once did. Some of them decide to leave and she lets them, though she never knows if they can make it on their own. They leave the safety of the house and go beyond the village. Maybe she has grandchildren and great-grandchildren now.
She will never know.
Margaret has lived her whole life in this house. Well, technically she's lived about 97.7% of her life in this house, but those first 23 years hardly count for anything.
It's hard to even remember who she is anymore.
Really, she's all those she's turned and now she finally begins to understand why her master decided to go.
She leaves the house and responsibility to one of the others, one she turned a few centuries ago, and goes to lay out on the roof, to feel the direct sunlight on her face for the first time in nearly 1000 years and the last time in her existence.
She is 987 years old, and finally, she is no longer too young to die.
He doesn't seem so bad. A bit old, a bit weird. But she can deal with that.
And it's not like she's the only one. He has other servants as well.
This is fine. It will all be fine.
Margaret is 23 and she is too young to die.
After the ceremony, a quiet affair to echo its simplicity, she goes to live with him in his house on the hill. To call it a mansion would be a bit extreme, but it's pretty darn close.
Margaret's job is cleaning. It would be cooking, too, if anyone in the house were still alive. But Margaret's new master has a strict rule about such things and no one who still has a beating heart has ever set foot in his home. Or so he says.
The ceremony he requires in everything is a bit strange. Strange that there are more rules about what to clean and how and where to go and when than there were about the change that was required to get Margaret here. But she supposes these rules of the house are his to make, whereas the ceremony to turn her is much older, far older even than he must be.
Margaret does her job. She speaks to others in the house when needed. She reads the books available and watches the town where she once lived from afar. Her parents send her letters sometimes, until they grow old and die.
Everyone grows old and dies outside the house and Margaret watches their burial ceremonies from afar, and Margaret lives on.
They become legends in the house, and even though they have never caused harm and even though they never turned anyone who didn't ask for it, the village grows older and the village grows more fearful.
She never meant to hurt anyone, but when they come to burn the mansion, Margaret has to defend herself.
She is 382 years old, and she is too young to die.
It's strange to think of being ready to move on. It's stranger still to think that her master had chosen to leave her in charge.
The village has changed by now. They don't fear the house or those who live there. Margaret and her brothers and sisters have moved from being legends to being myths. Some assume no one lives in the house at all, and those who try to come see if the house is empty are politely turned away, unless they happen to be looking for something more.
Margaret has learned much from her master over the centuries, and on the rare occasion that someone mortal does learn what's really going on, she is the one who must now perform the ceremony to turn them.
There is less choice in the matter now, and more need to force the rest of the town to forget.
Margaret doesn't want to lose anyone in the house ever again, since that day so long ago when she was so young.
And in many ways, Margaret is still young.
Her master had lived in this house for nearly a millennium.
Margaret, on the other hand, is only 517 years old, and she is too young to die.
She considers them her children, though she will never have as many as her master once did. Some of them decide to leave and she lets them, though she never knows if they can make it on their own. They leave the safety of the house and go beyond the village. Maybe she has grandchildren and great-grandchildren now.
She will never know.
Margaret has lived her whole life in this house. Well, technically she's lived about 97.7% of her life in this house, but those first 23 years hardly count for anything.
It's hard to even remember who she is anymore.
Really, she's all those she's turned and now she finally begins to understand why her master decided to go.
She leaves the house and responsibility to one of the others, one she turned a few centuries ago, and goes to lay out on the roof, to feel the direct sunlight on her face for the first time in nearly 1000 years and the last time in her existence.
She is 987 years old, and finally, she is no longer too young to die.
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
Juxtapose prompt
I am the light and you are the darkness.
I am the heat and you are the cold.
I am pure joy and you are sick agony.
I am so young and you are so old.
I dance at midday and you slink at midnight.
I am above and you are below.
I think of grander things while you are so selfish.
I know so many things that you do not know.
I am so lovely; you'll never be beautiful.
I know I'm always right while you never are.
I have perspective but you don't have anything.
I am so close to you, yet you seem so far.
I am the greatest thing the world has ever seen.
I have true power while you have no might.
I do not seek you, so likely I'll never know
That I am the darkness while you yearn for light.
I am the heat and you are the cold.
I am pure joy and you are sick agony.
I am so young and you are so old.
I dance at midday and you slink at midnight.
I am above and you are below.
I think of grander things while you are so selfish.
I know so many things that you do not know.
I am so lovely; you'll never be beautiful.
I know I'm always right while you never are.
I have perspective but you don't have anything.
I am so close to you, yet you seem so far.
I am the greatest thing the world has ever seen.
I have true power while you have no might.
I do not seek you, so likely I'll never know
That I am the darkness while you yearn for light.
Monday, May 6, 2019
Broken
"It's broken," she said with a frown, holding out the two halves of the once whole vase. There were tears starting to form in her eyes.
I tried for a comforting smile. "No it's not," I said. "It's just something different."
We turned it into two bowls instead.
I tried for a comforting smile. "No it's not," I said. "It's just something different."
We turned it into two bowls instead.
Sunday, May 5, 2019
Looking
Most people live their lives looking back, but when you only see the future, that isn't an option.
I make a lot of money with my skill. I know that because I'm looking at my bank account right now and I can read each memo on the checks explaining what I saw that earned me those five figures. I can't remember what I saw, though. I've already seen it after all.
All I see is the future. When I look in the mirror, I see myself old. I don't remember how I was raised, but I must have been raised okay because I only have one scar (which looks like it was from having my appendix removed), and I feel pretty well adjusted. I wonder if my parents ever call? I would imagine they do, but all I know is they haven't called in the last 30 minutes. That's the only way I could remember it.
I have a nice house, full of things I must like, or must have liked at some time, because I have them.
I think I must have some friends, because I don't feel lonely. Whoever they are, they must be willing to put up with a lot. Or maybe they like me feeling like I'm meeting them for the first time whenever they call me up or text me or knock on my door.
I guess I could check my phone contacts to see who I know, but what's the point? The names I'll see, I'll just forget in half an hour anyway. My friends know how to find me. They must.
I wonder sometimes if it's better this way, seeing what's going to happen instead of what has, looking forward instead of looking back because you have no other choice.
I'll never know another way, and since I feel okay, then that must be alright with me.
I make a lot of money with my skill. I know that because I'm looking at my bank account right now and I can read each memo on the checks explaining what I saw that earned me those five figures. I can't remember what I saw, though. I've already seen it after all.
All I see is the future. When I look in the mirror, I see myself old. I don't remember how I was raised, but I must have been raised okay because I only have one scar (which looks like it was from having my appendix removed), and I feel pretty well adjusted. I wonder if my parents ever call? I would imagine they do, but all I know is they haven't called in the last 30 minutes. That's the only way I could remember it.
I have a nice house, full of things I must like, or must have liked at some time, because I have them.
I think I must have some friends, because I don't feel lonely. Whoever they are, they must be willing to put up with a lot. Or maybe they like me feeling like I'm meeting them for the first time whenever they call me up or text me or knock on my door.
I guess I could check my phone contacts to see who I know, but what's the point? The names I'll see, I'll just forget in half an hour anyway. My friends know how to find me. They must.
I wonder sometimes if it's better this way, seeing what's going to happen instead of what has, looking forward instead of looking back because you have no other choice.
I'll never know another way, and since I feel okay, then that must be alright with me.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)