Prompt: Sad Pomeranian

“Write a sad story about a Pomeranian.”– P.L.

Note: This piece contains direct references to animal cruelty. Please read at your own discretion. Also, thank you to the prompter for giving me this chance to revive beloved characters from an old story, but apologies for the poor quality of this piece… alright, enough self-criticizing, time to just post it.

It’s a cruel game.

In the face of murder, the humans only laugh.

Silence is Golden

He remembered the little pompom from back home. He recognized that under-curl to the tail, that ruffled muff around its neck, those round and scared black eyes. What confirmed it was the crook to the ear, the birth defect that had the pup put up ‘free to a good home’ by show-mongering owners.

So what Miles couldn’t understand was why the Pomeranian was here.

Cemetery Seekers

(A part of a short story collection of mine titled Ambiance. This is simply one of many that I wanted to share with the growing views of this blog.)

gravescaper@launchpad.com

<19 September 2007>

aaaaah junior yeaaaaar – all the work’s going to cut into my cemetery-time for sure… ugh. but hey on the bright side you’re finally getting skype so i'll finally get to see that ugly face of yours (don’t deny it, that’s your only viable excuse for avoiding video chat for all this time).

god, who knows if i've been talking about graves to a serial killer for three years.

oh and btw i lost that email with your address. are you serious about this pen pal thing? it just sounds like a crapload of work to me.

tm_wake@vmail.org

<September 20, 2007>

First of all, I’ll say this now: if you complain about your workload while I’m working on my extended essay, I will hunt you down in that frozen wasteland you call a country just to punch you in the face.

Cemetery Seekers

December 22^nd, 2010

It’s gotten cold. Makes sense, since it’s winter and all, but it’s even colder here than it is back at home. Probably isn’t as cold as where you are, though. How you survive so far up north, I’ll never know. And before you start, I don’t want to know. I like my temperate climate just fine.

Still, I guess a change in environment isn’t too bad once in a while. Even though the winter here is so dry and frigid, even though they’re all wearing mantles of snow, the trees here are still green. That’s why they call them ‘evergreens’, I suppose. The forest is astoundingly dense, as if they’re all huddling together to brace against the wind like penguins. If you’re laughing, shut up and let me attempt to be poetic for just three damn minutes.

Here, it’s different from the cemetery back home.

The Color of Darkness

It isn't black.

The color of darkness, that is.

That nameless shade of darker grey that blankets our vision in the absence of light - it isn't nameless at after all. The German have a word for it: eigengrau

'Intrinsic Grey'.That's what it means. That's what it is. Simple as that.

Yet, nowadays, most people do not know the word, do not recognize the darkness as a color. They give the color other titles instead, unfeeling ones meant to offer a degree of explanation, such as 'visual noise' or 'background adaptation' or some other and scientists grasp for some proper explanation for why such a phenomenon exists.

Science is advancement. Something positive, but...

... isn't it nice to think that the color of nothing has a name as well?

Imagine it in a storybook, a word in a description of some person or a feeling.

"His eyes weren't black. It was a softer sort of darkness, the kind that seemed to fade into the shadows when you turn off the lights. Eigengrau - that was the word for it, for the softer, gentler sort of darkness that envelops you before you sleep. His eyes were that very shade.

Maybe that's how he made people feel so at ease."

It isn't bad, once in a while, to unplug everything that glows, draw the curtains, kill the lights, and just stare into that lightless expanse of grey.

Eigengrau

Once in a while

It isn’t bad

To just unplug the glows

Draw the drapes

Kill the lights

And stare into

That dark and endless

Nothingness

That vast expanse of grey

Writing Isn't Easy

http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.kr/2014/01/writing-isnt-easy.html

Like the blog post linked above says, it is a very common misconception that writing is something 'easy'. This is a phrase I take with a great amount of amusement and my muse takes with a passionate tirade at the ready. That being said, please grant me a minute to take some... preemptive measures.

Alright, now that I've sorted out that little mess, time to get serious with this blog post.

Yes, writing is hard. I might have misled some people around me with my ramblings of stories and fawning over my own characters and the sheer number of embarrassing, obsessive moments they have caught me in, but enjoyment does not mean that writing is easy.

Writing most certainly is not easy.

It is anything but easy, and moments that they are easy are normally either on a caffeine high or a new stage of sleep deprivation. Most of the time, I end up frustrated and leaning head into hands in internal agony, silenced by the fact that I am supposed to be doing other work and screaming in aggravation would draw attention to the fact that I am not in fact doing said other work.

Sometimes I end up slamming Tico closed or chucking away the pen (only if it's cheap), and walking away for a good hour or two. Sometimes days. More than once, I've fallen into insecurity about my writing style or story ideas or characterization, how my thoughts are too immature, too narrow-minded, too unfocused, etc. etc. etc. I could fill a whole hard drive with a list of the negative thoughts I have about my writing at times.

All that drama and I'm not even trying to get published yet.

Ah, the stress once I start trying, now that is a terrifying thought.

However, despite the additional stress that writing as a craft may give me, I cannot imagine giving it up. Ever. Writing is hard. It is the only thing I have ever done with my life that requires this much diligence and determination from me. People who think of writing as a pastime is another shade of passion, but the people actively seeking publication devote so much of themselves to the act that I find it amazing. I find all published authors, even if subject content is met with disapproval or notoriety, worthy of respect simply because they survived the process.

Writing is hard, and somehow that fulfills me. I want to finish my first novel of quality. I want to mail that first manuscript. I want to get that first rejection letter. Writing is hard, but that's part of the charm. The amount of heart I have to put into the words I scribe, the stories I tell, in hopes that I'll be able to make another person, even just one person just feel something, is extraordinary. I sometimes don't think I have it in me.

That's when I sit with a cup of tea and fresh strawberries or yogurt and have a long chat with my muse. That usually sorts me out and clears my head. Ah, it seems I've veered off topic. Here I was trying to elaborate on how and why writing is hard, but it's turned into a blog post about me instead.

My sincerest apologies for that.

A Summer Dream

(A part of a short story collection of mine titled Injection. This is simply one of many that I wanted to share with the growing views of this blog.)

I have heard that once, back when the internet was new and technology still scarce, rich or poor, privileged or not, everyone was able to dream.

Why was that right not protected?

A Summer Dream

                                                

He did not feel remorse.

It was neither a psychological condition nor a twisted code of morals. I was familiar with those, and what drew me to him was that he was different. Different from other criminals. Different from other people. Different from myself.

I was drawn to that inexplicable allure of impulsivity, the unpredictable nature of both his character and the life he led. He lived a complicated life in a simple world where sensible humans desired simplicity.

This profession and position exists because it is simple. Being a lawman, after all, is ridiculously simple. There were rules in place in the world and what a lawman did was uphold those rules. Like things should be, there is no grey area. The rules are adhered or they are broken. No bending. No loopholes. My job is to apprehend and punish those who break them.

By the time his case came into my hands, he’d become quite renown. Robin. That’s what he called himself, at least. His government-registered name was equally simple but quite different.

Though I hold pride in my mnemonic aptitude, it fails to linger in my memory. If anything, I’d cite the cause to that encounter – my first and last encounter with thief called Robin.

Lullaby of the Universe

Sweet little child, so lost and dear

Come closer; I’ll remove that fear

I’ll cut it from your tortured heart

And make it so t’was never here

Instead, on a journey you’ll depart

And seek for yourself a brand new start

A beginning with which you’ll make an end

To the delicate story, a fragile art

And on this voyage I will send

An anguished soul to make amends

Yes, the one who caused you pain

The one who once you called your friend

However, this now is your domain

Just pen the end and erase the stain

Forgive or not’s your choice to make

To set him free or lock his chains

But in the end, for your sweet sake

Your heart and will, I’ll pluck and take

This choice will be not yours at all

There are greater things at play, at stake

So heart of my dear, just go to sleep

Your soul I’ll guard, emotions keep

And on this journey, in your stead

Your body will the torment reap

So worry not your little head

Forget these words that I have said

Ignore the screams that you have heard

And slumber, peaceful, without dread

((This is basically the summary of the book series I am currently writing. It might not make sense to some people, but it will when I'm done with the novels themselves.))

Windshield Wipers

In the windshield of my father's car
I see a thousand stars and the wiper
Sweeps across
And smears them
Shifting time forward
Tracing their orbit as the earth continues to turn.

Prompt: If you could see me now...

"In which sanity is nonexistent and torture is acceptable." - B.K.
"If you could see me now..." - E.L.

Note: This prompt is a combination response and is not the best quality writing, but it was what the prompts inspired in me.

A Regrettable Happiness

You often asked me about the meaning of life. I couldn’t be bothered to think and told you to seek it yourself. I didn’t think you would take those words to heart.

~*~*~

“Y…sn…” Startled by the sudden noise, I promptly set down the kitchen knife and look at him.

“What was that?” I ask, quirking my lips in apology. “Sorry, sorry, I was distracted, just silly thoughts. I couldn’t quite—”

“I said you’re insane.” The words are hoarse, trickling from his mouth like the wine-stained bile that dribbled down his chin. My brother hasn’t been feeling very well as of late, and it worries me. He’s taken to curling up on the velvet sofa, just drinking whatever bottles or bowls I leave within his reach. It was just drinks at first, since he couldn’t stomach anything else, but this can’t go on. He needs some proper food in him, appetite or not, so I’m cooking for him now. Porridge. It’s good for upset stomachs.

If I think now, there was a time when I wouldn’t have cared, too wrapped up in myself to care about others, even my own brother, but that’s all changed now.

That’s all changed.

“Well, I did tell you before, when you asked,” I laugh, shaking my head softly. “That sanity was nonexistent. Didn’t really answer properly though, did I. I’m sorry about then, you know. I was just going through hard times in college and I really didn’t think—”

“I never asked you that.”

The words ping through my mind once, strike something odd in me, but the sensation passes swiftly. “Right, right,” I murmur, chuckling. “You asked me about a lot of other things. Life, existence, knowledge, the world – you were always quite the philosopher, now that I think about it.”

~*~*~

You sometimes asked me about existence. You asked me how you could be sure that I was real and not born from your mind. I couldn’t be bothered to explain and told you that you couldn’t be sure. I didn’t consider that those words would disturb you, I really didn’t.

~*~*~

He doesn’t answer. There’s the vague rattle of chains as he rolls over, and I frown. “Honestly, are those kids messing with the shed again,” I mutter, stalking over to the window. The yard’s clear. No children running around with chains anywhere. “Must’ve been the neighbors,” I say, lowering the blinds.

“You have no neighbors.” The words are so unexpected that they delight me. This is the most he’s said in days, so he must be feeling better, and the relief that laces my blood dizzies me.

“What are you talking about,” I say, grinning brightly. “I mean, I know you don’t like Mr. O’Neil, but that’s no reason to deny his existe—”

“I don’t know who the hell that is.” A dull snap of words. “You have no neighbors. You dragged everything to this slum to indulge in your corrupted fantasy – you’re insane.” Mm, that’s worrisome. He’s started rambling on about that stuff again. I guess his fever hasn’t broken yet, but that’s no good. “You’re messed up in the head and I think I know why—”

“Shh,” I soothe him, crouching down to stroke his head. He flinches at my touch. I guess they’re too cold for him. His forehead does feel a bit too warm. “I’m almost done with the porridge, so don’t talk too much. Just rest for now, you’re not well.”

And then he stares at me as if I’ve gone crazy. He always was stubborn, the idiot. Never listened to our parents, never listened to teachers, but he used to listen to me. Now that they’re all gone, I guess his recalcitrant nature had no one else to turn to. Heh. But it’s cute, so I don’t mind.

He opens his mouth, and more words spill out. I’ll have to wipe them up later.

~*~*~

You asked me about sanity every now and then. You asked me why the insane are insane and what qualifies as sanity. You asked me this because of something that happened that day at school, which had taken grip upon the fragile skin of your soul. I couldn’t be bothered to care and told you that sanity doesn’t exist. I didn’t realize that with those words, I had just skinned you alive.

~*~*~

“—on’t care how much I look like him, you crazy bitch—”

“Ah!” I bark, warning. “Language. Just because you’re a legal adult doesn’t give you permission to mouth off in front of me.”

There’s a heavy thump as he throws back his head in frustration. He’s probably just sick of being sick. “Listen, you just have to eat the food I give you, take your medicine, and you’ll be fine in no time,” I tell him, turning back to the kitchen counter.

He gives no response.

“The porridge will be done in a moment,” I say as I resume chopping the vegetables and boiling the grains. “Just a few more s… ah. There we go.”

“… You don’t listen.”

“Now where did I put those bowls…”

“You never listened, did you.”

“The ceramic ones keep in the heat best, right? Right.”

“You were the same back then, too, weren’t you.”

With a wooden ladle, I pour the hot, thick soup into the bowl and then smile, satisfied. Popping the cap off a bottle of basil, I sprinkle the green herbs over the meal. It adds a more professional touch, if I do say so myself.

“It’s done!” I announce, and turn to him smiling. The smile flutters off my face too soon. There’s something almost tender in his expression. It’s the hard kind of tenderness that twists the bad parts in you. It’s the kind of tenderness that makes you feel almost pathetic. It’s the kind of tenderness called pity.

“I can see why he killed himself,” he says.

~*~*~

Just once, you asked me about death. You asked me if I would miss you if you were gone. You asked me this because since that day, you’ve been walking with your soul laid bare, and people had begun to beat it. I couldn’t be bothered with you and I had gone through a bad day and maybe drank one too many whiskies and I said something I didn’t mean. I didn’t know that those would be the last words I ever said to you.

~*~*~

And suddenly I see his face.

That subtle stubble, those hollowed cheeks, the grimace on his face. His eyes bear some strange brew of pity, resignation, and hate. No, this isn’t right. There’s a stranger on my sofa. There’s a stranger on my sofa, there’s a stranger on my sofa, there’s a stranger, not my brother, a stranger, this isn’t my brother, this isn’t my brother, not my brother, not my brother, this isn’t, this isn’t, this isn’t, not my, this isn’t, this isn’t, this isn’t, this isn’t...

“You’re not my brother,” I whisper. The ceramic bowl shatters on the ground near my feet. The steaming porridge burns my toes but I’m trembling as if I’m cold. “You’re not him.”

My sweet little brother, if you could see me now…

Insatiable Boredom

It's an insect that burrows into your brain and makes its nest in the core of it. Quite the gruesome description, but given the rushing headache plaguing my senses, I find it apt. This insect makes a home of the mind and feeds upon the emotions, first enjoyment, then amusement, and all variants of that sensation.

The insect then proceeds to crawl towards the juiciest part of the mind, overflowing with creativity and inspiration, and it drinks those until none is left, leaving a withered husk where ideas once pooled. It settles there, and grows larger, feeding off the human mind.

Just like that, it continues to drink and feed and contaminate the brain and the parasite doesn't allow for its host to feel even the slightest sensation, merely an all-encompassing, soul-devouring emptiness brought upon by a lack of emotions, a lack of enthusiasm, and a lack of ideas to resolve the problem.

Homework is, as any high school student would say, certainly not the answer.

Someone please come and extract this terrible insect from my mind.
It would be much appreciated.

In the Math Room

There is a witch's hat atop the cabinet. Bright orange, the cone of it is laced with black patterns - wolves, bats, evil faces - a Halloween decoration for sure, yet it wasn't there last class nor the class before.

One has to wonder what a witch's hat is doing, collecting dust in a math room in the heart of January, slightly crooked besides boxes labeled 'move to 124'.

Prompt: A Potato in a Sparkly Suit

"write about a potato in a sparkly suit" - H.W.


Note: This was written under the influence of cold medication; please forgive any mistakes about potato culture present in this response.

Different Eyes

The earth was cool. I still remember it well, the firm embrace of the soil around my body. The dampness and the darkness was all I had ever known, and to me, it represented the whole world: familiarity, safety, security, peace…

To me, the earth was home.

I couldn’t imagine growing up to leave, but my mother told me wonderful things about the surface. She told me that when my eyes open, I’d be reborn, and that when I gathered the courage to crawl to the surface, I’d see the beauty of the world above.

Apparently the sun felt warm. Apparently the breeze was rich. She told me that I’d understand when I was older, some day, and that I should simply wait for that day and sleep until then.

I wanted to grow up.

I wanted to so badly, but as I was ripped away from home, from my mother, from everyone and everything I knew, only one thought came to mind:

Ah.

I’ll never get to see the wonderful world that mother did. Torn away from her gentle grasp and the soil’s security before my eyes could open, I instinctively knew that I had been condemned to be blind.

I’d never see the light.

I’d never see the surface.

I had heard rumors of this before, whispered along the roots that made up our collective home. Some mothers spoke of creatures, large brutish surface things that tore sleeping children from their earthen nurseries. They’d be taken away, never to be seen again, and the mothers died of despair.

As I felt the rough motion against my skin, I realized that was what had happened to me. I had always been curious what happened to the children who were taken. Now, I no longer wish to find out.

However, the brutish thing has no mercy for the child in its grasp. It is warm, for sure, but it is nothing like the warmth which my mother spoke of. Unlike the nurturing light of the sun, this heat seared, and invoked nothing but fear.

Shortly after, I was drowned. The soil I rested in was always damp, but even children knew what too much water could do. The cold would seep through the skin, invade the heart, and rot you from the inside out. Apparently the one who stole me away did not know this, as he forced me into the frigid flow and I felt the cold creep in.

It was killing me. I realized shortly that this was its intent all along.

I was slammed against something cold and hard before I could begin to rot, and the skin was scraped off my form. Strip by strip, something sharp would cut through the flesh and one by one, my closed eyes were torn from me. They were of no use to me, true. They were to never open again, but somehow the act was cruel.

I thought that would be the end of it. Perhaps this was the cruel game – to take everything from an unsuspecting child, their home, their family, their eyes, their lives, but I didn’t realize that they didn’t mean for me to rot. Make no mistake, they meant to take my life, but the truth was far more cruel.

Something crinkled sharply, and suddenly rough spines wrapped into my tender exposed flesh. It hurt. There was something unnatural about this embrace – it wasn’t like the earth. No, this was hard, edged, and was anything but gentle.

It wasn’t like the greenery I should have worn when I was aged. The green suit I was meant to wear should have been fitting, soft, and beautiful. Instead, this suit of… something else rejected everything I was used to. It was just another prop in this cruel game.

And then there were sounds, harsh sounds, screeching sounds, and I was thrust into a suffocating heat. I realized then the true function of this unnatural suit – it wasn’t the pain of the crumpled edges scraping at my flesh, but the pain of the heat it would take in. I wouldn’t even be allowed to rot to death.

My death would be as unnatural as my circumstances.

I would never feel the gentle warmth of the sun.

I’d burn in these noxious flames.

~*~*~

“Dinner’s ready, kids.”

“Oh, great! I love baked potato!”

“The tin foil’s hot, careful!”

“Okay, Mom~!”

Prompt: Baby Birds

"write about someone who finds a baby bird that fell out of it's nest

and they think about climbing the tree

but instead they lecture the bird" - H.W.

Note: Responses to prompts are written as quickly as possible, thus the quality may fluctuate though I will strive to do my best to create a decent piece in response. Also, this piece has no title... sorry, my friend.

Baby Birds

The bald little bird fit snugly into the palm of his hand. The scruffy feathers of its small wings tickled his fingers as the nestling writhed, its throat convulsing in high and hungry cries. Its bright beak seemed too big for its head, open wide the way it was.

“Man, you’re an ugly little guy,” Ethan grumbled, hands cradled in his lap. Honestly, there wasn’t much more to say. When he’d trudged along the usual hiking trail, the youth hadn’t expected to find a baby bird rolling in the dirt. Even more so, he hadn’t expected that his conscious would bid him stay with it.

For the fourth time in ten minutes, the youth’s gaze flickered up towards the branches. He could see the nest there, in plain sight, just above him. It was precariously perched in the fork of one high, slender branch. Not all too high, an easy climb for a person, but it was still a small miracle that the nestling had fallen from such height unharmed.

Though, for Ethan, it was because the bird was healthy that he was forced to stay. Injured, he’d have an excuse to take it to the rehabilitator instead, but taking a nestling from its home for any other reason was… well… plain stupid. And climbing the tree himself was just a hassle.

However, that didn’t mean he was completely at peace with his decision. “Shut up,” he groaned, furrowing his brow. He dragged his free arm across his forehead. The red and gold wristband wiped the sweat from his skin. God, it was hot, and god that persistent noise was annoying. He shifted his legs, plunking the nestling from one hand to the other. “I don’t have any food for you. It’s not like I planned to get saddled with an ugly bald bird today.”

Uncaring of his plight, or perhaps offended, the nestling seemed to chirp all the harder, its little head bobbing and tiny tongue curling with every bursting cry. Ethan breathed a sigh as he thumped his head back against the tree. “You gotta be stupid to fall out of your own house anyway,” he mumbled.

Then again, who was he to talk.

It was a note of grace how that line of thought was cut short. A rustle of leaves jolted Ethan from his musings, and he found himself straining to catch a glimpse down the trail. A hiker. Obviously experienced, from the wear of the shoes and the ready pack on her back. Shoulders already lighter, Ethan’s lips twitched up in relief. How exactly would he explain this situation to a stranger, he wondered.

Deciding it doesn’t matter, he hoisted himself to his feet. “Excuse me,” he called, cupping his hand to his mouth. “Ma’am, excuse me!”

Surprised but welcoming, the hiker woman straightened her cap and jogged right on over to the youth. “Well, it’s good to see young men out and about in these woods,” she said, eyes crinkling with her smile. It didn’t take her long, however, to notice the famished wails of the nestling in his hands. Her smile faltered.

Picking up on the cue, Ethan recited the explanation he’d rehearsed, how he couldn’t take it to the wildlife rehabilitator uninjured, and how the nest was just a few feet up, how it wouldn’t take very long to climb at all, and if she could just be so kind as to—

“Look, kid.” Ethan tensed. He didn’t miss that subtle shift in tone, from pleasant to patronizing. Regardless, the woman kept talking. “I know you want to help the poor thing, but fact is, this is just nature doing its thing.”

Ethan shuffled his feet, free hand rubbing at his neck. It was the little, unconscious things that betrayed his discomfort. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

The woman shook her head, adjusting the straps of her rather large pack. “That there’s a finch, and it’s small, even for a nestling. Probably got pushed out of the nest.”

“Yes, I’m aware, which is why I’m—”

“It means that it wasn’t strong enough to survive,” the woman cut in, and there was an air of finality about her that Ethan didn’t like. His expression changed to one of mild disbelief as the hiker continued on, “Natural selection’s just doing its work picking out the weak.”

No. Ethan didn’t like that. He didn’t like that way of thinking at all, not in the slightest. Even the nestling had grown quieter, as if sensing the youth’s distress.

“With all due respect,” Ethan started, but the hiker just shook her head.

“Ain’t doing it kid. It’s best not to mess with nature,” she said, and reached out with one finger, as if to scratch the nestling’s head. Before he could think, Ethan jerked his hand away, cradling the bird closer to him. The hiker’s lips twitched in displeasure, but she said nothing. Readjusting her cap lower, she added, “If you’re so dead set on it, why don’t you climb the tree yourse—”

But at the quick onceover she gave the youth, her hawkish eyes fell upon the brace at his knee and the hiker fell silent. Her mouth remained open, as if the words had left her partly formed, before she thought to close it. Glancing at the sweatband on his left wrist, she gave a small smile with a look Ethan had developed an acute awareness to. “A Manchester fan, eh?” she murmured. Pity softened her words.

By the time Ethan thought to say something, the woman had already left.

Discomfort brewed in the hollow beneath his ribs, and he just then noticed the fist clenched at his side. His fingers ached when he uncurled it to lightly stroke the soundless nestling. “What natural selection,” he muttered, spitting out the words under his breath. His eyes were clouded with murky thoughts.

The nestling began to cry again.

“Stop that,” Ethan snapped, though his words were tinged with something soft. “It’s your own fault you got pushed out, so quit whining about it. You should’ve been more careful.”

It wasn’t as if he thought the bird could understand. It wasn’t as if he expected anything. The words just came of their own accord, left his lips as if they were meant to be said.

“What if you had broken a leg – or I guess wing is more accurate… but think about it. You’re meant to fly. If you fell and broke your wing just because you weren’t finch enough and too chicken to stand up to your siblings, you can’t blame anyone but yourself if you can’t ever fly again, you know?”

Rambling thoughts. A torrent of words.

It had just been a nostalgic trek in the woods. Nothing was supposed to come of it. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. “I don’t care what that woman said, natural selection or not, if you’re weak, it’s because you’re not making the effort,” he said. “Don’t just let them push you out like that – show them you’re strong enough.”

Of course, the nestling continued its starved little cries, and Ethan came to realize the ridiculous of the situation. With a sigh, he swept his hand up through his hair, and murmured, “But of course, you’re crying ‘cause you’re hungry. A lecture won’t do you any good…”

Before he could sigh again, a shrill sound cut through the air. Then another. Shortly after, a throng of footsteps could be heard pounding the dirt, and voices became more apparent.

“Jung, put the frickin’ whistle away!” “Don’t push—!” “Guys, the coach is going to kill us…”

The one with the whistle was the first one around the bend, and familiar memories bubbled to the surface of Ethan’s mind. He recognized that carefree face anywhere. Crooking his arm in a curt sort of wave, Ethan found himself quirking a smile.

The whistle gave a dying tweet as it fell from its owner’s mouth.

“Ethan, is that you?” the youth called Jung said, slowly, as if certain he was wrong. In a moment, the disbelief faded, letting excitement fill its place. “It is! Dude, it’s been ages!”

“Sure has,” Ethan grinned, moving to clap his hand into his old friend’s firm grip. “A good few months, huh? Heard you’re captain now.”

“Yeah, I am, but irrelevant – dude, it’s been so long! I mean, we haven’t seen you since the—“ there it was, the inevitable falter, but Jung covered his cringe with a small smile instead. “I mean, since the big game. How’s the knee?”

Ethan’s expression dimmed, his gaze falling to his knee. Giving an experimental bend, he answered, “Doing better. Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Good, that’s, good,” Jung said, before glancing back. “Oh, man, the team’s gotta know you’re here – seriously, cutting off all contact was a bit cruel, don’t you think? – Hey, Michael! Aaron! Get over here!”

Amidst grumbles and complaints, several more youths clamored down the trail, all reacted the same as their team captain. “Ethan?” “What, seriously?” “Dude, where’ve you been?” A barrage of questions was fired his way, and Ethan did his best to shoot answers back. Of course, there was more than one shade of the inevitable, “Why are you here?”

“I’m not sure,” Ethan said, and it was the truth. However, after a moment of thought, he gave a slight chuckle. “Actually, I guess I felt nostalgic.”

It was funny. He had thought this reunion would be heavier, more painful. That was why he had avoided it for so long – drew away from the team once kicked off, led a quieter life – and that was why it didn’t make sense that he wanted to come hiking today. It was the soccer team’s daily training route. Meeting them like this would have been inevitable.

Now that it had happened, though, Ethan gave a soft smile. It wasn’t all too bad after all.

Just then, as if tired of being ignored, the nestling cupped in the youth’s careful hands gave a chirp of protest, followed by more insistent cries of hunger. Suddenly, all eyes were on the bird, and Ethan found himself laughing. “Hey, this ugly guy’s hungry and homesick, so do one of you dimwits mind climbing up for me?” he said, jabbing his thumb towards the nest overhead.

“The only dimwit here is you,” Jung snapped, fondly ruffling his hand through his friend’s hair just the way Ethan hated it. “Man, I missed you. Hey, Michael, mind dropping the little guy off?”

The nestling continued wailing as it changed hands, and it was up the tree in no time. While Michael slid down the tree bark, Jung rattled on and on all about the recent training sessions, schoolwork, the new coach, and Ethan was glad for it. It was almost as if he had never left.

“So, what do you plan to do now?” Jung asked then, catching Ethan off guard. “Gonna head back down?” Right, of course. He couldn’t hold up the training run just for old time’s sakes – that was rude and unfair to the other team members, although Ethan was sure a few would have been more than happy to take a break.

Even still, Ethan knew that if he just went back down, nothing would have changed. There would have been no meaning to waiting with the nestling. Thinking back on it, he realized that maybe he had hoped for this – to meet his old friends on the trail. Maybe that was why he waited. Maybe that was what he hoped for.

And then he remembered what he said to the nestling.

“Nah,” Ethan said, a smile swelling in his voice. “I’ll join your little run.”