A man woke up and fell out of bed and kept falling. There was no floor. Turns out he'd been sleeping in the clouds and the thing he thought a bed was little more than cumulonimbus.
No big deal.
The man fell but only until he got the hang of flying. It didn't take long. He saw a bird do it, and if a fucking seagull could do it then he sure could! He wasn't sure what to do at first. It had been a while since he'd flown last. He'd thought he was on pavement, only to find that wide open blue was above and all other things were below. This was scary and pretty darn rad. He grew wings for good measure, figuring that people would think it was weird that he had none and yet was flying.
The air felt wondrous over and under his wings and awful on his face. His eyes were chapped within moments and his ray-bans did little more than up his sex appeal. He approved.
Being practical, he flew to The Kingdom of World's Edge. There he met a tinker. Her name was Mack. She fashioned goggles for him out of raw, viscous joy. They were black leather with rainbow colored lenses; practical with a touch of whimsey. He stood in super-hero pose. He looked good. He felt strong. He asked Mack to join him in the sky but suddenly she was gone. There was a knock at her hourglass shaped door. The man went outside where he found Mack aloft on her own wings made of a tinker's dreams. She smiled, arms crossed. He smiled and went after her.
Around noon things were getting rumbly in their tumbly. They'd both wanted to see New Empire. They shot over land and sea, faster than you and me, hungrier and hungrier than could be.
A wise monk was there to meet them and greet them, a golden cap on his head. He moved like rubber and had the strength of kings and knew ten thousand things. He also hated rhymes. It was on principal more than anything. He actually liked the sound of such things but the idea of words slavishly tying to one another for the sake of entertainment seemed wrong and unnatural. All of his words were asymmetric, and as he spoke: great columns of earth and wood rose up around him.
Hunger eventually came back up, between the three, and so the monk split the ground with his heel and revealed a valley of waterfalls and hanging homes where the Happy Folk lived. He called this home. It was a suburb and was pretty darn nice, as far as magical valleys go. His wife and child stood on the balcony of their seven story home next to the largest slices of pizza the Man and Mack had ever seen.
They ate together and shared stories. The Man and Monk had known one another a decade and so they recounted their adventures in the Land of Kings. The talked of the Lake of Sapphire, the daily feast, the People's House and the tale of the Great Misunderstood, Misplaced Messenger. Monk's wife sang songs, because that was her name. She sang about the Southern Stride and their adventures in the town called Thousand Year. Two weeks in Thousand Year was one-thousand years everywhere else. Except for Saturdays. Those were standard. But they were always accompanied by a party filled with song and dance and twice as much wine as any one person could handle.
Monk and Song and Child stayed behind. Man and Mack hugged, then waved and thanked their hosts.
Long past sundown and heavy filled with food and stories, which you know are thrice as heavy as food (stories, I mean), the two sought a place to lay their heads. The Man realized that he'd been in a cloud his whole and therefor a bed wouldn't be out of the question, though it was dull. Mack decided to build them a place to rest. They thought, though not for long, and snapped her fingers. She removed her spell-scribed spanner and donned a warm smile. In the lack of light, Man could see she glowed ever so faintly and gently with a smile on. It soothed him.
Mack tapped spanner to tree and an inn was born, staff and all. She tapped the grass and bread fluffed from the earth. It was marble rye, Man's favorite. She tapped the stream that trickled and it became music. The man cried at this, a tear or two. He didn't know he was, of course, and it was through excited laughter, so it was a happy cry, to be clear. Lastly, Mack tapped them both, and their wings fell away in vapor and then dew, their clothes became stardust and then changed again.
He wore a fine suit built from midnight, she: a dress of moonlight. The stream played beautiful music and they danced. They were quite good! The sun eventually began to rise. By that time, they'd danced all night and had fallen asleep, Mack on his shoulder, Man resting his head on Mack's. They didn't talk because they didn't need to. They didn't dream because they didn't need to.
They awoke to the smell, by the smell, of good things cooking. A young green dragon brought them a plate of things they craved. They ate. Mack decided to leave the inn where it was and not tap it away. Others would want that same comfort, she figured.
While over the Center Kingdom, the Fire King offered Mack a place in his kingdom, a new shop, a new adventure. She couldn't say no. She dealt in dreams, survived on stories and craved adventure, after-all. Man was sad, but only for the briefest of moments. She was happy and so he was happy for her. He said he'd visit. He would. He went on. She stayed. Before leaving, Mack gave Man a tiny mirror. She held a similar one. If you fogged the mirror with your breath, could write messages to another person who held a mirror just like theirs. They kept in touch.
Over the Sunrise Coast, the man found his sisters three. They were long sense dancing and wondered where he'd been. He told them about his morning and they all contemplated growing their own wings. The eldest made wings of sound, the youngest made wings of light, the middle made teal wings of healing water. The four danced. They found like minded others and challenged them to duels and games of chance in the sky. The Eldest began speaking of wonderful things that the others had not yet thought about. She taught them these things and more, more and more. A full days adventure and then some had caused Man's bones to ache, so the Middle healed them. The Youngest stood by his side and they made one another laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh. Together they were powerful.
As the sun fell into its own sleep, the lot of them, now hundreds strong, returned to Man's home in the Rain Song Forrest. He thought of sleep but it seemed boring. So he didn't. Instead, he wished and dreamed. The magic of the Rain Song mixed with his imagination and gave form to his hide-away. It was a castle made of wood, grown from the trees themselves. From the castle flowed water onto the forrest floor that was sapphire blue, because that's how he remembered it. The rains fell harder, fat drops that soothed his nerves the happier he got. He knew that not everyone liked the rain, so he ushered everyone inside his home.
Inside, he and his Sisters Three made a grand feast from simple things and they fed their own until they were fat. They gave them drink that loosened the strings on stories and they all shared their adventures.
Rocket had slain a great beast made of glass. Siegrid had bent gravity because she could and wowed a crowd of ten thousand. The Brothers Neon, who wore armor of brilliant light, had heard tale of great peril and profound sadness in the Eastern Wastes, a living shadow of hate. With their army they removed the shadow with ease and renamed the land Joy, after one of their wives.
The night had come and most ventured home with kind wishes and thanks. Those who were too tired or drunk stayed behind, as the Man and Sisters Three had insisted. The castle grew beds for them and the rain played their songs above their heads to ease them into dreams.
The Man was alone on his balcony, a smile on his face and his hand in the rain. He was happy. Like his family, he survived on stories and craved adventure. He'd had both and then some. He was tired, exhausted, practically asleep on his feet.
He thought of his friends who hadn't been at their feast and smiled wider. They were far, but felt near. He felt a warmth in his chest and savored it.
Something vibrated in his pocket and startled him. It was the mirror. There was a message being scrawled in the fog that appeared. He smiled. It read, "Sweet Dreams."
He slept. And he dreamed. Not because he needed to. Because he wanted to. Because his life had grown beautiful and dreaming was what he did very well. Because when he awoke he would weave these dreams into reality for himself and his family, his friends and strangers.
He fell asleep with a smile, and woke with a smile, greeted by another day filled with love and endless adventures.
No comments:
Post a Comment