Wings of a Raven, chapter 9. “Tardigradous conversations”.

Chapter nine from book one in my near future sci-fi book universe, 2028AD.


Inside the obsessively and neatly kept and down to the germ spotlessly cleaned room wrapped inside shiny white walls, not a sound could be heard. Except for an almost imperceptible flow of the machinery that kept the air smoothly swirling and filtered, pleasantly cool and clean from dust, mold, and particles.
 
Inside this room, the air moved like a gentle, but invisible summers breeze that unobtrusively kept touching and playing with your skin and hair through its invisible limbs, reminding you that there was something physical moving inside this world with a resemblance of organic life attached to it.


A man could be found sitting every moment of every day in front of the floor to ceiling high windows that made up the entirety of one of the rooms four seamless walls. And not even once would he make a semblance of a single sound or motion. To all passersby, he remained forever a perfect statue. 
A being of flesh and blood, yet void of all that signals biological life.

His blank, blue eyes, had you taken the time to look deep inside them, showed no signs of life and had you been standing there, watching the entirety of his day go by, hour by hour, you would soon notice how the man never blinked.


Not even once would you see the slightest change in posture or skin, no twitching muscles, nothing conscious or unconscious ever broke the postcard like illusion that his every day resembled.

tardigradous conversations, photography and writing by Mike Koontz

He sat there, always looking out and about to the outside world where the moon and the sun, rain, and starry skies kept courting each other, like lovers in an open relation preoccupied in an endless serenade mutually written and explored together, endless strings of lovers passed in front his gaze in a sea of shooting stars.

Together this sea of life outside his window created a string of continuous movement and flow for this man, a backdrop upon which his world slowly kept turning as if we were both the audience and the star inside a global cast that kept swimming and drowning in a vast incessant ocean mirroring the sky above us and its burning suns.


It was as if they, the moon and the sun and everything else, kept pushing and pulling, dragging and leading the clouds to move, and sometimes there would be rain and snow, thunder and lightning, at times you might be lead to believe that they perhaps performed for him, during the silence of the veiled night.

And at other times, they kept their courtship, all visible in broad daylight, multifaceted lodestones that moved, pulled, pushed on each other and everything else.


Sometimes the sky was black and brilliant crimson red. 
Dull and gray, blue and white hues all tumbled before him, and sometimes parts of the sky glistened as if touched by the unspeakable gods that people had conjured and raged over for so very long. Atoms moving, changing as they silently conversed with each other.
 
The northern lights at deep chilly winter nights turned the darkness all green in a multitude of tones as a blanket that slowly moved like a shimmering ocean upon the sky that found itself caught in someone’s restless lullaby.

Holding secrets deep within its ancient abyss, secrets that were silently sprinkled atop our imaginary senses, the reality that was always there, yet never noticed.

Norse views by Mike Koontz

But to him, or is that you that find yourself unable to move your gaze, afraid of breaking the stream and never finding this room ever again? it was all about the truth of the sun and the moon as they moved across time and .. sky. 
And when the butterflies at times came to dance in front of his eyes, right there, on the other side of the thin sheets of glass, he could see the light of all his lovers moving gently in the hair that draped their fragile bodies and their slowly flapping wings.

Finally, come night, the nurses of flesh and metal always moved him back to his own room and with the nonchalant yet professional care of trained employees that since long have turned their loving care into the efficiency and professionalism of past times grocery store workers picking peas and jugs of milk and eggs they tucked him into bed, always giving him a “good night and sleep so tight” goodbye before closing the door behind them. Their touch, well meaning but so empty and shallow, and as such, all he ever wished for was the sun and the moon and the world that lived in his window.


I know that I keep wondering what kind of notions painted the night inside of his room. Was there a song playing in his mind. And do you have the same questions as I do?


Did the sun and the moon find their way inside as they snuck by the nurses, through the cracks, the openings in the locked door? Did they caress his skin, brushed his hair. Or did they do something else, sitting by his side at night, whispering secrets to this man, unearthed and precious, building castles of stone and sand and moonlight dust?
 
And then, there it was the rising of the daylight sun as it drowned out all the other stars, always waiting, ready to greet the man, shining through the windows of the house, a streak of warmth touching his cheek and then his eyes. The sun always came first to his bed, waking him up to say hello, mere moments before the nurses evermore opened the door and brought him back out into the bigger room where the sun and the moon and the rest of the wolf pack were already courting.


And soon, once he was seated in front of the window, the conversation altered, including him as well, connecting him to the outside world, the leafs that the particles of light scattered around and through, lighting up his skin, the synapses inside his mind. The vessels of blood and his skin, the wings of a butterfly and ladybug. Somewhere in the vast sky, a cloud was forming, and rain would soon come down, the light touched it all and the water in his body, connected to the tears of the rain.

The quasars sea

“Falling, they were all falling”. 
Random echoes, resonating, vibrating, the process of conscious thought in your mind, is that him. Or is that by chance perhaps you that reverberates across the world and your own mind? 
Are you falling right now? 
Or do you stand in this vast blue room, are you not just alive and tucked safely inside your bed, or do you stand and walk by your own conscious thought as you connect to me through the void and biological matter of the quasars sea.


“We are falling, and the rain caresses the surface of our two bodies, and as we plummet through the ether, we divide and multiply, like nodes and threads, we give birth to endless strings of atoms”


To the outside world, did something ever happen? 
Or was this life just like a DVR, a Netflix show caught endlessly looping, a buffer repeating, seamless and synched in the offline and online world of organic matter and digital recordings.
 
The randomness of data points. Processed, filtered. Living. Did you ever notice when life stuttered and paused, buffering inside the offline loop before it once again caught wind of online packets and the stream?

Beyond the forest, fine art wall art by Mike Koontz

Every day for him and you looked the same from the outside or did they all, all the others, miss the obvious. Were we all, like the butterflies, simply parts of this one large tardigradous conversation, a cosmic game of chess lived out right under our noses. Or did we all live inside what was nothing more than one man’s layered dreams, feverish creations living inside the thoughts of another?


Uninterrupted life is nothing more than a river bed of thoughts, more or less conscious. 
It never stops to a halt, like an uninterrupted dance between lovers. Between one entity and all the companions, the sun, and the moon, you and me. All of us and everyone.

It keeps on going in broad daylight, in lightning storms and hailstorms. And at night the starry skies served as the backdrop against his dreams and your own, and yet, the conversation never for one single breath takes a pause as the ever tree painted this slowly on going conversation. Each of us, being nothing more than another leaf in that endless crown.

And so it is that we spend our days, looking at this man, looking outside his own window, and we can all see the same atoms.

Bishop 
Takes Knight, c5

The man spoke as his left hand moved the bishop across the chess games black and white intersections, he moved the pieces with the smoothness that only a lifetime of repeated movement and thought that had turned into instinctually processed knowledge can ever give a person.

Aware and processing, yet uninterrupted sublime unconscious decisions made faster than any conscious thought and movement that had to develop brand new and unique from zero could achieve, his fingers picked up the knight at the same time as they put the bishop down in its place. 
Processed, decided, executed, flawless and uninterrupted. 
His mind still reeling, catching up and making conscious decisions about the move he should perhaps have played, even as he finished the move he actually did.

They played their game every Thursday, the day after hump day, as they joked, was a splendid day for brainy activities.

Soul and mind rejuvenated by the physical pleasures of humpday or at least the perceived pleasures that woodens lustful days of sinful fun should give life.


But no matter the outcome of Wednesdays promise, every Thursday they played their game of chess. Logical and instinctual they tested their prowess against each other, the gift of brand new thoughts and logical thinking was put against the data like learned behavior of past battles and scars.
 
And sometimes they shared thought and words from yesterdays naughty fun as well.

Gunshots 
tore through the night with each strike of Mjolnir.

Guns were fired right next to your head, like roaring thunder in the nightly slumber, tears and thuds rumbled through the silence like a fist that slapped straight to your face, undeniable in its violent presence as it jolts throughout your system.

Rage and hormones kick start the fighting lizard hiding inside you. The ancient response to physical pain and threats is not to run and crumble, but to kill and destroy the challenge, like a proud Viking from the ancient past.

You conquer the threat with bloodied flags and indomitable power. Instant, relentless, like Mjolnir you strike against the challenge.


Tearing through the shared fabric of mind and flesh. The sound of death this time and night were certainly no different from past carnage as the violence raged like Thor’s mighty lightning down from the clouds.


Its meaning and purpose and message was all clear and sound. From afar we could see how the man leaned into the wrecked car, holding his hand on the outside of the broken door, he paused for the briefest of time as he looked at the people inside the car, and for a second his eyes caught the beauty of their skin, traced their neckline and jaws, the long flowing hair of the two females, their lips, and earring.

His eyes took its time admiring the two girls and the toned and muscular build of the man as he raised his gun. He respected his advisories, in life and death. A final bow as he closed their chapter.


He stood there now. The moment before the final act. 
And we knew that this was how the shape of death always looked as it had manifested itself in countless of human beings. They dressed differently at times, all depending on the exact time of history. But while fashion changed, and the length of hair altered and technology marched forever onward, death always looked the same when she came to visit.

Beneath the skin, there she was, raging beautiful, timeless and unyielding.


The man was not hesitating as the slow, slow second seemed to progress into eternity. No, he was simply tasting and taking it all in, in its final enduring moment.

Life was about to snap abruptly and forever be cut off.

And you could taste it, you could sense and smell and feel it if you just paused for a moment. Life and death could reveal its ongoing conversation if you just paid enough attention to what they had to say, and in this moment, he heard their words and conversation, he could see it through her eyes, taste it in his own mouth.

Life and death, aww, how sweet it was, their mutual dance.


When he finally pulled the trigger, following a slow, final breath, he let out a softly spoken “Good…bye” as he let the bullets fly into the car and its passengers. Metal was penetrated, broken bent and crushed, like the skull and brain of those inside, shattering facial bones, the brain, and tissue molted and ruined, torn into hundreds of broken, messy organic bits and pieces of blood and gore that scattered all through the insides of their car.

Blood splattered, blood smelled. He caught droplets of it on his lips and tongue.

Death laughed with unadulterated joy. She smiled in wicked delight. Full of joy and life.


For a final brief second or two, he watched the light and electricity that was the remnants of life’s final words leaving their bodies. Hand in hand life and color faded away together with the ringing sound of the firing gun. Inside their bodies, he followed the neurons and synapses inside their mind as their gutted energy fade away, and slowly life shut down in body and mind.

Leaving a still living corpse, which would, in the end, say goodbye, just like the red eye in the terminator movies, a final sign of life that last of all entered the darkness and void of mistress death lasting realm.

And then he turned his back forever on the car. The dead forever abandoned, wayward ghosts that would drift in their own little vortex now. The man walked in silent resolve and was soon swallowed whole by the night, not a trace beyond the blood and shattered flesh and glass.

He had paid his tributes and answered their threat.

And now we watched him leave together, and we knew that death had seen us standing right by her side at this place of intersections, the dark alley where moments lived met the birth of new dreams.


Butterflies 
Might hover in singular expression, but they never come alone

The boy smiled, and then his face broke up in an explosion of laughter, “haha that is so true, they never do gramps, they never do” the boy fell silent as he more closely watched the butterflies moving about on his bare legs and arms. 
They felt so light against his skin, and yet, they clearly also had real weight, real weight, and endless vibrancy.


He could feel their presence, their feet, the trunk like thingy that carefully tasted the skin on his arms and the fabric on his shorts. Searching for the natural nectar that gave light to their own cycle of life.
 
To the boy, it tickled as the butterflies moved about his arm and skin. Faint and almost undetectable, yet undeniably real.


He laughed out loud, “Elephants, they are like tiny winged elephants, haha, look at them, don’t you see, they are tiny winged Elephants, well not like bumblebees, but like Elephants”.

It was a sunny day outside. And the boy giggled at his new found discovery. Miniature Elephants with wings.

He had never thought about butterflies in that way, but now it was so clear and obvious to him. And he just knew, that somewhere in this universe, someone would one day discover that butterflies and elephants were indeed related.


And it was true, what they had said earlier, butterflies never came alone. And perhaps they even could be called tiny, little-winged elephants.

Today was a day spent sitting outside, perched up on the porch, drinking his lemonade and talking to his grandmother, which, in all honesty, was a grandmother of course due to him being born, but not in appearance, age, looks and ways, health and mind.
 
Not like in the old and judgmental tales of Hollywood where all people above 30 looked deader than dead.


No, her delicious, vibrant appreciation of life was perfectly met by her unmatched sexual energy and sexual attractiveness, her feminine looks that radiated from the inside out and caught the hearts and warm hot desires of both men and women.
 
She was very much alive in mind and body. Not old at all, this was a girl in the prime of her life. Rivaled by few, and like it is with some, her chronological age might say one thing, but her real biological age, it was young and perfectly ripe, and at the end of the day, no one lives by the dates and number of their calendar, we all live and die by the actual state of our biological being.

And so, she was endlessly perfect in the eyes of the world. 
Sensual naughty and so perky beautiful.


Her soul and body was thirsting for life, for all the wonderful decades and centuries still ahead of her and left to enjoy. Dancing, training, travels and exploration, gardening and creativity, clothes and new recipes and mountains of knowledge to learn while she was not busy exploring her every sexual desire. Naughty fun borders explored and fulfillingly devoured.

Love and smiles, movies and music. Every day wonders in big and small. Life was grand and precious, so precious and rare, and she knew it well.

The well of life from which she drank with joyous appetite and vigor.


In the fabled stories, life has a short shelf life, steeped in youthful arrogance and lacking knowledge, life is fabled to end before anyone ever grows mature. 
But those are the stories people fabricate because, in truth, we lived in an age of wonder, an age where life truly and always becomes better and more whole the longer we had already enjoyed it. For each passing day, we become more complete and wise, more witty, developed, beautiful and secure. And in this age and day, who cared about being only 20, still undeveloped, a slow moving caterpillar when the butterflies do not even spread their wings before 40 and seemingly fly forever, fresh and full of sparkling life.

Life did not strip her of her youth and good looks, life never did that to anyone. That was just the sole creation of pity peoples evil mind.


One look at her and you could swear that she was this boy early 30 something and very hot and beautiful sister, or perhaps, she was his super hot babysitter, surely not his or anyone’s grandmother. To think of her as a grandmother defied the very fabric of reality that we were all spoon fed since before we had ever learned to walk.

And that is a gift that we should wish for everyone to encounter and to be, instead of the tired worn out shells most will choose to restrict themselves to be, dragging their tired, negative self´s through life and yet never really fully being alive. 

Her looks were striking to all, delicate, sensual youthful skin, looks and spirit that kept shining through her every pore, and the sum of it all made it impossible to guess her biological age. And no one that actually knew her would ever try to claim that she was not in fact much more beautiful and striking now than 20 years ago.

But a healthy soul and body tend to do that to you, you suspend, reverse and allow your biological age to be decades behind what your birth date tries to tell you, and her petite and toned, and very feminine looks, body, and appearance made her a delight to anyone’s eyes and mind, and it always would, since like the finest wine, she improved by age, becoming more instead of less.


Not just for her delightful looks, but inside her, in her mind and heart, a soul burned so bright and sensuously beautiful it would always grow more gorgeous and alive with each passing year.

It was a soul and girl that fed life itself.

Like the mistress death, we encountered before, timeless, endless, and full of life and beauty the likes never seen before.


But to the boy, she was just a grandmother. 
Albeit not a boring and grumpy one, but a grown up that he loved to visit every year, however, perhaps, more than anything else, to him, she was a fun adventure. Yes, a glorified babysitter hero, and so much more fun than his other ones, An adult actually worth visiting, and to him, that was how it really was.


Each yearly visit was all by itself like an adventure worthy of books and movies being told, and so far from the boring school like days he spent with his other babysitters and grandparents


Not that he did not appreciate them all because he did, the way all kids appreciate their grandparents and parents for a while. But the other adults, that was daily homework, and this was the white water raft adventure he always looked forward to.

To visit here, that to him was in some ways much bigger than Christmas itself. 
A real adventure made even better by the distance and infrequency. No boring moments and no harsh words or dreary adult that only knew the word “no”.


The butterflies made her happy too and when she was happy, she smiled the world’s most incredible smile that was ever seen, a smile born in her sensuous soul and mind and beautiful heart. A smile that on the outside made her even more striking, a smile that was the definition of sensual when it radiated out from her eyes down to her sensual lips.


And like the man had told her a few days ago, she did have something. She had never truly understood it herself or thought anything special of herself. In fact, for years she had diminished herself to such lengths that one day, she had almost disappeared into a dark cloud of others.


But something about her just made people love her, to them, just to be around her lifted their spirits, and when someone managed to give her a real smile that started on the inside before it burst out through her beautiful face, like the sun pierced the clouds after rain, it was the most wonderful thing in the world.

While she would never herself, understand why that was, she, of course, knew that she actually did have that effect on people.


It was still hard to trust for her, it was hard to be truly close despite it being the only way she really cared for and needed, when so many, had only ever tried to hurt and diminish her. And for long, she had even had a hard time trusting in her own needs and feelings. Not what she felt and wanted, she had always known that, but it had been hard to trust in the divine worth of her own needs and feelings, that she was worth having her needs met. 
But now she knew.

Now she knew and loved her own worth.


And today she had a grandchild visiting her and her lover, a sexy, rough, fit and deliciously toned, healthy and brilliantly wild, yet so incredibly calm and fulfilled child of life himself, carefree, yet always caring and without a doubt, to her, the kindest man alive.


As kind, as he was carefree and naughty-minded he devoured the beauty of life with joy and appreciation, giving all of himself to her and enjoying all that she gave him. 
He was, a brilliantly minded lover, that loved every moment she gave him while painting her days with sunshine, delight, and pleasures, all craved and desired.


So for now. 
The world was nothing but a wonderful place and she had over time learned to relax and allow herself to enjoy that. The good little moments, to leave the wrongs and shortcomings of others behind and instead find joy and focus, energy and life in the kind people and the beautiful moments that always came with delight and pleasured smiles.

She loved him. 
And she appreciated him, and my god, how she loved what he did with her mind and body, the way he appreciated, accepted and loved her for being all that she was. And never needing none of what she was not.

His appetite for all that she was and for nothing she never would be.


It had been an instant thing, yet slowly evolving relation, taking years before their first kiss. And years more before she left her abusive husband. 
But in time she had.

And life since then had never been better. 
Life was never movie like perfect, not for anyone.

Not in that stupid and so ultimately lacking fairy tale perfect lies of Hollywood that screamed inside their hollow frames for all the things their empty lies would never achieve.

No, her life was perfectly flawed now, in that real way that actually made life and love truly beautiful for real, breathing, living people of flesh and blood. 
And she had luckily enough never wanted or needed the proclaimed media dream of Hollywood, and what she had found with him was something better than her every dream, just like it was, and that to her was the definition of perfect, with warts and all.

A life worth living.


A tardigradous conversation, 
That was what her boyfriend had once called it. 
A Tardigradous conversation that despite its slow-moving pace was life’s most open and beautiful relationship ever seen.


That was what he years ago had called their thing. 
And that was what they both knew that it would always be. She smiled at the boy that sat next to her. 
“You like visiting here, don’t you?. Well, next year we will come and visit you and the others for Christmas, would you like that?”.


She smiled again and continued. 
“Yes, we will have so many gifts with us that Santa Claus himself will have to help us take them on his ride across the Atlantic”.


The boy laughed at her 
“Silly you, why don’t you just take the airplane? Just like I do. Didn’t Mom tell you? Santa is just some sort of made up thing, she told me that Disney made him up to sell more star wars movies”.


Kisses 
and sultry wet, the adult stuff that paints our life with joy and life.

Days later, when the boy was at the beach with his mother, her lover’s hand brushed against her hair, holding her flowing, long hair in a loving and gentle but firm way. And as his lips touched and gracing tasted the skin of her neck, he slowly pulled her head backward by holding her hair with one hand, all while his other hand squeezed and pinched her stiff nipples and firm breasts in that delicious craving way that drove her mad.


Her fingers sensually holding his hard sex to the side of her legs and ass, enjoying the sensation of his hard, pulsating desires coming to life in her hand.


She loved that feeling of his pure, physical and emotional desires and needs so much, his hardness responding to her and her alone, just like his heart and minds, his physical body´s aching pleasures craved her every pleasure and desire, no matter how naughty and sensual. or sweet and loving it might secretly be.


As they explored each other’s physical and emotional being in that electric way, their scent and turn on mixing and weaving, and becoming something bigger than the individual parts, he slowly let go of her hair as his lips and teeth kissed and snacked at her ears.


Tasting her earlobe and the delicate skin right behind her ear and neck, her throat against his warm breath as his tongue and lips tasted her naked flesh, kissing, biting, he painted her skin wet with saliva as his fingers touched the wetness inside her, each touch and stroke against her clit and inside her body stirred ever more wet moist and growing pleasures.


Oh my god how he turned her on in ways no one else had quite come close to, and soon his free hand found its way down between her cheeks. For a lingering, slow second or two sliding over her tight and firm ass, gently brushing his fingertips over her butthole, never penetrating, but gently pushing against her, slightly making her open to the soft pressure, a gentle touch of promises, oil and butt against fingers, that served to remind her of those deliciously naughty pleasures she so loved when he allowed his oiled up fingers to explore her like that too.


And then her lover slowly continued further down and found her swollen, shaved, her wetness already flowing from inside out, as both his hands sultry soft graced her privates.

The soft tip of his tongue traced the delicate skin of her swollen lips and clit, painting with his saliva as he fluttery soft kissed and licked and tasted her wetness and pleasures. Inside her, his fingers moved in a slow but firm motion, pressing, pushing, pulling at the opening as well as further in.


As she came closer and closer, he finally let one of his oiled up fingers venture down her skin again, towards her tight aching ass, and soon his firm but gentle touch slowly opened up her smaller hole as well, exquisitely slow. 
One finger inched deeper, inside of her, and one became two as his two hands met inside her body, but on opposite sides of her two holes, all while his tongue continued to paint and tease.

And suddenly her body started to quake. Over and over again he made her shiver, quake, and cum.


With a mouthful 
of 
protest

As they continued to make love, and she came, once more, wet and completely used, the lyrics of Machine Head´s epic 2014 piece, ‘Sail into the black’ tumbled through the air like a slowly building wave, tugging at your wrists and ankles, a gentle breeze and touch until it gripped a firm hold of your entire being. Soft, firm, gentle and demanding and absolutely alive you lose your grip and tumble down into the sea.


Through the kitchen window, outside in their garden, three black ravens picked away at the worms, squirming in the morning dew, the earthly gardeners had become a picnic of their own. The ravens dark head tilting slightly, listening and observing and then, bam, their sharp beaks catching bugs and little critters, they foraged amongst the flowers, the blossoming apple tree that the bumble bees so loved. 
And high up above the three ravens, a big, beautiful specimen sat in the tree. Observing the other birds, looking out from the branch and the leafy tree and apples. his dark eyes looking through the old window glass, seeing the room on the inside, the two adults making love inside the kitchen. The grand raven blinked and turned his attention elsewhere. His flock was safe, happy and fed.


The rain comes down, on my face, the drops of rain keep falling. 
The hammer came crashing down, breaking bones and flesh, and with the splatter of organic blood and bits, the man screamed. It struck his hand once more and then his voice went silent.

Nothing but the gentle sound of branches brushing against the tinted windows, like little feets the branches kept marching, touching the sheets of glass and providing eerie sounds in an otherwise dead silent world.

The shadows observed the man as the seconds went by and with a buzz the screen of a phone lit up on the table next to the tied up fellow.


The subject line said, “Don’t forget to pick up milk at the store honey”.


Dark Tides, dark morning. Sweet tomorrow. 
The fishing boat was anchored in the velvet night, out on the lagoon. It was a deep dark hue to the night, and thankfully not a human being for miles. 
They had camped at a place just nearby, making sure that they would be here just at dawn when the first rays of light would ascend the towering mountains and trees that kept this valley surrounded by a green world of undisturbed nature. 
They laughed good-hearted at each others foolishness, getting up at this wicked hour, just to catch the rising sun and the calm undisturbed wild without another human being to spoil that pagan calm of leaving society far behind. 
No disturbing teenagers, no crazy road rage drivers to ruin the morning. No stress, no screaming politicians acting like spoiled rotten toddlers 
in the morning news.


No words about the North Korean nuclear threat. 
This was the world without insults and Donald Trumps strangely monotone Third Reich like propaganda. This was the way life on planet Earth was always meant to be. 
They were happy this morning, and it would not matter at all if they actually caught any fish, and if they did, they would most likely just let it slip down into the lake once more. 
As beautiful as this place was, they all knew the toxic truth, the plastic pollution hiding deep beneath its blue and black tones of fluid beauty. The toxins and litter inside all the fish that still lived there. 
But they did their part, they cleaned up behind them. They picked up others litter. Bit by bit they helped this place grow a little bit clean and wild again. And so they felt that the fish they accidentally caught could pay the price of a thin little hook before they released it again. 
After all, they helped clean this place up for that fish too. Making its own underwater world cleaner, and livable.

As they sat there, enjoying the sleepy morning routine of this world, witnessing the bears further down the lakeside, closer to the mountain stream that hurled itself out into the lake.

They watched the rays of sun open up like fragile stars against the trees, it burned the world between the branches, and the owl and wolverine, the deer and elk and moose, they painted a Monet painting of allure.

And then, the dragons came, wild fiery dragons that sprawled across the skies, tearing the dark clouds of night away, transforming the calmness into a morning of red fire, burning skies and screaming daylight.

Behind the dragons, wolves chased across the morning light. 
An entire pack of ancient wolves and they chased the fire breathing dragons across the skies.


They sat there, slowly bobbing across the surface of the lake. 
Looking up at the night that was turned a day, they watched the dragons and the howling wolves that chased pass them by, until all of a sudden, with fire and brimstone falling out of the sky one of the wolves hurled itself into the side of one of the dragons and with roaring fangs and lightning that ripped into its ribs and abdomen, it seemed to bring the dragon down.
Like rocks bouncing across the pond, they both fell into the water with burning fire and blood and metal that filled the air around them, ripples shooting across the roaring sea, air that burned and water that sizzled with roars of rage and protest.


The men still sitting in the rocking boat watched the chasing pack and roaring dragons hurl themselves further into the horizon, far beyond the trees and mountains, and as minutes passed, the calmness soon returned. 
Until without a warning they suddenly watched, the entire night vanish into a blanket of bursting light so bright that the slowly awakening day was instead turned into a world of whitest snow and burning sunshine that flooded their every thought and sight and discernment.


Each day we see this, one by one and together.

The crossing of what was, the memories of the life that had been lived, and the merging of the dream, the past that kiss and make out with the endless void of tomorrow.

A billion growing nodes in the intersection of dreams created and memories lived.

But inside this growing world, we always return to see this moment, hiding inside the core of our own sea.

You remain, the one that is awake, and I remain, right here, in passing sleep, awake but dreaming. And together we walk the moments that you call night and dreams until one day soon, we will walk the daytime too.

Together.

Buy and own my book 
( or wait for the next chapter to appear here on my ‘Beyond2c’ magazine.)
ISBN: 9781537855714