Mire

by Nathan Hays and Karyn Huntting Peters



Whither am I bound? What Fate binds me to her bosom? Whose are these diaphanous veils that swirl before me and hinder my every gesture? What viscid muck is this that drags me deeper with every reach? Why are these vibrant eels elusive to my grasp? Why are my striven desires only whetted? When will the solid bough be lowered?

Whence I came to this stagnant place is carted. The fabulous city I set for was nary a day's march. The moors en route seemed but cool mists to refresh the swift traveler. But now is nothing but flitting shadows and chimeras. I chase the pixie forms by day and pant in restless pause by night.

At once a solid shore appeared before me, a peninsular promise of regained ground. A golden copse upon it beckoned me to delve within. For a time, the gracious elves of the wood bestowed manna and petaled cups of fine flavors. Refreshed, I wandered the glade to find the lost trail, but discovered it was but an island. I slept upon its edge and awoke to find peaty bog beneath me and the island drifting away.

All the world is rot and I feed on imps and griffins of my own creation. No pillow stays firm to hold up my head, no strong fingers sooth my aches. No solid ground lifts me from this mire with cobbles to mark my way.

-- Nate

Awake to find the island shore still solid, cobbles fused from the steps of the unbound. Take heed lest the heat of the island sun steal from view the sandy shore and the archipelago on the horizon. Stand, feel the wooded trail beneath your feet. Elves still swim in the peace of the cool waterfall.

-- Karyn

My eyes closed, I kneel to the smooth rocks of my path. Hot from the sun, they warm my palms. The smell of cracked bricks and dusty sand pervades my senses. I cannot yet tell if I have created this myself or whether some benign spirit has seen fit to reveal to me something of what lies ahead. I will walk this path awhile, slowly that I might not disturb the capricious elves or hasten too quickly to navigate the bends. I still the brutish pain within and stroke its furrowed brow. Grasp not for the stars, I say. They will come of their own accord. Soon you shall lie in comfort, though we have little memory of what it is like.

-- Nate