Short Stories
Lost & Found 1832 June. Father. It was an abnormally cold morning. Fog snuck into any crevice it could find, wisps of it scoured the distance like it was searching for something lost. It would be completely dark if not for a single lantern illuminating the way. Cynric trod carelessly on loose sedimentary trusting his life with the glories of his youth. 1847 January. Son. Emery wanted to stop. More than anything, he wanted to stop. The rancid air seeped into his lungs with every inhale causing him to cough violently. But he continued to scrub and scrub until any remnants of blood vanished completely. A couple minutes prior, he held a rabbit, stretching his fingers to hold down its head and body, with his right hand he held a jagged pocket knife. He had never taken a life before and was inexperienced with his knife, the rabbit snapped back to bite the finger on its head and Emery grunted with pain, he took his knife to the rabbit’s neck and started sawing, blood and fur pooled around him coupled with his own tears falling, it felt like an eternity to him. Finally, the rabbit stopped moving. He didn’t catch the rabbit, instead, it approached him carefully while he rested in the forest, as if giving its trust to him. His heart warmed, he reached out and took it in his hands. Emery could feel the soft yet textured fur under his fingertips as he gently ran it down the rabbit’s back. He carried it close to him, cradling it like a baby, while he walked home. He had planned to take care of it, to be worthy of the trust it gave him. His father sat on the front step of their porch, the stone pathway that cut through the middle of the manicured lawn like a red carpet leading to him. Emery gripped the rabbit closer, he felt his hands shaking as he covered more distance. Cynric and Emery stood a meter apart, “Kill it.” 1832 September. Father. Cynric had never imagined he would end up like this. A father. A father to the son of a whore. 1832 November. Father. She named the child Emery, he was two years old now. Although to Cynric he was two months old, the time since he had known of Emery. She told him that she was pregnant again but that this time she wouldn’t keep it. Cynric knew the complications of a procedure like that, it was underground and they would siege her insides for the baby that grew in her. It wasn’t his child. He wouldn’t dare touch her again, but Cynric encouraged her to go. He comforted her and cured her of any doubts. He knew she wouldn’t come back. 1832 December. Father. The sun warmed the souls of the coldest that day. The crisp, chilly air, dulling in the presence of the encapsulating rays that peeked through the heavy pearl clouds. But that day the air was still, not a single breeze dared to come. Cynric watched as a broad woman dragged a hesitant two-year-old to him. “What is this?” He knew what it was, who it was. “Yours. Take him.” She was the brothel manager, “He can’t stay with us anymore, you need to take him.” 1847 March. Son. With his father, Emery always felt like a child again. He became the memory of the lucky orphan adopted by Cynric, an orphan that should be eternally grateful to his new Father. Cynric was wealthy, popular, and strong. To Emery, he was a reminder. A reminder of everything he was not. Cynric took Emery to the town that morning, it smelled of freshly baked loaves and shit. Cynric had to get some supplies for a hike he was planning in a couple of months. Emery utilized the few minutes to get some warm pastries. He walked to a shop that was rather plain on the outside. The inside was a different story, it was an indescribable warmth that was like drinking a hot stew on a white winter day. The baker's face lit up “Emery, my boy,” Emery took two large strides towards the baker, his face flushing with relief. “I’ve missed you.” The baker knew him when he was a kid and somehow, despite only seeing him once every couple of weeks, Emery felt his relationship with him was closer to a father and son than with Cynric. But, every time the thought came to his mind, every time he thought about visiting the baker, he felt a twinge of guilt. It was the same guilt eating at him for the last couple of years. This is the thanks you give him? After he sacrificed everything for you, he took you in, he fed you, clothed you. He put you in a mansion for god's sake. The voice never left him. 1847 April. Son. It came in waves. The first wave was manageable, Emery ran often in the forest and was used to being out of breath, of course, this was a little different. His breaths became more labored, sharper, and more frequent, he felt like he couldn’t get oxygen in like the world finally sided with his father. And there it was again: the guilt. The second wave was calmer, Emery leaned against the wood cabinet and slowed his breathing. A large, oblong creature with petrified eyes looked down at Emery. Its fingers, equipped with 10-centimeter claws gripped Emery as if it was holding a wet dog, its arms extended. Knowing no better, its nails dug into Emery’s back, he felt his body go limp and could sense blood escaping from the tiny spaces around the fingers. The creature raised Emery up, his nails still ingrained in his back. His eyes met the creature’s nose, Emery glanced up, the creature’s scared, crazed eyes reminded him of something. The creature opened its mouth, its drool dribbling down its porous, wrinkled skin, it widened around Emery’s head. He felt its foggy breath against the surface of his face. He did not have to endure it for long. 1847 May. Father. Cynric had been planning his trip for a while, he was to go alone. He prepared a week’s worth of dried meats and hearty fruits and gathered all his materials. The last time he attempted the hike he thought it would be his last time. It was a total of 17 kilometers and was a brutal uphill hike, there was barely a distinguishable path since few people traveled on it so Cynric would often be scratched by surrounding shrubbery. The feeling of triumph and self-accomplishment when he reached the top was enough to finally attempt the hike again. Cynric looked up at the sky, it was a beautiful day. It was still morning, the birds chirped, and the early sun made the sky look bluer than a berry. A light breeze complimented the light sun rays. Cynric took a deep breath in and started, it was the last time he focused on his surroundings on his way up, he let his mind wander and his body repeat the monotonous steps of the hike. When he reached the top, Cynric felt puzzled. The view was extraordinary, the mountains the farthest thing he could see, it was clearer now than the last time he came. Yet Cynric felt incomplete. Cynric walked forward until he was at the edge of the oversized rock. He sensed what he wanted was behind the overlook. Cynric smiled, his lips grew in length until he found himself laughing. “Why am I alive? Why was I made to live like this, like a lie!” He screamed at the top of his lungs but no one could hear him. Cynric’s face scrunched up leaving only the bitterness from his smile. He relaxed again. Another breath. And another. And then he jumped. This piece was written as a challenge to create a story from two paintings. The paintings I chose are named below. Wanderer above the Sea of Fog by Casper David Fredrich Saturn Devours his Son by Francisco Goya
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