I'm not normally dark, but I'm responding to the following prompt I found on a journaling site. There's no hidden meaning.
"In a nightmare, you've encountered three doors. Choose one, and let us know what you find on the other side."
I find a millenia-old oak tree perched comfortably atop a grassy knoll, drinking in the new spring sun. Under it is set a picnic with a girl seated and leaning back on hands, facing away from me in a blue-white checkered dress. In front of her is a lake, and on her left, a mountain alive with run-off. I approach the girl from behind, walk to her fore and turn. To her right, something I had not seen, is a variegation of flags, each one torn and threadbare, waving softly on slanted poles planted on a patchwork of grass and upturned earth.
The nearest of these is red with a single yellow block in its center. I creep closely and crouch. Though I do not touch it, the ground is warm. I pick from a nearby pine and toss its branch onto this ground.
It dissolves to dust even before it touches ground.
I turn back toward the girl, who is still sitting, staring blankly ahead. When I ask about this place, she shivers, then speaks in a low tone, her speech deliberate. She, too, chose this door, but by now-- after a time ago too distant to remember-- had desired to think this door chose her. The mountain, she understood now, was birth, the place she was physically born; the lake, life, a place of her youth, free from the burdens of life; and the flag-planted ground, death. This death, however, was not solely her own. Each flag represented the former occupants of this place, and the symbol upon it an image of the thing loved most, fixed on that person's heart. Some displayed children or significant people in the lives of the individual; while others had upon them objects, coins or bread or books. Still, in the center stood one, midnight blue and devoid of symbol, standing straight but failing to swell in its breeze.
She said that was hers. It had begun transparent, but over the years-- the centuries-- had taken on its present hue. She had tried to determine what would be stamped upon the flag on her death, but by now had realized she was already being transferred into the flag, its fabric taking on an increasing motion through an unyielding, though gentle, breeze. She could no longer feel her legs. Then, quickly, she turned her head toward me as though some new knowledge had pierced her thoughts.
She rose, looked me in the eye, and dissolved into the same dust seen when I had thrown down the oak branch.
Immediately, the flag-- her flag-- took on new life, and emblazoned upon its face was what appeared to be an oak tree, set atop the grassy knoll. The flag fluttered higher than the others for a moment, until it joined the rest in the uniform, gentle lift of fabric.
The door behind me was still open, and I fixed my eyes upon leaving when suddenly a new scene surrounded me. It was the house in which I had grown up, and I heard a voice. It was the voice of my father. Though he had been long-since dead, I distinctly heard him in a nearby room, speaking as hushed tones. Stopping dead, I listened. It was a story. He was reading what sounded like a bedtime story.
I was jolted, just then, by the swift increase of a chilled breeze. All of the flags had taken full form, now, as though the flags themselves were drawing my attention. My father's voice grew still more hushed and gentle, and I stood for a moment, frozen in the memory of my father reading to me as a child.
I turned again to the door. It was closing now, ever so slowly, but still I hesitated. Torn between nostalgia-- what I knew to be a false past-- and my real life, I half turned toward my father's voice. He was a siren, it seemed, screaming in soft tones to return to him.
I could not. I lifted each foot to walk, first slowly, then with increasing speed. My father's tone was changing now. It had grown louder and more agitated. My walk toward the door became now a stride. My path set, I noticed the ground beneath me softening. My feet were being physically absorbed into it, and I was compelled to trudge as through thick mud. Now a few feet from the selfsame door that had delivered me into this hell, I was knee-deep in what looked like ashes and felt like cinder.
I could not feel my legs, but still I pushed myself toward what I knew was freedom when I felt something on my back.
I turned my body to find myself surrounded anew, but this time in a darkness through which nothing-- I knew-- could penetrate. I turned again to find the door, and I walked now through it. On its opposite was the same room through which I was forced to enter.
Finally, I awoke to morning. It was crisp outside with light and sound, I lay my head upon my pillow, relieved that the dream was so far done.
"In a nightmare, you've encountered three doors. Choose one, and let us know what you find on the other side."
I find a millenia-old oak tree perched comfortably atop a grassy knoll, drinking in the new spring sun. Under it is set a picnic with a girl seated and leaning back on hands, facing away from me in a blue-white checkered dress. In front of her is a lake, and on her left, a mountain alive with run-off. I approach the girl from behind, walk to her fore and turn. To her right, something I had not seen, is a variegation of flags, each one torn and threadbare, waving softly on slanted poles planted on a patchwork of grass and upturned earth.
The nearest of these is red with a single yellow block in its center. I creep closely and crouch. Though I do not touch it, the ground is warm. I pick from a nearby pine and toss its branch onto this ground.
It dissolves to dust even before it touches ground.
I turn back toward the girl, who is still sitting, staring blankly ahead. When I ask about this place, she shivers, then speaks in a low tone, her speech deliberate. She, too, chose this door, but by now-- after a time ago too distant to remember-- had desired to think this door chose her. The mountain, she understood now, was birth, the place she was physically born; the lake, life, a place of her youth, free from the burdens of life; and the flag-planted ground, death. This death, however, was not solely her own. Each flag represented the former occupants of this place, and the symbol upon it an image of the thing loved most, fixed on that person's heart. Some displayed children or significant people in the lives of the individual; while others had upon them objects, coins or bread or books. Still, in the center stood one, midnight blue and devoid of symbol, standing straight but failing to swell in its breeze.
She said that was hers. It had begun transparent, but over the years-- the centuries-- had taken on its present hue. She had tried to determine what would be stamped upon the flag on her death, but by now had realized she was already being transferred into the flag, its fabric taking on an increasing motion through an unyielding, though gentle, breeze. She could no longer feel her legs. Then, quickly, she turned her head toward me as though some new knowledge had pierced her thoughts.
She rose, looked me in the eye, and dissolved into the same dust seen when I had thrown down the oak branch.
Immediately, the flag-- her flag-- took on new life, and emblazoned upon its face was what appeared to be an oak tree, set atop the grassy knoll. The flag fluttered higher than the others for a moment, until it joined the rest in the uniform, gentle lift of fabric.
The door behind me was still open, and I fixed my eyes upon leaving when suddenly a new scene surrounded me. It was the house in which I had grown up, and I heard a voice. It was the voice of my father. Though he had been long-since dead, I distinctly heard him in a nearby room, speaking as hushed tones. Stopping dead, I listened. It was a story. He was reading what sounded like a bedtime story.
I was jolted, just then, by the swift increase of a chilled breeze. All of the flags had taken full form, now, as though the flags themselves were drawing my attention. My father's voice grew still more hushed and gentle, and I stood for a moment, frozen in the memory of my father reading to me as a child.
I turned again to the door. It was closing now, ever so slowly, but still I hesitated. Torn between nostalgia-- what I knew to be a false past-- and my real life, I half turned toward my father's voice. He was a siren, it seemed, screaming in soft tones to return to him.
I could not. I lifted each foot to walk, first slowly, then with increasing speed. My father's tone was changing now. It had grown louder and more agitated. My walk toward the door became now a stride. My path set, I noticed the ground beneath me softening. My feet were being physically absorbed into it, and I was compelled to trudge as through thick mud. Now a few feet from the selfsame door that had delivered me into this hell, I was knee-deep in what looked like ashes and felt like cinder.
I could not feel my legs, but still I pushed myself toward what I knew was freedom when I felt something on my back.
I turned my body to find myself surrounded anew, but this time in a darkness through which nothing-- I knew-- could penetrate. I turned again to find the door, and I walked now through it. On its opposite was the same room through which I was forced to enter.
Finally, I awoke to morning. It was crisp outside with light and sound, I lay my head upon my pillow, relieved that the dream was so far done.
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