| FELO-DE-SE |
| There once was a boy named Amos, who wanted nothing more in this life, but to leave it. At the ripe age of 16, he was already weary of the world and its' inhabitants, and just wanted out. "I hate people," he would say, "but only because I love them, and they always disappoint me." He believed that he was not appreciated, and felt that no one really cared what he did, or how he felt. Nobody understood him at all, it seemed, and life was an exhaustive tableau of moral turpitude and mortal suffering. Late, one autumn day, he stole away with a revolver and one bullet from his father's not-so-well-hidden cabinet, where he kept his private papers and magazines, and ran off as fast as he could into the forest. When he could run no more, he sat down on a fallen tree in a clearing, and, after catching his breath, began to cry. He was afraid to die you see, but the alternative--living, was even more daunting a prospect to him. After a while, he stopped crying and vented his frustration with his family and friends. "It's not fair," he said, "I've always been a good person, and all I ever get in return for my kindness is contempt! Well, I'll show them, they'll be sorry when I'm dead!" "Well, I sure won't be sorry;" cried a voice from the thicket, "at least then I won't have to hear your whining! All I want is a little peace and quiet, is that too much to ask for?" "Who spoke? Where are you?" Squalled the boy, as he spun around, frightened by the vehemence of the disembodied voice. "Never mind that, my fine fey friend, I believe the proper question here is who the hell are you? I am Aremaapwe, the spirit that lives in this particular spot of the wood, which you have intruded on, and you are disturbing my rest!" The boy looked in the direction of the voice with a sorry bloodhound brow, and after a brief twitch in the left-hand corner of his mouth, and an expeditionary tear to his right, resumed his gushing. The voice, uttering an audible sigh, came closer to him accompanied by the sound of trodden leaves. The weight shifted on the log as the elemental sidled up beside the boy, and materialized. "Look son, I know that life is hard, and sometimes it can be terrbly unfair. Look at me, for instance, I may have magickal powers, and an extended life span, but I am restricted to the confines of this forest, and must spend my days doing nothing, which does not concern the up-keep and conservation of the sylvan equilibrium. You, on the other hand, may go wherever you please, purse providing, and become whatever your heart desires and your ambitions make you. To top this off, as a human, your time allotment is much briefer than mine, so why cut it any shorter than it already is, when you should take advantage of your innate "free will", see the world, and become whatever you were sent here to be?" Agitated, the young fellow screamed at the spirit, "What don't you people understand, that I'm trying to tell you? I have no interest in traveling, or "fulfilling my personal potential", I just don't want to live anymore!" Realizing that he was not reaching the boy, and wishing him gone, without actually "passing on", he got an idea, which might get the younker out of his hair, and onto the right path. "I'll tell you what you can do. Why don't you have a talk with some of the fellows down by the old crossroads? They're a little more experienced in these matters than I. Just go down this pathway until you reach the main road, then follow the trail of blood...oh, wait, you won't be able to see anything with your physical eyes, so you must shed your corporiety." With that, Aremaapwe put his left finger up to the boy's right temple, causing him to utter a sharp cry and collapse to the ground. For a moment, Amos was disoriented, then, remembering the recent offense to his person, he sat up on his elbows to glare at the perpetrator of said deed. Just as he raised an accusatory digit to berate the spirit, he was dumfounded to notice that he was sitting in someone. Looking around himself he saw...well, himself! Then returning his stupefied gaze to the sylvan soul, he screamed. "What did you just do to me?" "I seperated your soul from your corporeal husk, now you shall be able to walk among the shadows and communicate with them as well. You shall have all of your senses, albeit somewhat hightened, and shall be able to function as if in your body, without being encumbered by it. You shall be able to walk within the realm of the spirits, but shall also be subject to its' rules. You have only till dawn to communicate with these souls, however, and by then you must return to your body, or you shall truly be dead. Mind you, whether you daly, or are distracted, is no affair of mine; it is solely your responsibility to get back in time. If you fail in this, it will be your fault, and you shall be considered a suicide, condemned to wander the twilight between the world of the living and the domain of the dead, and you shall find no peace. Your fate is in your hands, now go!" And so, the bewildered shade of our young hero wafted through the surrounding brush and onto the path of the crossroads. As instructed, he followed the sanguinary trail, which was marked by the bloody footprints. After he made sure the boy took the moribund path, the wood spirit, Aremaapwe, picked up the pistol, which Amos had dropped, when he was divided. He contemplated the piece for a moment, with a look of disdain, and then gripped it tightly as his hand expanded and enveloped it completely. When his hand went back to its' normal shape and size, it had just the wooden stock of the pistol, and a puddle of metal, both of which were absorbed into his corpus. "I'll save those for later." He said. |