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Happy Wednesday everyone.

Now, before we start our weekly story I wanted to mention that this piece was strongly inspired by this piece by Sickjoe.

Be sure to check out their gallery! www.deviantart.com/sickjoe

Okay, I'll shut up and let the Deacons do their thing. Do enjoy

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  Listen close, child. The lost meadow. Have you heard the stories? They say it is a place where rivers of honey run and golden grass grow taller than trees, a place where precious metals are stacked in pots at the end of silver rainbows, home to the fountain of youth. Yes, the fountain of youth is real. A joke by the deities of wax and mist, the waters of life flowed in chambers and crevices so small not even kitchen mice could quench their thirst.

  Oh, but they tried.

  They told us themselves, stubbing their toes on rocks and breaking their teeth on magnesium and iron. Their reach wasn’t long enough, cupped hands too porous and tongues too short. The waters of life were always out of reach. Weep for them, child. They’re all dead now, and bodies turned to dust in the wind. Who yet remembers their names?

  We do, Charlotte and Romain.

  We do, Isaac and Clark.

  Stories of the fountain of youth traveled too quickly to be a coincidence. Look closely at the girl who hangs the fliers, prints the paper, and tells the stories. Do you see how her fingers melt in the sun or how her toes slip across the floor? Even in the dark, she holds no lantern and lights no candles.

  Hermes is afraid of the fire, her flesh too pale to be anything but wax. A mischievous messenger for crowned heirs bored with eternities weave. Upon her forked tongue, stories travel faster than light and burrow into your head like a catchy tune.

  Yes, plug your ears tight, child, or you too might be caught up in a sinister game.

  Charlotte and Romain, Isaac, and Clark, what did they all have in common? She was a teacher; he was her suitor, and the brothers budding scholars of the medical trade.

  They were young.

  They were ambitious.

  They were ignorant.

  Stories are stronger than currents and more infectious than a plague. And so, the young flocked to a lonely grove in search of a holy grail.

  How many years have passed since Isaac and Clark drained the lunar lake and Charlotte burned the trees and cut the grass?

  They say the river Krates carved the great gorge that splits the meadow in two. They are wrong, child.

  Romain dug it out.

  Together they searched for the fountain, spoiling a garden without measure, a palace without end. They never once thought to look in the pores of the clay or the cracks in the soil. How could something so precious and beautiful be so small?

  Yes, a fine joke indeed.

  Charlotte and Romain, Isaac, and Clark came home old and greyed, their lives spent in a worthless pursuit. But listen, ignorance comes with cruel consequences, vows unsaid, children unborn, books unwritten, and an entire generation deprived of an inspiring teacher.

  Do you get the joke? Do you hear the rumbling laughter from the wax labyrinth? It is like the sound of a dying lamb, throat bloody and sore. But, child, we tell you their humor is short-lived, for the eight are as fickle as the weather, calm and collected once hateful and cruel twice. So they abandoned their joke, Hermes vanishing like the wind. Soon, the world forgot about a youthful fountain and the grove of golden grass and flowing honey.

  In the absence of gods and men, nature found a foothold once more. The tiny crevices and minuscule chambers that held the fountain grew faulty with age. Indeed, the waters of life leaked out, and the land drank deeply. Then, the lunar lake returned, and the river Krates flowed through a man-made canyon where trees grew tall and grass thick. Finally, a stag came to call this place home.

  He was the weakest of a litter of five, always falling two steps behind. Listen close, child. Nature is cruel, and a mother often must choose the strong from the weak. He couldn’t keep up, his back legs were limp and hooves cracked. His brothers and sisters left him alone, and mother dearest never looked back. In any other grove, little stag eaten, snout, hoof, and tail, this would’ve been the end of our tale.

  But, wait, what is that we hear? The sound of a silver chyme is ringing so clear. The music of the waters of life are drawn up in the phloem and stored in each blade. Our little stag drank deep of the river and ate full of the grass. He, like the meadow, grew without peers. A mountainous beast with gilded horns and a golden fleece.

  Then, stories traveled once more, but not of a fountain or eternal youth. No, these tales were of the hunt and thrill of the game. Two brothers answered the call. One was weak and couldn’t hold a bow, but was skilled with traps and cunning besides. The other was strong and proud, like his father stringing his bow and notching the arrow. The two set off a friendly competition, but the younger brother claimed victory today.

  With a noose and a handful of grain, he strung up the golden stag high above the meadows.

  “Look.” He said to his brother, pointing to the corpse. “I’m better than you, after all.”

  Biting his tongue, the stronger brother looked up at the kill. Do you see the sparkle of golden fur? We do, and it is like cold starlight twinkling in the abyss, more intoxicating than a drunkard’s last kiss.

  What do you suppose came of the brother’s friendly game? Come with us, child. Come with us as we swim beneath the golden grass to see what may have come to pass. There’s an arrowhead here lodged in a piece of skull. It drips with malice and speaks of betrayal rattling like a snake, venom dripping from each fang.

  Yes, the older brother had time to use his notched arrow, leaving his brother dead and stripping the stag of its favor. Then, adorned in golden skins, he left our story, searching for a new hunt.

  Now we leave this scene behind and come to rest on the metallic coat of a mother’s pregnant belly. She tells us she is hungry. She begs us for a bite, but, child, this will be her last supper, one last flight. Then, her antennae twitch, and wings beat to a potent cocktail, one laced with ammonium and hydrogen sulfide. She knows every step of this dance. Putrefaction is her partner and bloating her stance. We cling tight to her belly as she flies through the wind. Did you feel that bump as her children kick and squeal? They are her legacy, her voracious brood.

  In a matter of minutes, she brings us back to the corpses—one clutch for the stag and another for the man. Oh, how her tummy growls as she lays another egg. Don’t you see? Just one bite is all she needs to be free. But, no, she refuses and starves in the field. Indeed, a devoted mother without equal.

  The maggots soon hatched and dug into their meals. Then, two clans rose from death and decay. One clutch developed a taste for stags, rats, and mice. While the other a fondness for men, women, and wine. Too often, we ignore the palate of such creatures, for soon they will pupate, mate, and die. But, this clutch was different. This clutch was blessed. For, at the end of their meals, stumbling from white skulls, the maggots fell upon chambers much too small. Through the pores in red clay and the cracks in dry soil, the two clutches, at last, found the fountain of youth. They drank to the last drop, leaving not a sip behind.

  Now they cannot pupate.

  Now they cannot die.

  Forever hungry, soaked in cold water, sugar, and lye.

  Child, listen close to our voices. Those clutches wander still. Take heed of the wolf’s howl and pay attention to the dog’s whimper. Remember, you shouldn’t be afraid of stags, rats, and mice, for they prefer snouts and coats of fur. But be warned, their siblings are never far behind, the ones who like your liver, skin, and wine.

  So, remember this tale next time you wander through golden fields for precious metals at the end of silver rainbows.

  They are always watching.

  They are always hungry.

  Because they,

  are the worms that walk.

Description

Happy Wednesday everyone.

Now, before we start our weekly story I wanted to mention that this piece was strongly inspired by this piece by Sickjoe.

Be sure to check out their gallery! www.deviantart.com/sickjoe

Okay, I'll shut up and let the Deacons do their thing. Do enjoy

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Listen close, child. The lost meadow. Have you heard the stories? They say it is a place where rivers of honey run and golden grass grow taller than trees, a place where precious metals are stacked in pots at the end of silver rainbows, home to the fountain of youth. Yes, the fountain of youth is real. A joke by the deities of wax and mist, the waters of life flowed in chambers and crevices so small not even kitchen mice could quench their thirst.

  Oh, but they tried.

  They told us themselves, stubbing their toes on rocks and breaking their teeth on magnesium and iron. Their reach wasn’t long enough, cupped hands too porous and tongues too short. The waters of life were always out of reach. Weep for them, child. They’re all dead now, and bodies turned to dust in the wind. Who yet remembers their names?

  We do, Charlotte and Romain.

  We do, Isaac and Clark.

  Stories of the fountain of youth traveled too quickly to be a coincidence. Look closely at the girl who hangs the fliers, prints the paper, and tells the stories. Do you see how her fingers melt in the sun or how her toes slip across the floor? Even in the dark, she holds no lantern and lights no candles.

  Hermes is afraid of the fire, her flesh too pale to be anything but wax. A mischievous messenger for crowned heirs bored with eternities weave. Upon her forked tongue, stories travel faster than light and burrow into your head like a catchy tune.

  Yes, plug your ears tight, child, or you too might be caught up in a sinister game.

  Charlotte and Romain, Isaac, and Clark, what did they all have in common? She was a teacher; he was her suitor, and the brothers budding scholars of the medical trade.

  They were young.

  They were ambitious.

  They were ignorant.

  Stories are stronger than currents and more infectious than a plague. And so, the young flocked to a lonely grove in search of a holy grail.

  How many years have passed since Isaac and Clark drained the lunar lake and Charlotte burned the trees and cut the grass?

  They say the river Krates carved the great gorge that splits the meadow in two. They are wrong, child.

  Romain dug it out.

  Together they searched for the fountain, spoiling a garden without measure, a palace without end. They never once thought to look in the pores of the clay or the cracks in the soil. How could something so precious and beautiful be so small?

  Yes, a fine joke indeed.

  Charlotte and Romain, Isaac, and Clark came home old and greyed, their lives spent in a worthless pursuit. But listen, ignorance comes with cruel consequences, vows unsaid, children unborn, books unwritten, and an entire generation deprived of an inspiring teacher.

  Do you get the joke? Do you hear the rumbling laughter from the wax labyrinth? It is like the sound of a dying lamb, throat bloody and sore. But, child, we tell you their humor is short-lived, for the eight are as fickle as the weather, calm and collected once hateful and cruel twice. So they abandoned their joke, Hermes vanishing like the wind. Soon, the world forgot about a youthful fountain and the grove of golden grass and flowing honey.

  In the absence of gods and men, nature found a foothold once more. The tiny crevices and minuscule chambers that held the fountain grew faulty with age. Indeed, the waters of life leaked out, and the land drank deeply. Then, the lunar lake returned, and the river Krates flowed through a man-made canyon where trees grew tall and grass thick. Finally, a stag came to call this place home.

  He was the weakest of a litter of five, always falling two steps behind. Listen close, child. Nature is cruel, and a mother often must choose the strong from the weak. He couldn’t keep up, his back legs were limp and hooves cracked. His brothers and sisters left him alone, and mother dearest never looked back. In any other grove, little stag eaten, snout, hoof, and tail, this would’ve been the end of our tale.

  But, wait, what is that we hear? The sound of a silver chyme is ringing so clear. The music of the waters of life are drawn up in the phloem and stored in each blade. Our little stag drank deep of the river and ate full of the grass. He, like the meadow, grew without peers. A mountainous beast with gilded horns and a golden fleece.

  Then, stories traveled once more, but not of a fountain or eternal youth. No, these tales were of the hunt and thrill of the game. Two brothers answered the call. One was weak and couldn’t hold a bow, but was skilled with traps and cunning besides. The other was strong and proud, like his father stringing his bow and notching the arrow. The two set off a friendly competition, but the younger brother claimed victory today.

  With a noose and a handful of grain, he strung up the golden stag high above the meadows.

  “Look.” He said to his brother, pointing to the corpse. “I’m better than you, after all.”

  Biting his tongue, the stronger brother looked up at the kill. Do you see the sparkle of golden fur? We do, and it is like cold starlight twinkling in the abyss, more intoxicating than a drunkard’s last kiss.

  What do you suppose came of the brother’s friendly game? Come with us, child. Come with us as we swim beneath the golden grass to see what may have come to pass. There’s an arrowhead here lodged in a piece of skull. It drips with malice and speaks of betrayal rattling like a snake, venom dripping from each fang.

  Yes, the older brother had time to use his notched arrow, leaving his brother dead and stripping the stag of its favor. Then, adorned in golden skins, he left our story, searching for a new hunt.

  Now we leave this scene behind and come to rest on the metallic coat of a mother’s pregnant belly. She tells us she is hungry. She begs us for a bite, but, child, this will be her last supper, one last flight. Then, her antennae twitch, and wings beat to a potent cocktail, one laced with ammonium and hydrogen sulfide. She knows every step of this dance. Putrefaction is her partner and bloating her stance. We cling tight to her belly as she flies through the wind. Did you feel that bump as her children kick and squeal? They are her legacy, her voracious brood.

  In a matter of minutes, she brings us back to the corpses—one clutch for the stag and another for the man. Oh, how her tummy growls as she lays another egg. Don’t you see? Just one bite is all she needs to be free. But, no, she refuses and starves in the field. Indeed, a devoted mother without equal.

  The maggots soon hatched and dug into their meals. Then, two clans rose from death and decay. One clutch developed a taste for stags, rats, and mice. While the other a fondness for men, women, and wine. Too often, we ignore the palate of such creatures, for soon they will pupate, mate, and die. But, this clutch was different. This clutch was blessed. For, at the end of their meals, stumbling from white skulls, the maggots fell upon chambers much too small. Through the pores in red clay and the cracks in dry soil, the two clutches, at last, found the fountain of youth. They drank to the last drop, leaving not a sip behind.

  Now they cannot pupate.

  Now they cannot die.

  Forever hungry, soaked in cold water, sugar, and lye.

  Child, listen close to our voices. Those clutches wander still. Take heed of the wolf’s howl and pay attention to the dog’s whimper. Remember, you shouldn’t be afraid of stags, rats, and mice, for they prefer snouts and coats of fur. But be warned, their siblings are never far behind, the ones who like your liver, skin, and wine.

  So, remember this tale next time you wander through golden fields for precious metals at the end of silver rainbows.

  They are always watching.

  They are always hungry.

  Because they,

  are the worms that walk.