So, I’ve been dead for the last few weeks. Sue me! Here I am with a recent short story I’ve written, entitled Leaves and Rocks. I had originally intended for it to have a sad ending, but for one reason or another it ended with a happy ending. Anyways, read on after the jump.

Leaves and Rocks

I am a rock. I am solid. Do try and budge me – you will not be able to. You will be here – forever. Image it. Imagine being here forever! Imagine being me! Imagine being God!

George Mason remembered. George Mason remembered the legend – it had not been passed down, nor had it been transferred through his various acquaintances and peers. It had been entirely fabricated, in his own mind. He had discovered the legend all on his own. Discovered, he thought, was not the proper word – but who was going to judge his fabrication? He closed his eyes and imagined it, then opened his eyes and saw what was really in front of him: The canvas of the camping tent.

Would the camping tent stop him? He unzipped its cover – his father, Greg, sat outside in the nighttime air, roasting a marshmallow. It stunk like silly putty, George thought. “That’s what you get for buying the cheap kind,” he whispered. His father turned.

“Say something?”

“No, dad. I never say anything. Please stop hearing things.” George was named for his father, and his father before him. All of the men in the Mason family were given names that began with the letter G, as a part of tradition. Females were given the letter S – if George had been born a girl, his name would have been Sarah.

I am a leaf. I move in the wind. I bend to the will of others, and am easily destroyed. Travel with me – forever. Serve those who make us move. Imagine it. Imagine seeing the world… imagine, as you are now.

George opened his eyes again and saw that his father’s marshmallow had melted off of the stick. Why anybody would eat a marshmallow off of a stick, George could not reason. All he could reason was that he didn’t feel like eating a mouthful of ticks. Obviously, his father felt differently, because he picked up the white putty from the ground, wrapped it around the stick, and ate it off. “Just as if it hadn’t fallen, eh boy? Five second rule, is that what you kids say?”

It wasn’t, but George nodded. George always nodded to his father – especially on his camping trips. Greg called the shots. Greg was stern and stubborn, but undeniably cheerful, and that bothered George. George wasn’t as young as his father thought he was, but Greg had been in perpetual delusion ever since George had gone off to college. Far over middle age, his father was suffering loss long before it happened, as his son had all but abandoned him physically, and now almost entirely mentally. The camping trips, once every semester, and during breaks, were his attempts to salvage that bond he once had with his son. The son who was naive, the son who unconditionally surrendered to his father’s kindness, the son who, now older, was not so kind to his kind father.

But to George, his father was far from kind, and he detested the moment spent in the wilderness. But he knew that it was for the good of the family. It would keep the family together. That was all that mattered, in the end. Keep the family stable – rock solid. Don’t let it blow in the wind. Because, George felt, it just might if he didn’t act.

But because he detested the wilderness so much, he spent long hours inside his tent. The canvas shielded him from outside world. He could see part of his reflection on the off-white surface of the tent; it was not clear, his face, but he knew that if only the surface of the tent were smooth, unfolded, his face would be there. Several portions of the distorted reflection were blocked by dirt on the tent’s wall. Looking at those splotches of filth, George reminisced about the splotches of dirt on his life. The troubles that so desperately needed to be washed away – like this camping trip. He sat back and drifted into thought as his father continued to eat dirty marshmallows.

That night, as George drifted, Greg fell ill. The marshmallows, like putty, had collected everything they fell upon. An inked copy entered Greg’s mouth, and he contracted the most horrible food poisoning. He vomited in the fire, putting it out. Sputum mixed with the vomit, and all the while George slept, dreaming about his experiences, his delusions, his legend…

His father remained outside the campfire, trapped in an equally delusional dream-filled sleep. When George woke up the next morning, he found his father nestled against the rocks surrounding the camp fire, his head resting on a white pillow of gunk – the uneaten marshmallows, and a bit of vomit. George had plans now to leave the woods, but he knew that something more important lurked within. He had seen it in his dream. There was a door – two people had spoken to him. “I am a rock,” one had said. “I am a leaf,” the other argued. Caught between these two personas, George lusted for an answer. His thoughts meant nothing – he had only a mission: To discover the meaning of this dream, this legend he himself had fabricated.

There was something hidden in the woods.

George wanted to wake his father, to proclaim this revelation that he had merely stumbled upon unwillingly, but even his toughest kicks would not stir the old man. With this task failed, he gathered a few objects and set off into the woods, in a direction he knew would take him into the greens so deep that he might never emerge. However, he was confident in his own ability to navigate back, just as he was confident that all of his thoughts were true. The legend, as he fabricated it, told the following tale:

Long ago, in these woods, an angel and a demon fought over the proper way of living. The demon, bound to Hell and Earth, remained firm and debated that all creatures should find only a single place to house themselves, and remain there for eternity. And the demon had prepared a nasty spell for this, and was prepared to go against all convention to keep all living things in their proper place.But the angel, free to flutter the skies and act on his whims, valiantly disagreed. The angel believed that all beings should travel endlessly across the Earth and Heaven, and see all that there is to see before making their final transition from life. And the angel had prepared a nasty spell for this, and was prepared to go against all convention to ensure that all living things wandered the Earth forever.

The two forces battled one another, eventually emerging in a grand war. The angel recruited several acquaintances, and they unleashed their wrath upon the demon, who had also gathered reinforcements from the Earth itself, and who brought battlements to defend his party with. This war raged for ten thousand years, until the numbers were so large that entropy inevitably took its rightful place as victor of the war.

Slowly, the feathers were torn from the angels, and they could not fly. Slowly, the fortresses of the demons were destroyed, and they could not defend themselves. The two forced attacked with full might, generating energy and heat beyond comprehension. The uprooted feathers began to melt; the fortresses, under the heat, collapsed and the logs that created them began to roll away. Everything, in the heat of the battle, melted into a single, flowing object. When all had perished in the heat and melted to liquid, the liquid of the two factions combined crystallized itself.

The crystals spread about the Earth. Some crystals become soil; some crystals became stone; some crystals became seeds for trees, which would grow leaves; some crystals evaporated and became the clouds themselves. But what made these crystals – the great fusing force of God – remained elusive for centuries. The key to this great fusing force supposedly remained hidden somewhere on the very grounds where the ancient battle first took place.

If the two spirits of the first demon and the first angel were speaking to George, he knew that he had to find the great fusing force hidden in these woods. And it was not long he had walked before he came to a clearing. In this clearing stood a gate – an archway with sealed double-doors, leading to nowhere on either side. It was old, but not old enough to date back to the ancient battle. Excited, George ran up to the relic and felt it with his hands. Dirt came off of the arch onto his hands, and he wiped the dirt on his pants. He looked at his watch – he decided to return to the campsite at noon, which was not long from then.

Continually exploring the archway, he found several small stones. Some were clear, but had smoky centers and were harder than any material in the woods, even tougher than the stone that created the archway. There were beautiful stones that reflected rainbow patterns. All manners of shimmering gemstone and crystal seemed to flood this area. As he dug into the soil, he found more of the clear yet smoky stone. He found pink variations, purple variations, and yellow variations with black impurities. George uncovered a strange, pointed stone – and in the stone he saw his own reflection. He jumped back; the stone was smoother than the canvas, much smoother. He finally saw his face.

George determined that this was far more important than anything relating to his family. His father could wait for him. It was really his mother and sister that he was more concerned about, anyway. He gathered the stones and walked back to camp, not worrying whether or not his father would still be asleep, soaking in his own drool.

But George was overcome by his fabrication – he saw not the campsite but the ancient battlefield as he meandered back to his place of rest. The tent became a fortress, the clouds became the angels, and his father became just another soldier in the war. Delusional and feeling that he was a part of this battle, George rushed in and pelted his crystals at the enemy. His lazy, unforgiving father who had only wanted unconditional love and nothing more from his son, pelted with sharp rocks for as long as George had ammunition to throw. And when there was nothing left, and all his energy had been exhausted trying to wake his father with the rocks, he threw the final stone – a smooth, yet mildly rough, grey stone. It landed in the fire pit, and promptly caught a flame.

George panicked. The dried vomit flared up and forced the fire to grow; the colors were spectacular, and it sparkled and crackled as it engulfed lands beyond the surrounding rocks of the campfire pit. Suddenly, George was worried about his father. It may have been the first time in his life that he experienced this unconditional debt of servitude to half of his maker, but he dove in to move his father away from the bursting flames. He succeeded, and removed both he and his father from the premise. As he did so, all of the stones he had gathered melted together in the fire.

George did not know where the keys to his father’s car were, so he walked up the hill that they had initially drove down to enter the campsite, dragging Greg’s lifeless body up with him. Only after ten or so minutes of trudging did George realize that his father was not budging, and that he was not moving in the direction he thought he was. He heard the voices again – they were louder now. The angel and demon were fighting.

They were fighting over Greg’s body.

George shouted to them. “No!” he said. His father began to move. “Yes, wake up, Dad… it was just a bit of food poisoning.” But when Greg stopped stirring for a minute, George let go of the body. He looked around for any sign of the fighting spirits, but could hear them no longer. Greg was now beginning to move again, but George had overlooked the act as Greg’s body roll down the hill into the fire. One end of his father’s clothes caught the flame and, as the great force licked Greg’s body, it startled him into wakening. He lifted his body and began to run from the rising flames, which were now engulfing the entire forest, tearing it down.

“What the hell happened?” Greg asked, patting out the flames.

“I don’t know,” said George, “but we need to leave here. The forest fire will destroy the forest.” George subconsciously lamented – he knew that the fire was his doing. But, at the same time, he could not help but think that the fire was a necessary event to bring he and his father closer together. That it was a fated occurrence, just as the end of the ten thousand year battle was inevitable. “It will all be gone,” George said. “It won’t ever come back. The fire will ravage every living thing in that forest…” As George slumped over himself – he and his father had now gotten far enough away from the flames to be safe – his father put an arm around him and directed him to a portion of the forest that had already been cleared out by the raging flames, and was even visible amidst the smoke and debris: The stone archway, surrounded by shimmering stones.

“Don’t worry about what happens to the forest, son. Fire is a wonderful, life giving, fusing force. Even though the forest will topple, some of the products in this fire will become igneous rock that treasure collectors will marvel at. The burned leaves will become soil, or also become rock, cooked under the pressure of years of heat and weight of the soil. Everything joins together under the fire. So, don’t distress over anything. I know you’re upset that our camping trip has to end this way, but the forest will survive. Its way of live has just been redesigned.”

George partially woke from his delusion, but could never stop thinking about his fabricated legend. And he realized that it was real after all – even if it might not have been exactly as he created it, it was real all the same. As he and his father walked away from the burning mass of leaf and rock, he knew that somewhere the battle was repeating itself, and that ultimately only one force would win, and the outcome would always be in the best interests of everyone.