Joseph Stephens and the Deep Narration

“The world is cold and today, gray skies and cold wind blew through me and chilled my bones. Winter is always a difficult time for me and this year is no exception. Being cold all the time and the lack of sunlight make the normal problems of each day feel worse. I sit and clutch my drink and warm myself by the fire. I sit and I try to forget. I take a sip of my drink and slowly sink into my chair, my muscles relax a little with each sip. Soft music is playing in the background, it always helps me think when wordless music gently hums in the distance.”

 

            “Are you narrating in there?” Asked a voice from another room. Jaye Williams walked into the living room where Joseph Stephens was sitting in an old fashioned green chair, holding a drink, cuddled with a blanket and sitting in front of a space heater. “I’ve had a hard day, ok?” Replied Joseph Stephens who was in fact narrating. Jaye walked over to him and looked at his drink, he had something that looked like a gin and tonic in a highball glass. “Are you drinking? Its only three in the afternoon” asked a concerned Jaye. “No, its only seltzer water, I wanted to drink but alcohol upsets my tummy” replied Joseph.

 

            “Do you want to talk about it?” Jaye asked. Joseph looked really sad for a second. “No, thank you though. It really was a tough day though.” Joseph said with a sad sigh. Jaye Williams smiled “Do you  want to narrating it with me?” Asked Jaye. Joseph’s face slowly crept into a smile. “Yes, yes I would” Joseph said.

 

            “Some days are hard and some nights are worse, but if you look for the little things in life, it might be enough to get you through the strife. I leaned back in my chair and turned the space heater/roaring fireplace up to ten and sipped on my drink, it might have been cranberry seltzer but it could also have been a gin and tonic” Joseph said aloud in his best soothing narrator voice.

 

“The two friends sat back and enjoyed the fire, knowing that whatever happened, they would get through it and no matter how cold it got, spring would always come again” Jaye said in a slightly less impressive narrator voice.

 

            “thanks pal” Joseph said. “No problem” Replied Jaye in a slightly better narrator voice.

The Window Tree

A gentle breeze blows in through the open window. The old-fashioned windowpane opened inward, it opened like a small door and the wind was causing the windowpane to tap gently against a kitchen chair. Small gusts of wind rustled the sheer silk curtain and caused the wooden windowpane to sway. The windowpane and the lining was painted white and the wall color resembled a cup of coffee with only a dab of cream in it.

 

            The window was part of an old, country house, it was well maintained but had been built over a hundred years ago. The land was peaceful and folks never locked their doors and on a nice night, would leave their windows open, windows free to sway in the breeze. The breeze rustled the curtains like leaves on a tree, the window pain swayed like branches and the cool spring air could be felt inside the house just as easily as it could outside. The wood that built the house and the wood from the window used to be a tree, multiple trees made up the house. Trees that all had a history of their own before being cut down and since the day that the trees were used to build a house, the wood of these trees gathered even more history. Time leaves its mark on everything in this world, alive or not. When the window was still a tree, it had one of its branches fall off in a storm. The Window tree was the home for a family of birds, a group of squirrels and more bugs than any human would care to think about. The tree had life of its own, but was also apart of the great web of life, woven together with all things.

 

            Now the tree is a window, this is not good or bad, it just is. The wood is not considered alive anymore but it still served a purpose within the woven web of life. The window had been built, painted, fixed, repainted, slammed shut and left open to blow in the wind. The window had a notch on the bottom corner where a young boy was testing how sharp his knife was. It was a little knife meant for whittling and cutting tangled fishing line and apparently also used for cutting a little slice into the wood of a window when no one was looking.

 

            A window doesn’t have memories and wood isn’t alive but the history of the house and the trees that came before it should give you pause. It is important to stop, even for just a moment, and think about where things came from and ponder the stories that a window or house might have ‘seen’.

 

            When going to an old house many people might think, “I wonder if anyone died here”. Instead it is important to ask yourself “Who lived here?”.

Absent Fantasy

Words fill my head like a stream, a river of consciousness, the thoughts flow. My waterfall of thought crashes against the rocks of depression only to end there. The thoughts are destroyed and motivation banished. Words mean so little to me these days. I say them and feel nothing. No rainbows and giant trees, orcs and trolls are absent from the strange lands that my mind used to inhabit. The world of fantasy is empty and I am left alone in an empty field with gray skies. When the world of fantasy starts to look bleak then I begin to live more in the real world. My mind and my time are spent longer and longer in the real world. Bills, responsibilities, pain, depression attack from all sides, but the real world has beauty in it too, love, friendship, excitement and deeper sights and smells than my fantasy world ever had. I the rich smell of wood smoke and the feel of an autumn breeze exist in the real world but they are passing experiences. So I hold them tight and steal them away in through the door of fantasy. I grab as much of these experiences as I can but when they get into my world of fantasy they don’t have the same splendor. The imagined autumn tree has become flat and the rich fragrance of wood smoke is nothing but a wisp of a memory.

            My fantasy world used to take a tree and create a forest. One unique tree could even inspire an entire story. The tree could be ugly, strange or beautiful, it didn’t matter. Whenever I saw something so unique that I felt it didn’t belong in the real world I would steal it, I would take it to join the fantasy in my mind. In my fantasy world trees could talk if they were ancient enough, regular people could be heroes or villains, cats were magical, well more magical than in real life, and I could be free.

            I feel like my world has started to mirror the never-ending story. The nothing consumed the Never Ending storybook and destroyed the wondrous creatures that lived there. I feel that the Nothing has come for my fantasy world and it makes me nervous. Though I hope that this absence of fantasy is temporary. Maybe the Nothing didn’t consume my fantasy world, but instead I have become too tainted by stress and the real world to see the fantasy before my eyes. The fantasy creatures that once lived in my world still exist, but I just cannot see them. I miss them. I write about characters like Pumpkin Jack, the Gravedigger, Hobbs, the Vanguard, those hundreds of characters named Joseph and Jack, the lands like Hallows end, Bokro, Dark town and autumn carnival, I write about these people and places but I can’t see them as much anymore. I used to be able to picture them so clearly as if they stood in front of me but now I write about them from memory of what I think they would do and say. I miss them and I don’t know how to return to the worlds I once created. This is not the first time I have felt distant from my stories, but it might be one of the longest times I have gone without writing, or without visiting the fantasyland in my imagination.

            I am sure there are plenty of people who would be confused or not understand the severity of what I am talking about, some might think I am insane and lost my grip with reality, sadly I have not, I know all too well what reality is. To dream makes us human and the capacity for fantasy is one of greatest gift you could have. Children have the capacity for fantasy and the live half in fantasy and half in reality, but parents either choose not to nurture this gift or they straight out destroy it. Some people die but continue to walk through life thinking they are alive. This society is not made for dreamers and artists, this world is cold and hard and you have to look for the good and the warm. Every human has to search for the good in life and some never find it.

            In my opinion, the nicest thing you could do for someone is make them a meal and tell them a story.