They say not to come this way. There be dragons. And sacrifice and sorrow. The path is treacherous underfoot. Heavy undergrowth obscures the proper footfall; broken bones, broken hearts are a common mishap. Wild beasts stalk the fringes. They are hungry for travelers who fall behind. Despair is their favorite flavor. There are turnouts with lovely views, plentiful food, and plush chairs. The chairs are full of travelers who decided this is far enough; comfortable is better.
But for those who trudge on, who brave the terrors of the wilderness and forgo the luxuries of decadence, a new name awaits.
“You can’t walk any path.” These words are so fixated in my mind. It’s been hammered into all of us since we were young. “You’ll be able to hear it’s tone, you should follow it and no one else’s, unless you belong to that path.”
Now, I’m stood in the middle of a forest staring at this guy, his messy hair and cheeky grin pulled me in so I began to walk along his path with him. I couldn’t hear its tone, however I didn’t care. I was tired of being told which life path to follow by these people.
Last Edit: Jan 22, 2021 6:45:38 GMT -6 by StarGirl06
Post by Caulder Melhaire on Jan 22, 2021 17:42:45 GMT -6
The First Step
Sometimes, the path less traveled is the easier one.
True, you spit in the face of tradition, but it has shattered the chains that bound your everything. Yes, it takes longer, but the carriage ride along the unused, unrutted road out behind the castle is much more comfortable. Certainly, you must cut a new path through the woods (knowing they watch the highway) but you can always walk around the trees.
And because your people fear the water, you need only clamber into your little boat and paddle, for a ship of such size leaves no trail upon the sea.
Guffaw McGraw, world's last funny man, did his best to follow in the wake of past quintessential comedians.
He beamed at rows of dismal faces. Tossed out his finest jokes.
It took courage to stand his ground but Guffaw was no coward. He took cheers and jeers in stride. This time, amid a rumble of demands for refunds, the club owner escorted Guffaw to the door before things turned ugly.
Guffaw McGraw flagged a passing eighteen-wheeler, reminding himself others somewhere must remember the laughter.
Post by VolcanicDuck on Jan 23, 2021 12:34:18 GMT -6
Why does the road always fork? It seems so cliché. I’m thinking, though, I took the wrong path. My hand, minus my bad finger, throbs beneath the bloodied bandage. I shouldn’t have flipped off that leprechaun back there. Who knew they were so strong? I expected wiry, but not powerful.
A camp of Gypsies lounges aside the path. One of them is quite cute. I ask her for a clean bandage, which she smilingly provides. The camp strongman, who turns out to be her husband, steps in and relieves me of my entire hand.