Here I am!

"Here I am!" Said Richard. "Here I am!"

It was the middle of a field, the kind that only exists in fairy tales or on the west coast of America. Grain, beach, ocean. Lovely mixture. Farming by the seaside. Fresh bread and fish. The lively art of living was never more fresh than the rich fields above and beneath in quiet symphony.

Here I am. Here I am. Richard sat with the tang of italian oils and vinegar resting upon his lips. Fresh baguettes. The waves crashed against the seaside villa. His small hovel overlooked the swaying seaside and the swaying harvest on a slight rise between the two. The wind swept the field toward him and met with the rush of the waves to form an updraft the seagulls all knew quite well. They circled above, begging for  a crumb from the beard of Richard.

All was present, sure, and there. Richard sat. His lips trembled. He was happy.

Marguerite sipped a drink from beside him. Tomato juice. In the cup it sloshed pleasantly as she watched the contented man. She knew what would complete this day and she huddled beside him. In a flurry of movement her wrist propelled her finger forwards and into his abdomen. He burst into a thousand laughing pieces. IT would take her hours to put him back together again, but it was so worth it. She was glad that he was there. He was there for good. There with her, not just anywhere, and quite anywhere would be there if they were both within it.

This is the one

This is the one, he thought. The dank vial murked in his hand. It obstructed the clarity of the glass. It devoured the passing light. There was a deeper desire to place it in the hands of someone else, but one needed such charms to pass the shouting sea. Filled with styx, that horrible sound, it could dissuade any percieved auditory noise. It screamed loudly enough to shatter glass and rend the sky like lightning. Luckily, the bottle was crafted from plastic.

He turned and strode out of the cave and into the daylight. Below him the valley spread. A flower of fields, it stretched in green and brown and golden petals. The center bobbed a city. The steep cliff face gave a spectacular view of it all, but demanded a rope to avoid ill side effects (such as death). He reached out for the one still dangling from his descent. The length would allow him passage all the way to the camp below, but was unclimbable. Now he could glide to the bottom with ease. He did.

Mountain drifted by as he fell like a darkly angel on a string, landing neatly in front of a super market designed by climbers. He swiftly tugged the rope in a predesigned pattern and it dismounted the distant rock and fell neatly spun beside him. Hoisting it under one arm a receipt was divulged and he marched back into the super market to make a return. Someone seriously needed to rethink their business plan.

Dry feast

The feast was dry and barren. The table held a bounty of savory foods, but no drink. One could scarcely take a bite before it came to thirsting. Those that ate the meal were left desolate. What they took meant nothing. It was entirely useless without its counterpart.

Off in the far corner of the same staggering complex was laid a fountain of pure spring water. Life. If only they could reach it, but fearing they would lose their rich food should they leave it--or perhaps simply desiring it presently instead of seeking it later--the dinner guests would scarce seek it out. In fact, they barely took in the splendors all around them for their single mindedness, and the host, though having left explicit instructions, would return to find many of them near death.

Eldredge Rotchit was not one of them. Born a hotdog salesman, he knew the value of a good beverage. And, that is why he, on a wondrous and perilous journey, drank from that fountain and gloriously returned, moisturized and dripping. Ready to partake of that deep fried non-fat high-sodium chicken.

Uplifted

Trees swayed in the afternoon breeze now and again, but would not whisper. The daylight streamed between the cracks in the nearby fence and the grass slurped it up sappily. Famous treats pushed into crevices and hung from branches in bright neon ovals. The search began.
Adults scampered about as giddy as children and filled their baskets with rewards. So eager to find their sugar packed tasties. Eagerly we search for those little things that make life so sweet.

Dramatically dermatic

They say that the human smile can make a face look younger. This indicates, perhaps, that youth is not the secret to happiness, but happiness is the secret of youth. What, then, makes you happy? There are many branches in that answer, but the root remains the same. People are integral. How we approach those people is entirely personal however.

Some of us are writers. Some of us are actors. Some of us are mechanics (I'm thinking of you AAA men!), comedians, flourists, and zookeepers. Some of us build ipads and some of us program games. Some of us sing. Some of us etcetera.
As for me
I believe in fiction, in expression, in that strange new genre that is becoming so grand and beautiful that I would affectionately speak of it as my major beside english.

Interactive story telling.

Now i just hope those harlequin authors dont runaway with it.