The Elysian Fields

Purge
by Everett A Warren

An excerpt

A new world is rising in the ashes of the old. Time immortal reborn. Upon darkened battlements, I watch the spires of gleaming gold arise. And a tear trickles down my cheek.

Power and might, crumbling the foundations that have been set in stone. Across the blasted land, I hear the church bells tolling. Solemn callings of the faithful. I know – without knowing – that the bells ring far and wide, beyond my sight. All the churches I have seen, all in simultaneous orchestration. All the churches I have not seen, throughout the land, the continent, the continents. Together.

It is an omen. Who rings those bells? Do they communicate to one another, to arrange such a bizarre occurrence? Language barriers broken, a network of party lines spread like a web around the globe: now, on four, we ring. And a one and a two... No one rings the bells, yet they ring. Dawn is not hinted at on the horizon, although it is dawn and it is noon and it is every other time in one place or another, yet still the bells ring. Awakening from sleep, awakening those going about their day from a state worse than the comfort of the dreaming.

Lights, now, flare out. Sleepers fumbling from bed, to the window. Fists raised, perhaps. Complaints issued to the proper authorities. What answer? Permits to ring at certain times, so as not to interfere with another aural-neighbouring bell tower, permits broken. Ruffled politicians baffled at the nerve of the religions breaking the law, ringing their bells in the pre-dawn gloom. Leave it to the politicians not to sense that all the churches are acting in perfect harmony, all the faiths, even the secular bells, be they in the town halls or fire stations or wherever, all ringing. Set in stone, settled on the ground, handbells on shelves, bells tuned far and wide across the spectrum of sound, all echoing the identical pitch. What can it be, but an omen?

A dirge. Slow. I think it not a peaceful omen. Some will say God, some Jehovah, some Allah, some Jesus, and some Mary. Some will know it is an alien race announcing their arrival on Planet Earth. Smaller numbers will profess it to be gods from ancient pantheons, Odin, Zeus, and all the others. Some will say it is the leaders of their mind-numbing cults. Is it?

If they ask me, I could tell them, but they will not ask. They awaken. It is an awesome sight, for those of us who can see it. Throngs fill the street, curious or angry, cursing the gods or praising them. Together, like the bells. All the world stirred. Bells ringing in the remote locations, where no bells have travelled. It is time now.

Copyright (c) 1994 Everett A Warren

You can read the complete story in my collection, Cautionary Fables: Warts & All, available on Amazon.com or by order from your local bookseller.

Spring's Awakening
by Everett A Warren

An excerpt

The tides of winter tugged at his soul, taunting him as he lay motionless; the warmth of his blankets, the spring of the mattress, the fluff of his pillows were his world.

Oh, he sees well enough, but what he sees in his room or through his window, or even the sights, smells, and sounds that he senses while being wheeled about by a kindly young nurse, these things are not real. Even in dreams, splendor and majesty strewn about with little or no semblance of concrete physical form, he feels at a loss, as if he's missing the entire point or purpose of the vision. These things are not real to him; he can't touch them. He can't lift his fingers to them, feel their touch on his flesh. They don't exist.

At times, when the nurses and visitors are absent, his mind tends to ponder strange ideals and theories, and at these times he tends to wonder if he is real.


And if he is, his thoughtlines run, then are people like you and I any more – or less – real? And if he is not, then what are we? And is he even one of us? Or is he much different, placed in his station by the gods who speak from high places and command such things as the fate of meaningless beings such as man.

He argues all sides to the arguments he creates, being the only one that would truly listen to his words anyway. He dislikes hearing the typical condescending yes-dears and the entire raft of similar comments geared to the abnormal from a standpoint of one who is normal. Most of the world feels a sympathy for him. To their standards, he is indeed subpar. Even a child, despite his advanced age.

He feels no anger towards those that look down upon him, no anger no matter how small they make him feel. He wears his fate with strength, even though it has not been a great fate, but one he must deal with nonetheless. You could say he has a certain sense of pride about himself, despite the numerous physical problems that have infected, afflicted, and paralysed him through the long years.


But, I stray from the tale.

Copyright (c) 1990 Everett A Warren

You can read the complete story in my collection, Cautionary Fables: Warts & All, available on Amazon.com or by order from your local bookseller.