Memories in the Lilac Sky

Photo by Enric Cruz on

Soft strokes of coral, teal, cream and blue whispers of color lined the small blanket, shielding the young girl from chill. She stood in the blackness of night; her gaze locked on a figure in the distance illuminated beneath the stars. It was a motionless curiosity, silent…like an old stone. 

“Beau…” She shuddered, soothing her arm bubbled with goosebumps. It grew cooler by the minute, but Beau didn’t hear her as he stared upward, head cocked to the side, listening as if he were receiving secrets of the universe. 

The young girl’s gaze swept across the sky where a bizarre constellation stood overhead, a commanding and suspicious presence. It made her uneasy. She tiptoed back, it came to her suddenly she had stopped breathing. I shouldn’t be out here. 

“Beau, time to come inside.” You’re scaring me. 

Separated from his reverie, Beau did as he was told. His breathing, once calm, was raw and delayed. His old paws padded the ground in stiff, reluctant steps into the house, passing up his warm dinner without even a sniff of consideration. Old Beau concluded the night curled up beneath a plain corner table, eyes shuttered, a weary pause. 

It was his favorite spot of the house. 

That night, Beau’s visits among the cosmos to surf the stars haunted the young girl’s dreams. Together, they walked through various paths of darkness, stopping short of a throbbing black abyss at the path’s end. Universal truths emerged from its center in spots of blotchy light. Fractured, countless pieces Others blocked her from touching. 

This path isn’t mine to take. 

Beau placed his paw into her extended palm. A solemn goodbye. 

In emptiness, she gazed upon a lilac sky and sun in the grasslands of continuation, a wanderer on the outskirts of Death. 

The Horrible Luck at Summerthorn

Photo by Philip Ackermann on

Their skin glittered beneath the throbbing sun. 

Beads of sweat filled their brows, freed with each splash and dunk of water. The somewhat secret lake cooled their senses in the summer heat; it was a nice getaway from the boredom of summer break. 

“I don’t want it to end,” sister remarked to brother, glancing upward to the cerulean drenched sky. 

It would, however, as a man in a tan hat spoke to their father along the shoreline. Afterward, father collected their belongings. It was time to go. 

“We can’t swim over there, Summerthorn Lake is a private area like the tan hat said.” Father pointed out for the eleventh time in the days that followed. “We’ll just plan a trip to the beach…” While the children hated long car rides, an hour long drive to the beach sounded lousy. Why go so far when bliss awaited them down the road? They had swum there so many times without detection. 

Before they could answer, a preview of the local news opened with a grim flash briefing: 

Local man dead after swimming in Summerthorn Lake. A brain-eating amoeba is to blame. More at eleven. 

“The beach sounds great Dad!”