By Aaron Furman

 

A nonsensical story

 

I peered towards the horizon and looked out with a daydream. The vast ocean reflecting the cascade of the dawn. Hues of red, orange and amber graced my betwixt eyes. My mind began to sink and think of what could be. Beyond those hefty shores, there may lay a land unfound by man. A place only touched by nature’s feet and filled with natural opulence. 

I think of what could be discovered in these uncharted lands. The wondrous beauty of the unknown drew me to seas and sail. 

I fled. Leaving behind a distant memory in the minds of those I once knew. The months went on and the sea became mine to tame. 

The winds hurried and the tide with it. My vessel hurled upwards and dived beneath the waves. I woke up with the taste of salt and sand. My eyes adjusted to the surroundings and I fell upon a beach. I stood and swirled round to see my new bearings. I was in awe of where fate had transported me. A tropical paradise fronted my view, with jade jungles and corse mountains.

Amongst the wreckage, I found some vital supplies needed for my new journey: rope, Swiss army knife, first aid kit, a bag, canned food, a bottle of vodka and a lighter. I set off, entering the jungle.

Thick vines scattered my view and animal noises preached to my ears. Shocks of fear ran rampant in my body. I felt as though I was being watched. I ran fast and hard, but the sounds came closer. I opened my pen knife ready for a battle. Fight or flight? I’m going to stand my ground. I have nothing left to lose. 

PRICK. Something snagged my neck. My body felt heavy and my mind hazy. 

I woke again. The air was thin and cold. I looked round to notice I’m alone and somehow on the mountain. My bag laid next to me. I climbed up to see the view, but I was confronted by a derelict stone structure carved out of the surrounding rock. The words “hard work beats talent” were mounted to the ruin’s entrance – a dark tunnel with a hint of light deep inside. I entered. 

I took out my army knife, which had a small torch attached to its many features. As I stumbled forward, I noticed the walls were etched with names. It reminded me of the memorials of fallen soldiers. Then, in the distance, I heard chanting. It got louder. “Good is the enemy of great, good is the enemy of great”. 

I fell in silence and peeked round to get a better look. Hooded figures round a large circular table were the cause. One turned round. 

“Aaron you have finally joined,” he said.

“Who are you” I replied. 

“It’s me, Marc and the mentors, join us in our creative ritual. We squeeze out the creative juices of past students and drink it to fuel our creativity, why do you think my hair turns blue?”

Although the temptation was alluring, I could quickly see what they became – monsters.

“NO” I exclaimed!

I took the rope out my bag, drenched it in vodka and set it ablaze with my lighter. I threw it over them and ran out of the tunnel. It turned out that natural gas fumes were riddled inside the cave and blew it up. 

Never again will anyone have to suffer the fate of Marc and the mentors. Creativity is a process and not a bottled bootleg.