Rain

Wafts of ramont-weed smoke left my mouth as I tried to make sense of what was happening. I took a deep puff and thought about the dream. It was the same dream again, the one that I had been having for the past week. Why would it recur? What did it mean?

It was always the same. Apollo would be sitting on Mount Olympus and the sun would be bright shining. He would be in an argument with Zeus and would then get up. After a few minutes the scene would change and Apollo was standing near the edge of the hallowed territory on the mountain. He would draw an arrow out of his quiver, take aim and shoot…and then came the words which I could not keep out of my heads: “Follow the trail of Apollo’s arrow….The rain is coming”

As far as I could remember, the speaker of those words did not reveal himself in the dream. The mysterious soft but shrill voice would repeat the message every night.

I was awaken again by the same words, and could not make any sense out of it. I tried to take another puff and found that the weed was finished. I would have to stock up on supplies soon it seemed. I lay back and rested my legs on the table in front of me, crossing them in the process. With both of my hands cushioning my head I looked up at the roof and wondered what was in store for me. I could hear the chirping of birds in the distance. Apparently, morning was here already, Apollo was back to work. I stood up and made my way towards the window, and drew apart the curtains. Like the bursting of a dam on a river light poured through the window and illuminated the dingy presence of my room. I had to shield my eyes for a minute till they got accustomed to the light. It seemed the light had gotten brighter; maybe Apollo was up to something. Then I remembered.

A wave of horror took hold of me and my hands suddenly felt cold as I remembered what had been happening for the last few days. The sun hadn’t shone for a week. Apollo was finally coming out. He had made up his mind. No more mind games. The time was here. Now all I needed was to realize what in the name of Zeus following the trail of Apollo’s arrow meant. Maybe I had to go where the rays of the sun went, but that would mean the whole island; what could it be?

I was pulled out of my reverie about my mission by the sound of chaos. I could see people running in panic at the sight of the sun. “It is time! It is time! Pray for Lucifer’s mercy!” People were clinging on to their harpoon necklaces as they recited some odd language, probably some of Lucifer’s sayings.

A man grabbed hold of me and shook me. I was taken aback by this but realized later that it was my good friend. He was shouting, “Pray for Lucifer’s bane to protect us! He is the only way, Lucifer is taking out his anger at us! Forget Apollo and Zeus, only Lucifer can save us now. May the throne of Lucifer be long lasting! May the bane of Lucifer protect us in these times”

“Grab a hold of yourself, Apollo can do us no harm. We can be safe if we find the trail of Apollo’s arrow”

“Why do you keep saying that when you know it makes no sense. Run with me boy, run! Pray for the mercy of Lucifer! Come with me!” With that he tried to grab hold of my arm and pulled me towards a chariot, but I refused to go, I had to find the trail. Like a child refusing to go to school I tried to ground all my weight to the ground as he pulled at me. Soon he gave up, and with a look of utter despair on his face, shook his head and moved towards the chariot. With one last pitying look, he was gone. I was alone.

Now, where should I go? I had to find the trail. What did it mean? In the chaos that surrounded me I seemed to have the only voice of reason among this madness. Why do they worry about Apollo? They know they’ll be able to beat it if they find the trail. Amazed at their ignorance I made my way down the road. It was then that it started raining.

It came out of nowhere. With the jolt, the magnitude of which I had never experienced in my life I found myself flying away from a place. My skin seemed to be burning because the surrounding was all at one so hot. Soon I found myself lying on the ground, with a bruised body. With great effort, I looked up at the sky. It was raining indeed. Meteors of different sizes were making their way to the ground. People around me were running with speeds they didn’t know they were capable of. All I could do was to bring a smile. See, I was right, it was going to rain. Now it was time to find what I was looking for, and of course Zeus was helping me.

It lay there right in front of me; the remnants of a signboard on some shop. A warrior was riding a stallion holding a spear. Below it were engraved the words:

Apollo Inc. Weapons that would make Ares proud

Zeus was with me.

I looked upon the direction of the pointing spear; it pointed to a small boat in the distance, apparently empty. It was time, I had found it. With all the remnants of my strength I picked myself up and limped to the boat. There I found an old man cloaked in black apparently waiting for me. “Do you look for the trail of Apollo’s arrow?” I could only nod. A smile gently made its way on his face as the outline of his lips slowly turned upwards the rising sun. With slow gracefulness, he swept his hand across the boat and addressed me “Poseidon is also with you son, you are safe. You are to live”

With that he was gone, apparently into thin air. There was no time to think about this. I had to go. With great effort, I pulled myself onto the boat, and lay down. The sea slowly awoke of its tranquility as I felt the boat moving away from the island. I took one last look at the island I was to leave now forever. Meteors were showering all over the island and the whole island was breaking into the sea. Atlantis, it seemed, was sinking.

Organ player

The mystic revery that an organ player puts you in when he plays his coveted instrument(if you can call it that) in a hall, what would it be like. Is it really his bastion? Or is it just a facade for the hollowness that lies inside him.....just like the organ. An object so grand in its size that it would cause awe just when one looks at it...then there's the sound..oh how gracefully delightful that sound is. But..the gigantic presence of the pipes belies the hollowness that is inside, the hollow that feeds its soul, for it is its emptiness that makes it shriek out with such pain and anguish, yet at the same time offering solace to oh-so-many broken hearts...no wonder they would prefer playing it at funerals, for where else to display an object that feeds itself on the sheer emptiness of its soul?

Canvas

If you see a canvas with a black spot, what would you remember about it? The expanse of the white that covers the canvas? Of course you wouldn't...you wouldn't remember the stillness, but the chaos that lies before you. In a garden that if full of life but also full of death in its stillness, the flying of a butterfly will get your attention rather than the grandeur of a tree or the colors of the flowers. A kind message to all, the whiter the canvas the higher the contrast for the dark blemish to show its loathful self, maybe the canvas should not be white, or maybe the spot should not be black.

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