Not Based on True Events

How many days have I resided in this world as empty as the homes which are now crumbling upon the street? Many is all I know, for I have not kept record of them since the disappearance of many and the beginning of my lonesome existence. How could I, a weak mortal man, survive this crises above all others? How could I ever withstand these years of howling wind and swirling dust, and hopes and joys not even dared to be reached. It is very quiet now as I sit upon the pinnacle of a once thriving building of apartments, and very quiet as I stand, after a last glance at the bleak, dead city, and turn to climb down the unnumbered steps which pass down the edifice, past corridor after echoless corridor, to end at the main floor, in which no steps ring but my own. There, I stop, and listen, even for one sound of any life, the scurrying of a brown rat, or a house sparrow being welcome. But no, nought could be heard but my own steady breathing, and with a sigh, I go on my way, and come out to gaze up at the cheerful sky. Nothing else but it could ever raise my spirits, except if it were an arrow of Canada Geese, but these had not been seen for years, dwindling bit by bit each spring, until they came no more. This spring was no different. So empty it was that I feel my heart pierced, and with a desperate cry, I call for someone, anyone. My own voice only, though, returned, and I go on my way through the abandoned streets, with my head bent over my breast, and a heaviness upon my shoulders. How could those who caused the death of the world by their greed for power bear to look at themselves? At least they could have left the birds untouched. A chill creeps through me, and the shadows lengthen, and tears begin to fill into my eyes. I am so alone, and in the night it will be worse. It is nearly unbearable now, but, coming aside into an alley, I resign myself to many more such nights, and spread my blanket beside an empty barrel, and lay wearily with my back to it. The blanket was tattered from weeks of being slung over my shoulder, but it still served its purpose, and even the barrel itself seemed comforting. I shut my eyes, and wonder momentarily why. Then, it occurs to me that it was strangely warm, despite having resided in the shade for so long. Then, it moved. In a flash, I open my eyes, and roll over to look upon it. Yes, it is heaving! What is it? With a shift, it raises a heavy jowled head and gazes upon me with soft eyes. Of all things, and all creatures, it is a moose, and a magnificent moose at that, a female without antlers, gazing calmly upon me. How in the world did it survive this horrific disaster of earth? How could it have chosen to live in a city rather than out of it? How in the world could I be laying alongside it? Fear, in a gasp, struck me, and I make ready to scramble away. But the deer, as if reading my thoughts, shifts nearer to me, and in a moment, the yearning for companionship overcomes my anxiety, and with a warmer heart than I had felt in a long time, I lay down once more, and, with the soft reliable back against my own, I sleep. And that encounter, and comfort is my last, and I gladly leave the broken world to its slow demise.

Not Based on True Events

I am afraid that dreams are a strange phenomenon. After all, they are the subconscious piecing together bits and pieces of your experiences and day to create a wild and wonderful story. But last night, it was strangely near reality. I dreamt that there were three islands in the midst of the sea, and I, Lenny the Canada Lynx, was upon one of these. Otherwise, there was no land or shore to be seen for miles about and not a ship sailed the waves. At first, I heartily approved of my surroundings. After all, where in the woods where I lived were you in a bowl chalk full of fish? Nowhere, and so I took advantage of this chance, and batted fish of every colour of of the rainbow from the waters, and ate them with gusto. But then I caught sight of the second island beside me, and saw to my surprise, another lynx, larger than me, and paler, with dark spots all over its fur, fishing away just as I was. We locked eyes for a moment, and a royal battle would have ensued had not the islands been so far apart. As it was, we were far enough away to not be encroaching on either of our territories, and thus, we continued to placidly catch fish, and do little else. It was a rather boring island, after all, and very containing.  So, finally I lay down, and stared hard at my companion who stared hard at me. But lo and behold! What did I see over its shoulder but a third island, and a third lynx! Smaller than me, its fur was like my own, but with leopard spots! That was enough for me. I stood with a jolt, and hissed and spit, and yowled and growled and screamed and- sneezed. And with that sneeze I was awake. “ Now,” thought I as my eyes opened to the waking world,“ That was the strangest dream I have ever had. I wonder what caused it. I can’t say...” And there in the snow, I pondered, and then it hit me. After all, was it not on yesterday’s trek that I had discovered a discarded book open in the snow? And was it not on yesterday’s trek that I beheld within it entries for three lynx, all different from me? Then, with the realization, I gave forth a long “ ohhhhhh,” and fell right back asleep.

Not Based on True Events

Of the many lives I have peered into, none do I envy more than those of the saints- and the beings of the wilderness, whether human or animal. So, since this is to be a nature story, I will choose to relate the life of a Senegal Bushbaby called Gala. Now, Gala’s day, like those of other bushbabies, began when the sun set beneath the untamed horizon of Western Africa. High up in a tree she had been sleeping, clinging tightly onto a knobby branch, but now she opened her round copper eyes and yawned, and stretched. Then, leaping from her post in the moonlight, she went in search of her companions, and found them sprawling lazily higher in the tree, without a single plan for the night. Gala shook her head in disapproval. At least she had a plan, and this is how she carried it into action. First, she warmed her sleepy muscles by leaping from branch to branch in the tree, and grabbing invisible objects in the air. By this time, the moths of Africa began to appear, and I’m afraid these early birds became the worm, for Gala snatched them from their flight in a split second, and made quite a substantial first course of them. After that, she cleaned her fur and waited for the next stage of her plan. The others, meanwhile, had only just roused themselves and began to pick off the the moths which now, in great numbers, were fluttering about. But Gala did not bother to eat any more. She knew that something better was coming. Finally, this expected treat arrived, for almost under her very nose, the first of the emerging scorpions crawled, and without second thought, she popped in her mouth and left  the stinger behind. Then  came another, and another, and because she was the first to claim them, she had the best of the pick. Her companions, though, had to be content with the remnant as Gala proceeded to take her next course in the meal, which consisted of some sleeping spiders plucked from their webs. Finally, the bushbaby noticed the moon sinking in the sky, and as dependable as clockwork, she preformed the last stage of her nightly schedule, and raised her voice to it with a pitiful childlike cry as if she were saying farewell to its silvery face. Then, wearied and content, while the other bushbabies were yet  plucking spiders, she clambered back down to her branch of slumber, and fell swiftly asleep, satisfied with the night she had spent, and all because she had made a plan. 

Not based on true events

There was once a little Ovenbird ( which is a type of silly strutting warbler), who was searching for a companion and friend as well as a meal. He had only just come far from the south, feeling hungry and exhausted, and undoubtedly lonely, and also, rather afraid. For, not only was his home of Little Red Park being meddled with by those who knew far less of the forest as about themselves, but also his mate was missing, and remained missing for many days. He had returned to their nesting site upon the ground beneath some birches and aspen, but found to his horror that a tree near it had been piled upon his old dome nest. The little Ovenbird could not believe his eyes, and stood in a nearby bush, singing sadly of its fate. Then, he flew off, and slept the approaching night in a part of the park which had not any noise and racket of chainsaws and machinery. When he awoke, he went strutting in a relatively undisturbed area of the park, picking at insects, and wondering about his mate and calling for her. But she would not come. Finally he met an acquaintance of hers, a Yellow Warbler, and inquired if he had seen her. “ Yes, old chap,” said perky Yellow Warbler with a gruff voice, kind, though not smooth, “ A while back. She came to the edge of the park, heard the chainsaws and saw the trees falling and turned right back. She won’t be coming back here any time soon.” And with that, the other warbler flitted away, leaving the Ovenbird desolate and aggrieved. Finally, all the emotion and unhappiness he felt welled up like a fountain, and he wept bitterly. But, during his deepest sobs, he heard a little tender voice cry out from below him. “Be careful! You’re drowning me.” At this, the Ovenbird stopped, and looked, and there, smiling cheerfully and sweetly up at him, was a tiny blue flower. “ Oh,” said he, “Forgive me. And oh!!” and, he impulsively poured his heart to her, for he was in such distress. The blue flower nodded at each word he said, and at the end, said tenderly, “ I see. I hear. And so that you can see and hear, I will tell you who I am, and what I am. I am a little Blue-eyed Grass, but you can call me Miss Iris.” “ Oh,” said the Ovenbird with a moan, “ Forgive me.” “ But there is nothing to forgive, and nothing to fear,” returned Miss Iris comfortingly, “ Nature’s power is far stronger than man’s greed and ignorance. She will reclaim her own.” “ But when?” asked the bird desperately. “ When God decides it,” said the flower. “ Just think: I, a wildflower, have a mother who dwells in the lawn of a house nestled deep in the largest city in the province. My children might very well grow in lawns as well, as long as the owners do not cover it  in chemicals which are no better for them than us. Patience is needed. There is still time, still change. I heard the other day, that, in an abandoned home in Prince Albert, the sapling of a tree is growing, and that fields of wildflowers are encroaching on another dwelling far from here. Mankind will return to his roots, and, to be sure, even before that happens, you can still find your mate.” “ What?” cried the Ovenbird, in surprise. “ Yes,” reiterated Miss Iris, “ She is in a little-known part of the park which is yet natural, and is weaving a new nest in preparation for you. Fly! She awaits you!” “ Fly I shall!” declared the bird, his spirits rising with his wings, and, foregoing another word, he flitted gleefully off, with Miss Iris smiling at his joyful departure. He never forgot her in his short little life. Indeed, it occurred as she had said. Barely had a handful of years passed when already saplings took over the scars of the departed plants cut in their prime, and the animals returned, and the gladness of the woods returned, untamed, as it should always be. 

Loosely Based on True Events

Once, many years ago, there was a cottage of sage green emitting billowing clouds of comfortable smoke, situated quite alone in a Saskatchewan field of wildflowers. About it was a pristine picket fence the hue of the clouds above, surrounding an old-fashioned garden of herbs and pansies; and within it was a Grandmother and her Grandson, living contentedly far from the bustles of cities and towns. That is, until, they discovered that they were not quite alone. For one bitter cold morning, when snow covered the dried remains of the departed garden plants, the Grandmother, yet yawning, beheld to her horror, tracks crossing the fence and trailing all about the yard. “ Is it deer?” inquired the Grandson, who was at the breakfast table, partaking of his morning rations. “ No,” said his grandmother solidly, peering closer through the window, “ These are the tracks of a lumbering man! And what are we to do?” Yes, indeed, what were they to do, for every following morn displayed a new set of these terrible tracks. By the end of a fortnight, both Grandmother and Grandson were at the end of their wits in fear and lack of sleep due to the anxiety this horrible intruder incurred. And it was during this uncanny time that they found themselves preforming the most unusual deeds, and telling the most unusual tales. And one of those tales was the story of how the Grandpa of the boy had tamed a young moose long ago. It was the Grandma who told it, and as the words fell from her now babbling lips, the Grandson smiled most strangely, a smile which grew with every sentence which was said until it widened into a toothy grin at the conclusion. Then, “Grandma,” said he, “ Do you think that the moose would still come to our call?” Would it, indeed? Well, no matter. The intruder that night answered his own call of greed and villainy. Through the snow he crept as soft as a cat, with the moonlight shining upon his path. He climbed the wicket fence as he had done all the proceeding nights, and padded towards the house door in hopes of it being unlatched. But, hardly had he taken a step, when there was a movement behind him, and he swerved about to behold a shadow just fleeing out of sight. Cold sweat began to form on his brow, but he, the staunch villain, changed his course, and went towards it to investigate. Step by step he went, and when he had attained the place where the shadow had rested, peered sharply into the gloom. There, in the dark branches of a leafless tree, was a soft face of feathers and glowing amber eyes. The man had had his suspicions but now they vanished like the daylight had gone long hours before. A couple hoots added to his ease and he even added a few of his own hoots, quietly though. But it was right in the middle of his laughter that an immense roar resounded behind him, and the man leapt far out of his clothes and skin. He had only one glance to behold a giant figure like a tree stretching over him from behind, its hands as large as a wheelbarrow. With shrieks and cries that would wake the dead, he fled over the yard and flew over the fence only to land face first into the snow on the other side. But that did not slow his retreat. No, not at all! Like a frightened pup, he bulldozed through the snow for miles and miles, but, I am afraid that if he had just had the mind to steal a better look at the giant, he would have only seen the soft eyes of a dumbstruck moose, and behind, in the light of a window, two very satisfied persons: the Grandma and her Grandson, shaking hands and rejoicing with all that was within them. Yes, indeed, the moose had come.