Stories for the Living 5

History lives through you and guides you in unexpected ways


Yarden doesn't believe in much. Really he is too young. He loves. And that's about it. He loves the forest and he loves the feelings he has being there. He finds the light exhilirating. He loves the trickle of the stream and his friend who he is not always sure love him back. But it doesn't matter. What is exceptional about Yarden is that he loves instinctively. And you know what? He loves without even  knowing that he is loving. And you know what? Whats miraculous is that millions of other people are like that as well. Loving within their veins. Intuitively excited by the prospect that there is a god out there. Who knows?

Yarden doesn't know why he does what he does but you know either do you sometimes. It all became apparent a common Thursday afternoon. It was never apparent to him but it still was very apparent. Yarden likes fish. Sometimes he even feels like he wishes he were a fish swimming in the stream emersed in the elements but other times he feels bad for fish and would rather have nothing to do with them. So no I guess he just liked the idea of being a fish. What he really was searching for was the ocean!

Sailing was a dream. He wanted to sail upon the clouds but it was deeper than that and much more complex. He wanted to sail because something ancient told him so. It was freedom with responsibility. A love for the existential and coincidentally the essential. He was attracted to the tough life of sailor which didn't make much sense because really the ocean was just for pictures most likely from Ikea.

Anyways. One day, Yarden decided to follow the river. He knew it was dangerous. He knew there were hunters. He hoped they would wear orange but they did sometimes hunt off season. He didn't care. The prospective gains were worth the risks. Yarden decided to go furthur downstream than ever before. He knew he would never reach the ocean but perhaps he would reach a lake? Perhaps he would find his dog? The birds accompanied him on the journey. They sang, tweeted, harmoniously with no rhyme or reason. It was beautiful and comforting.

He waded in the water. He knew he could drink it if he had too. It was mountain water. Cold enough and steady stream enough to clean itself but he had brought a filter just in case. He walked a long ways trying to calibrate sun's clock so that he would still have enough time to go back. There is an hour in the day when something in the air becomes afternoon and it mostly has to do with the shadows and the sun and the lazy feeling in the air of foreseeable denouement.

 Yes, the river did start getting bigger. He was going upstream counter indicative of the ocean he hoped but a lake to him would be tremendously rewarding. He picked up a stick and started to fiddle with it. He took out his pocket knife and twiddled the wood away. He held the stick up to the sun. It casts up to the sun. He chissled out a "V" in the top of the wooden staff and held it up to the sun until it perfectly covered the sun except for the beam which passed through the scepter. He chissled and played and held it up the sun discovering that it could tell time and direction. He wasn't going north like he expected but he was going west. Mmmm. Where could this river be taking him? He doubted he had much time left. If he didn't take is course back now, he might be traveling in fearful darkness alone. He debated going back and he was getting hungry.

He heard a whoosh but not of a river. It was too fast to be natural. It was sporatic and coming closer and than veering off. A highway approached him. He had been walking or hours. Which road could it be? He followed the stream until it becaame river until it reached the Socomore Bridge. He remembered jumping off that bridge with his friends into the river. It was fantastically rebellious. His mother would never have approved. Small bridge, far from home. The only way to get there was having his friends big brother take them.

Shit, there was no way he would get home in time. What a dumb ass, he should have planned better. He sat down on the bank of the river watching the shadows stretch in the water and be picked up by the wind as the closing of the day approached. He filtered water and started to drink unable to taste it so much because it was too nervous. He heard a car pass over the bridge above him. Shit. He looked for some berries along the road. It was seasonal and wild strawberries loved sunlight so they were abundant around highway banks where the pavement meets the turf. And boy did they taste good. Nothing like the synthetic ones sold in the grocery store that looked so sweet but were dissappointing taste. Roadside strawberries were sweeter than pie. You could hardly see them they were so tiny but their flavor was prodigious. Who cares. He would never get home in time.

He didn't remember which direction to take home. Was it left or right? He couldn't remember. He held up his staff to the sun. Sun set in the west. He had started north. That means home must be....

darkness wave down car his friend sailing.