I like Owl City. Like, a lot. It’s practically all I listen to. Besides the odd musical soundtrack or video game OST, I really don’t think I’ve listened to any music except Owl City since October or November.
It’s just . . . it’s pretty perfect for me. The music style, the uses of rhythm, the lyrics!
Sweet Aethasia the lyrics.
Now if you’ve listened to Owl City before you’re probably thinking one of two things;
B: . . . . but . . . . the lyrics are literally nonsense . . . like . . . what why do you like it
Well I am glad you asked!
A lot of it does sound a bit like nonsense. And to be honest, I sound a bit like nonsense most of the time, which might be part of why I like it. But nonsense can create emotions. Lots of ’em. And stories, stories that I wish I could write.
So, uh . . . that’s what I’ve tried to do.
Plant Life is a song that definitely has a story or two hidden inside. I’ve been a bit obsessed with this song lately because of the feels and also because I can play it on the guitar and it is very fun to do so. And while listening to it the other day, this little story just whammed itself right into my head, then nyoomed out through a pencil without so much as a polite hello. There is no before, there is no after, there isn’t any explanation. Just this.
(I suggest listening to the song before/while you read, else the story won’t make much sense)
I saw the ghost again today.
All it is, I’m sure, is the loneliness getting to me. Last I checked, I didn’t believe in ghosts. But I did see it.
It sat on the stairs, watching me. Saying nothing, doing nothing. I wasn’t afraid, though I’m sure I should have been. I almost wish that I could be afraid. Fear would be better than emptiness.
Since then I’ve seen flashes of white everywhere. A soft fluttery thing, like a sheet, or maybe not. I know that I’m seeing things now; floating things, animals, shadows where none should be. The only thing I haven’t seen is plants. I miss them. No living green anywhere in this house. Maybe if there were some, I wouldn’t feel trapped. Empty. Dead.
Went outside. I’m sick of death. Nothing but dead trees and dead leaves and cold dead wind forever in all directions. But dead outside is better than dead inside.
The trees swayed in the biter wind, their naked branches moaning, yearning for the comfort of leaves and birds and sun. As I walked through the forest, the tapping of wood on wood created a sort of rhythm. Or maybe I’m hearing things now too. Either way, my numb mind recognized music. My steps changed to match the beat, remembering what it was like to dance.
There are footprints in the dust. They aren’t mine.
Today I watched for the ghost. It probably isn’t real. I’m probably going insane. But I need something, someone, anything to assure me that I’m still alive, that I’m not just a ghost too.
It was in the room with the couch, flipping through the ancient books layered in dust. Cold, emotionless cloud light filtered through the dirty window to illuminate it.
When it saw me staring, it vanished.
I couldn’t bear it anymore. I chased white flashes all morning until I found it. It stared at me, saying nothing, doing nothing.
Please, I cried, please. I’m so lonely. Please be real.
The ghost watched me. Saying nothing.
You don’t understand, I screamed. All there is here is death. I can’t stand it anymore, I can’t get away from it, I can’t leave.
It moved towards me. I should have been afraid.
Its hand reached out, touched my chest.
You can, it said with a smile, and vanished.
I know I’m crazy. It wasn’t real. But I felt it. I felt. My heart thrummed like a soft chord on an old guitar and I felt.
I dropped to my knees, tears blurring my vision, but not before I saw the delicate green vine curling through a crack in the floor.
The sun has come back. I don’t know if the birds have too, or if it’s just my imagination. But I’m not imagining the plants.
Vines everywhere, sending their tendrils through the walls and floors. Daisies and dandelions splashing color into the gray. The sea of bare trees starting to grow a new blanket of living green.
I can’t stay here anymore. Before it was all I had. Now there’s life, new life, spreading everywhere. I don’t want the emptiness, however familiar. I won’t wait for the dust and the death and the spiderwebs to take me. I’m leaving the haunted house.
I want to live.
. . .
Can somebody tell me what you’re s’posed to say after someone reads your stuff? Anybody? Little help?
So yeah, there’s that. There’s a few more songs that I definitely want to make . . . would you call this flash fiction? Make flash fiction of. So I might do some more at some point in the near future.
What did you think? And how’re you holding up? I’ve just ‘finished’ school for the year (besides a few extra classes and -hisses- math) so that’s one less thing to worry about. If you’re a writer, have you been able to get anything done? I know I sure haven’t. If you’re an artist, did you do the whole Quarantober thing (pretty sure that’s correct)? If you’re neither, what sorts of things have you been doing with your free time?
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