July 7, 2023
The sun cast long, amber beams across the prairie, illuminating golden wheat fields that swayed gently under the warm Alberta wind. A solitary taxi traced a winding path through the expanse, leaving a faint trail of dust in its wake.
Inside the vehicle, Elliott found comfort in the rhythmic hum of the engine. His eyes were drawn to the dance of sunlight upon the grasslands, the rising sun painting the sky in hues of orange and crimson. This vibrant landscape was his blank canvas, an escape from the clamour of civilisation.
"Eh, mate, you here to take a hike or something?" The cab driver's gruff voice cut through Elliott's introspection, forcing him back into the reality of the musty car interior.
"Something like that," Elliott murmured, the vagueness of his response strategically closing the door on further conversation. The driver turned his attention back to the road. The taxi’s engine whined in protest as they moved further from the beaten path, climbing a rugged hill.
"You know, there ain't no cell service out here," the driver cautioned, his eyes wary as he looked at Elliott in the mirror. "You got a plan to get back?"
Elliott's eyes traced the horizon, drinking in the tranquillity of the scene. "We'll see," he replied, his voice soft. He stepped out of the taxi and stretched his aching limbs. Once the taxi had receded into a speck on the horizon, Elliott turned to face his chosen sanctuary. The tree, a massive maple, reached its limbs out over the prairie as if trying to embrace the sky. A long, jagged scar marred its trunk, evidence of an old lightning strike, the bark roughened and charred but healing with time. It bore its trauma with a silent pride that Elliott couldn't help but admire.
Elliott was an urban creature, born and raised in Calgary's concrete jungle. The rhythm of the city had bore itself into his skull – the bustle of the morning rush, the blare of sirens in the wee hours of the night, and the blur of the Stampede crowds. He used to thrive there, but in recent memory, the city felt stifling. His prose, once as mighty as the Bow River had reduced to a trickle.
So, he'd come here, to the endless prairie, far from the cacophony of urban life. A last-ditch effort. He set up camp under the sprawling canopy of the maple, its scorched trunk a symbol of battles fought and endured.
With his makeshift camp in place, he settled in, allowing the solitude to envelope him, becoming just another actor in the vast narrative of the prairie. His struggles didn't matter out here. Surely.
Beneath the outstretched arms of the maple, Elliott unfurled his notebook, his pen poised over the blank page. He breathed in the tranquility, the peace of the prairie, and began to write:
In the heart of the golden sea, there is a tree,
Scarred by time, yet stands free.
Touched by lightning, but unbroken,
In its silence, stories are spoken.
Its roots deep, its will unfettered,
Bearing scars, yet undefeated.
With a sigh, he reread the words, his forehead creasing in dissatisfaction. The flow was off, the rhymes too forced. The words on the page felt as though they had been written by aliens. Frustrated, Elliott tore the page from his notebook, crumpling it in his fist. The wind picked up the discarded paper, carrying it off over the undulating waves of wheat, as if the prairie itself were rejecting his feeble attempt.
He shrugged this one off. The day was hot, and he was thirsty. Pulling out a plastic bag of lemons from his backpack, he set about making lemonade, his fingers deftly peeling and squeezing the citrus fruits. The sour scent filled his nostrils and the tart taste helped break him free from his darker thoughts. He took a deep breath and began to write once more.
The world gives lemons aplenty
Under the tree, my heart heavy yet empty
Juice, zest, sour and bitter
I squeeze and stir, a desperate flicker
Sweetened by dreams, stirred by hope
A scene reminiscent of grandmother's soap
Drink I do, the tart salvation,
Seeking answers in its tangy libation
Elliott read the poem aloud. The poem was a contrived cliche, a pitiful attempt to extract meaning from the mundane. Had he always been this god-damn literal? He tore the page out. The metaphorical lemonade he had hoped to create was as inpalatable as the actual beverage.
The sun rose higher, casting its harsh light on the lone writer under the tree, as if putting him into a spotlight. As the day wore on, the monotony of his solitude was broken by a rustling sound. From the sea of grass, a red fox surfaced, its vivid coat a splash of color against the prairie's golden hues. It stopped a few feet from Elliott, eyes fixed on him with a mix of curiosity and caution.
The sight of the creature stirred a memory. Years ago, during the fleeting high point of his career, he had written a children's book featuring a clever fox. He'd been proud of that book, pouring his heart and soul into every line, every illustration. The book had been well-received but it hadn't resulted in any stability.
His heart wanned at the memory, a bittersweet reminder of his brief dance with success. Inspired, he picked up his pen and began to write, attempting to capture the essence of the moment and the fox's wild beauty in his prose.
But as his pen moved across the paper, he found himself writing not about the fox in front of him, but the one from his past. The words flowed, revealing not the story of a clever fox, but the tale of a struggling writer who'd pinned his hopes on a stupid children's story.
The words felt hollow, echoing the regret and disappointment he felt about his past. This wasn't inspired - this was as rambling of rambles. The fox, perhaps ashamed to associate with him, gave him a final, lingering look before disappearing back into the grass.
Too deep into the solitude of his own concocting, Elliott's train of thought was derailed. The memories he had kept at bay were now rushing at him like a tide. He wrote about his complicated romantic history and the breakup that still stung. He wrote about his parents, his mother who had drank herself to death, and his father, who had put the liquor in her hand.
Pages filled. Sentences began to eat themselves. He used words that he didn't even know existed. He wrote about the meaninglessness of existence, the absurdity of life, the void that seemed to consume every joy, every achievement. What was the point? He looked up at the horizon. What was the point of all this?
Night fell and the prairie was cast into shadows, yet Elliott continued to write, in a purgatory between catharsis and absolute despair.
He paused only to stare at the tempting rope dangling from his pack.
But then he looked up at the night sky, the stars forming a glittering tapestry above. Its beauty genuinely caught him off guard. His pen moved across the page, gentler now.
Ursa spins in cosmic reel, can she bear what I feel?
Orion's arrow flies - strikes a fox between the eyes
Words of ink, tears of black, lost in cosmic zodiac
Pegasus flies above prairie maze, end or start of earthly days?
Truth askew, Polaris misleads, Stanzas crumble, writers bleeds
The stars are eternal like love pure and true
So what the hell is wrong with you?
The poem was raw and disjointed, his thoughts scattered across the page like the stars in the sky. The world didn't feel real anymore.
***
Morning broke with an unsettling quiet, the usual symphony of the prairie giving way to an eerie stillness. Elliott stirred from his restless sleep, his eyes opening to a sky painted in shades of ominous grey. In the distance, the dark silhouette of a storm stretched across the horizon. The once serene prairie was now a scene of churning turmoil, the golden fields swaying under the pressure of the gusts. The maple tree under which he had taken refuge creaked ominously, its branches whipping about in the frenzy.
Elliott rose, his joints stiff from the cold, and quickly began to secure his camp. He tied down his belongings, using the rope that his mind had concocted a different plan for.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, he found himself staring into the storm, its wild beauty and destructive potential a manifestation of his night prior. He took shelter under the gnarled maple and sipped at his lemonade. Admdist the howling wind and relentless rain, Elliott sat, waiting for the storm to pass, or perhaps, waiting for it to consume him entirely.
The sun cast long, amber beams across the prairie, illuminating golden wheat fields that swayed gently under the warm Alberta wind. A solitary taxi traced a winding path through the expanse, leaving a faint trail of dust in its wake.
Inside the vehicle, Elliott found comfort in the rhythmic hum of the engine. His eyes were drawn to the dance of sunlight upon the grasslands, the rising sun painting the sky in hues of orange and crimson. This vibrant landscape was his blank canvas, an escape from the clamour of civilisation.
"Eh, mate, you here to take a hike or something?" The cab driver's gruff voice cut through Elliott's introspection, forcing him back into the reality of the musty car interior.
"Something like that," Elliott murmured, the vagueness of his response strategically closing the door on further conversation. The driver turned his attention back to the road. The taxi’s engine whined in protest as they moved further from the beaten path, climbing a rugged hill.
"You know, there ain't no cell service out here," the driver cautioned, his eyes wary as he looked at Elliott in the mirror. "You got a plan to get back?"
Elliott's eyes traced the horizon, drinking in the tranquillity of the scene. "We'll see," he replied, his voice soft. He stepped out of the taxi and stretched his aching limbs. Once the taxi had receded into a speck on the horizon, Elliott turned to face his chosen sanctuary. The tree, a massive maple, reached its limbs out over the prairie as if trying to embrace the sky. A long, jagged scar marred its trunk, evidence of an old lightning strike, the bark roughened and charred but healing with time. It bore its trauma with a silent pride that Elliott couldn't help but admire.
Elliott was an urban creature, born and raised in Calgary's concrete jungle. The rhythm of the city had bore itself into his skull – the bustle of the morning rush, the blare of sirens in the wee hours of the night, and the blur of the Stampede crowds. He used to thrive there, but in recent memory, the city felt stifling. His prose, once as mighty as the Bow River had reduced to a trickle.
So, he'd come here, to the endless prairie, far from the cacophony of urban life. A last-ditch effort. He set up camp under the sprawling canopy of the maple, its scorched trunk a symbol of battles fought and endured.
With his makeshift camp in place, he settled in, allowing the solitude to envelope him, becoming just another actor in the vast narrative of the prairie. His struggles didn't matter out here. Surely.
Beneath the outstretched arms of the maple, Elliott unfurled his notebook, his pen poised over the blank page. He breathed in the tranquility, the peace of the prairie, and began to write:
In the heart of the golden sea, there is a tree,
Scarred by time, yet stands free.
Touched by lightning, but unbroken,
In its silence, stories are spoken.
Its roots deep, its will unfettered,
Bearing scars, yet undefeated.
With a sigh, he reread the words, his forehead creasing in dissatisfaction. The flow was off, the rhymes too forced. The words on the page felt as though they had been written by aliens. Frustrated, Elliott tore the page from his notebook, crumpling it in his fist. The wind picked up the discarded paper, carrying it off over the undulating waves of wheat, as if the prairie itself were rejecting his feeble attempt.
He shrugged this one off. The day was hot, and he was thirsty. Pulling out a plastic bag of lemons from his backpack, he set about making lemonade, his fingers deftly peeling and squeezing the citrus fruits. The sour scent filled his nostrils and the tart taste helped break him free from his darker thoughts. He took a deep breath and began to write once more.
The world gives lemons aplenty
Under the tree, my heart heavy yet empty
Juice, zest, sour and bitter
I squeeze and stir, a desperate flicker
Sweetened by dreams, stirred by hope
A scene reminiscent of grandmother's soap
Drink I do, the tart salvation,
Seeking answers in its tangy libation
Elliott read the poem aloud. The poem was a contrived cliche, a pitiful attempt to extract meaning from the mundane. Had he always been this god-damn literal? He tore the page out. The metaphorical lemonade he had hoped to create was as inpalatable as the actual beverage.
The sun rose higher, casting its harsh light on the lone writer under the tree, as if putting him into a spotlight. As the day wore on, the monotony of his solitude was broken by a rustling sound. From the sea of grass, a red fox surfaced, its vivid coat a splash of color against the prairie's golden hues. It stopped a few feet from Elliott, eyes fixed on him with a mix of curiosity and caution.
The sight of the creature stirred a memory. Years ago, during the fleeting high point of his career, he had written a children's book featuring a clever fox. He'd been proud of that book, pouring his heart and soul into every line, every illustration. The book had been well-received but it hadn't resulted in any stability.
His heart wanned at the memory, a bittersweet reminder of his brief dance with success. Inspired, he picked up his pen and began to write, attempting to capture the essence of the moment and the fox's wild beauty in his prose.
But as his pen moved across the paper, he found himself writing not about the fox in front of him, but the one from his past. The words flowed, revealing not the story of a clever fox, but the tale of a struggling writer who'd pinned his hopes on a stupid children's story.
The words felt hollow, echoing the regret and disappointment he felt about his past. This wasn't inspired - this was as rambling of rambles. The fox, perhaps ashamed to associate with him, gave him a final, lingering look before disappearing back into the grass.
Too deep into the solitude of his own concocting, Elliott's train of thought was derailed. The memories he had kept at bay were now rushing at him like a tide. He wrote about his complicated romantic history and the breakup that still stung. He wrote about his parents, his mother who had drank herself to death, and his father, who had put the liquor in her hand.
Pages filled. Sentences began to eat themselves. He used words that he didn't even know existed. He wrote about the meaninglessness of existence, the absurdity of life, the void that seemed to consume every joy, every achievement. What was the point? He looked up at the horizon. What was the point of all this?
Night fell and the prairie was cast into shadows, yet Elliott continued to write, in a purgatory between catharsis and absolute despair.
He paused only to stare at the tempting rope dangling from his pack.
But then he looked up at the night sky, the stars forming a glittering tapestry above. Its beauty genuinely caught him off guard. His pen moved across the page, gentler now.
Ursa spins in cosmic reel, can she bear what I feel?
Orion's arrow flies - strikes a fox between the eyes
Words of ink, tears of black, lost in cosmic zodiac
Pegasus flies above prairie maze, end or start of earthly days?
Truth askew, Polaris misleads, Stanzas crumble, writers bleeds
The stars are eternal like love pure and true
So what the hell is wrong with you?
The poem was raw and disjointed, his thoughts scattered across the page like the stars in the sky. The world didn't feel real anymore.
***
Morning broke with an unsettling quiet, the usual symphony of the prairie giving way to an eerie stillness. Elliott stirred from his restless sleep, his eyes opening to a sky painted in shades of ominous grey. In the distance, the dark silhouette of a storm stretched across the horizon. The once serene prairie was now a scene of churning turmoil, the golden fields swaying under the pressure of the gusts. The maple tree under which he had taken refuge creaked ominously, its branches whipping about in the frenzy.
Elliott rose, his joints stiff from the cold, and quickly began to secure his camp. He tied down his belongings, using the rope that his mind had concocted a different plan for.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, he found himself staring into the storm, its wild beauty and destructive potential a manifestation of his night prior. He took shelter under the gnarled maple and sipped at his lemonade. Admdist the howling wind and relentless rain, Elliott sat, waiting for the storm to pass, or perhaps, waiting for it to consume him entirely.
The sun cast long, amber beams across the prairie, illuminating golden wheat fields that swayed gently under the warm Alberta wind. A solitary taxi traced a winding path through the expanse, leaving a faint trail of dust in its wake.
Inside the vehicle, Elliott found comfort in the rhythmic hum of the engine. His eyes were drawn to the dance of sunlight upon the grasslands, the rising sun painting the sky in hues of orange and crimson. This vibrant landscape was his blank canvas, an escape from the clamour of civilisation.
"Eh, mate, you here to take a hike or something?" The cab driver's gruff voice cut through Elliott's introspection, forcing him back into the reality of the musty car interior.
"Something like that," Elliott murmured, the vagueness of his response strategically closing the door on further conversation. The driver turned his attention back to the road. The taxi’s engine whined in protest as they moved further from the beaten path, climbing a rugged hill.
"You know, there ain't no cell service out here," the driver cautioned, his eyes wary as he looked at Elliott in the mirror. "You got a plan to get back?"
Elliott's eyes traced the horizon, drinking in the tranquillity of the scene. "We'll see," he replied, his voice soft. He stepped out of the taxi and stretched his aching limbs. Once the taxi had receded into a speck on the horizon, Elliott turned to face his chosen sanctuary. The tree, a massive maple, reached its limbs out over the prairie as if trying to embrace the sky. A long, jagged scar marred its trunk, evidence of an old lightning strike, the bark roughened and charred but healing with time. It bore its trauma with a silent pride that Elliott couldn't help but admire.
Elliott was an urban creature, born and raised in Calgary's concrete jungle. The rhythm of the city had bore itself into his skull – the bustle of the morning rush, the blare of sirens in the wee hours of the night, and the blur of the Stampede crowds. He used to thrive there, but in recent memory, the city felt stifling. His prose, once as mighty as the Bow River had reduced to a trickle.
So, he'd come here, to the endless prairie, far from the cacophony of urban life. A last-ditch effort. He set up camp under the sprawling canopy of the maple, its scorched trunk a symbol of battles fought and endured.
With his makeshift camp in place, he settled in, allowing the solitude to envelope him, becoming just another actor in the vast narrative of the prairie. His struggles didn't matter out here. Surely.
Beneath the outstretched arms of the maple, Elliott unfurled his notebook, his pen poised over the blank page. He breathed in the tranquility, the peace of the prairie, and began to write:
In the heart of the golden sea, there is a tree,
Scarred by time, yet stands free.
Touched by lightning, but unbroken,
In its silence, stories are spoken.
Its roots deep, its will unfettered,
Bearing scars, yet undefeated.
With a sigh, he reread the words, his forehead creasing in dissatisfaction. The flow was off, the rhymes too forced. The words on the page felt as though they had been written by aliens. Frustrated, Elliott tore the page from his notebook, crumpling it in his fist. The wind picked up the discarded paper, carrying it off over the undulating waves of wheat, as if the prairie itself were rejecting his feeble attempt.
He shrugged this one off. The day was hot, and he was thirsty. Pulling out a plastic bag of lemons from his backpack, he set about making lemonade, his fingers deftly peeling and squeezing the citrus fruits. The sour scent filled his nostrils and the tart taste helped break him free from his darker thoughts. He took a deep breath and began to write once more.
The world gives lemons aplenty
Under the tree, my heart heavy yet empty
Juice, zest, sour and bitter
I squeeze and stir, a desperate flicker
Sweetened by dreams, stirred by hope
A scene reminiscent of grandmother's soap
Drink I do, the tart salvation,
Seeking answers in its tangy libation
Elliott read the poem aloud. The poem was a contrived cliche, a pitiful attempt to extract meaning from the mundane. Had he always been this god-damn literal? He tore the page out. The metaphorical lemonade he had hoped to create was as inpalatable as the actual beverage.
The sun rose higher, casting its harsh light on the lone writer under the tree, as if putting him into a spotlight. As the day wore on, the monotony of his solitude was broken by a rustling sound. From the sea of grass, a red fox surfaced, its vivid coat a splash of color against the prairie's golden hues. It stopped a few feet from Elliott, eyes fixed on him with a mix of curiosity and caution.
The sight of the creature stirred a memory. Years ago, during the fleeting high point of his career, he had written a children's book featuring a clever fox. He'd been proud of that book, pouring his heart and soul into every line, every illustration. The book had been well-received but it hadn't resulted in any stability.
His heart wanned at the memory, a bittersweet reminder of his brief dance with success. Inspired, he picked up his pen and began to write, attempting to capture the essence of the moment and the fox's wild beauty in his prose.
But as his pen moved across the paper, he found himself writing not about the fox in front of him, but the one from his past. The words flowed, revealing not the story of a clever fox, but the tale of a struggling writer who'd pinned his hopes on a stupid children's story.
The words felt hollow, echoing the regret and disappointment he felt about his past. This wasn't inspired - this was as rambling of rambles. The fox, perhaps ashamed to associate with him, gave him a final, lingering look before disappearing back into the grass.
Too deep into the solitude of his own concocting, Elliott's train of thought was derailed. The memories he had kept at bay were now rushing at him like a tide. He wrote about his complicated romantic history and the breakup that still stung. He wrote about his parents, his mother who had drank herself to death, and his father, who had put the liquor in her hand.
Pages filled. Sentences began to eat themselves. He used words that he didn't even know existed. He wrote about the meaninglessness of existence, the absurdity of life, the void that seemed to consume every joy, every achievement. What was the point? He looked up at the horizon. What was the point of all this?
Night fell and the prairie was cast into shadows, yet Elliott continued to write, in a purgatory between catharsis and absolute despair.
He paused only to stare at the tempting rope dangling from his pack.
But then he looked up at the night sky, the stars forming a glittering tapestry above. Its beauty genuinely caught him off guard. His pen moved across the page, gentler now.
Ursa spins in cosmic reel, can she bear what I feel?
Orion's arrow flies - strikes a fox between the eyes
Words of ink, tears of black, lost in cosmic zodiac
Pegasus flies above prairie maze, end or start of earthly days?
Truth askew, Polaris misleads, Stanzas crumble, writers bleeds
The stars are eternal like love pure and true
So what the hell is wrong with you?
The poem was raw and disjointed, his thoughts scattered across the page like the stars in the sky. The world didn't feel real anymore.
***
Morning broke with an unsettling quiet, the usual symphony of the prairie giving way to an eerie stillness. Elliott stirred from his restless sleep, his eyes opening to a sky painted in shades of ominous grey. In the distance, the dark silhouette of a storm stretched across the horizon. The once serene prairie was now a scene of churning turmoil, the golden fields swaying under the pressure of the gusts. The maple tree under which he had taken refuge creaked ominously, its branches whipping about in the frenzy.
Elliott rose, his joints stiff from the cold, and quickly began to secure his camp. He tied down his belongings, using the rope that his mind had concocted a different plan for.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, he found himself staring into the storm, its wild beauty and destructive potential a manifestation of his night prior. He took shelter under the gnarled maple and sipped at his lemonade. Admdist the howling wind and relentless rain, Elliott sat, waiting for the storm to pass, or perhaps, waiting for it to consume him entirely.
The sun cast long, amber beams across the prairie, illuminating golden wheat fields that swayed gently under the warm Alberta wind. A solitary taxi traced a winding path through the expanse, leaving a faint trail of dust in its wake.
Inside the vehicle, Elliott found comfort in the rhythmic hum of the engine. His eyes were drawn to the dance of sunlight upon the grasslands, the rising sun painting the sky in hues of orange and crimson. This vibrant landscape was his blank canvas, an escape from the clamour of civilisation.
"Eh, mate, you here to take a hike or something?" The cab driver's gruff voice cut through Elliott's introspection, forcing him back into the reality of the musty car interior.
"Something like that," Elliott murmured, the vagueness of his response strategically closing the door on further conversation. The driver turned his attention back to the road. The taxi’s engine whined in protest as they moved further from the beaten path, climbing a rugged hill.
"You know, there ain't no cell service out here," the driver cautioned, his eyes wary as he looked at Elliott in the mirror. "You got a plan to get back?"
Elliott's eyes traced the horizon, drinking in the tranquillity of the scene. "We'll see," he replied, his voice soft. He stepped out of the taxi and stretched his aching limbs. Once the taxi had receded into a speck on the horizon, Elliott turned to face his chosen sanctuary. The tree, a massive maple, reached its limbs out over the prairie as if trying to embrace the sky. A long, jagged scar marred its trunk, evidence of an old lightning strike, the bark roughened and charred but healing with time. It bore its trauma with a silent pride that Elliott couldn't help but admire.
Elliott was an urban creature, born and raised in Calgary's concrete jungle. The rhythm of the city had bore itself into his skull – the bustle of the morning rush, the blare of sirens in the wee hours of the night, and the blur of the Stampede crowds. He used to thrive there, but in recent memory, the city felt stifling. His prose, once as mighty as the Bow River had reduced to a trickle.
So, he'd come here, to the endless prairie, far from the cacophony of urban life. A last-ditch effort. He set up camp under the sprawling canopy of the maple, its scorched trunk a symbol of battles fought and endured.
With his makeshift camp in place, he settled in, allowing the solitude to envelope him, becoming just another actor in the vast narrative of the prairie. His struggles didn't matter out here. Surely.
Beneath the outstretched arms of the maple, Elliott unfurled his notebook, his pen poised over the blank page. He breathed in the tranquility, the peace of the prairie, and began to write:
In the heart of the golden sea, there is a tree,
Scarred by time, yet stands free.
Touched by lightning, but unbroken,
In its silence, stories are spoken.
Its roots deep, its will unfettered,
Bearing scars, yet undefeated.
With a sigh, he reread the words, his forehead creasing in dissatisfaction. The flow was off, the rhymes too forced. The words on the page felt as though they had been written by aliens. Frustrated, Elliott tore the page from his notebook, crumpling it in his fist. The wind picked up the discarded paper, carrying it off over the undulating waves of wheat, as if the prairie itself were rejecting his feeble attempt.
He shrugged this one off. The day was hot, and he was thirsty. Pulling out a plastic bag of lemons from his backpack, he set about making lemonade, his fingers deftly peeling and squeezing the citrus fruits. The sour scent filled his nostrils and the tart taste helped break him free from his darker thoughts. He took a deep breath and began to write once more.
The world gives lemons aplenty
Under the tree, my heart heavy yet empty
Juice, zest, sour and bitter
I squeeze and stir, a desperate flicker
Sweetened by dreams, stirred by hope
A scene reminiscent of grandmother's soap
Drink I do, the tart salvation,
Seeking answers in its tangy libation
Elliott read the poem aloud. The poem was a contrived cliche, a pitiful attempt to extract meaning from the mundane. Had he always been this god-damn literal? He tore the page out. The metaphorical lemonade he had hoped to create was as inpalatable as the actual beverage.
The sun rose higher, casting its harsh light on the lone writer under the tree, as if putting him into a spotlight. As the day wore on, the monotony of his solitude was broken by a rustling sound. From the sea of grass, a red fox surfaced, its vivid coat a splash of color against the prairie's golden hues. It stopped a few feet from Elliott, eyes fixed on him with a mix of curiosity and caution.
The sight of the creature stirred a memory. Years ago, during the fleeting high point of his career, he had written a children's book featuring a clever fox. He'd been proud of that book, pouring his heart and soul into every line, every illustration. The book had been well-received but it hadn't resulted in any stability.
His heart wanned at the memory, a bittersweet reminder of his brief dance with success. Inspired, he picked up his pen and began to write, attempting to capture the essence of the moment and the fox's wild beauty in his prose.
But as his pen moved across the paper, he found himself writing not about the fox in front of him, but the one from his past. The words flowed, revealing not the story of a clever fox, but the tale of a struggling writer who'd pinned his hopes on a stupid children's story.
The words felt hollow, echoing the regret and disappointment he felt about his past. This wasn't inspired - this was as rambling of rambles. The fox, perhaps ashamed to associate with him, gave him a final, lingering look before disappearing back into the grass.
Too deep into the solitude of his own concocting, Elliott's train of thought was derailed. The memories he had kept at bay were now rushing at him like a tide. He wrote about his complicated romantic history and the breakup that still stung. He wrote about his parents, his mother who had drank herself to death, and his father, who had put the liquor in her hand.
Pages filled. Sentences began to eat themselves. He used words that he didn't even know existed. He wrote about the meaninglessness of existence, the absurdity of life, the void that seemed to consume every joy, every achievement. What was the point? He looked up at the horizon. What was the point of all this?
Night fell and the prairie was cast into shadows, yet Elliott continued to write, in a purgatory between catharsis and absolute despair.
He paused only to stare at the tempting rope dangling from his pack.
But then he looked up at the night sky, the stars forming a glittering tapestry above. Its beauty genuinely caught him off guard. His pen moved across the page, gentler now.
Ursa spins in cosmic reel, can she bear what I feel?
Orion's arrow flies - strikes a fox between the eyes
Words of ink, tears of black, lost in cosmic zodiac
Pegasus flies above prairie maze, end or start of earthly days?
Truth askew, Polaris misleads, Stanzas crumble, writers bleeds
The stars are eternal like love pure and true
So what the hell is wrong with you?
The poem was raw and disjointed, his thoughts scattered across the page like the stars in the sky. The world didn't feel real anymore.
***
Morning broke with an unsettling quiet, the usual symphony of the prairie giving way to an eerie stillness. Elliott stirred from his restless sleep, his eyes opening to a sky painted in shades of ominous grey. In the distance, the dark silhouette of a storm stretched across the horizon. The once serene prairie was now a scene of churning turmoil, the golden fields swaying under the pressure of the gusts. The maple tree under which he had taken refuge creaked ominously, its branches whipping about in the frenzy.
Elliott rose, his joints stiff from the cold, and quickly began to secure his camp. He tied down his belongings, using the rope that his mind had concocted a different plan for.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, he found himself staring into the storm, its wild beauty and destructive potential a manifestation of his night prior. He took shelter under the gnarled maple and sipped at his lemonade. Admdist the howling wind and relentless rain, Elliott sat, waiting for the storm to pass, or perhaps, waiting for it to consume him entirely.
The sun cast long, amber beams across the prairie, illuminating golden wheat fields that swayed gently under the warm Alberta wind. A solitary taxi traced a winding path through the expanse, leaving a faint trail of dust in its wake.
Inside the vehicle, Elliott found comfort in the rhythmic hum of the engine. His eyes were drawn to the dance of sunlight upon the grasslands, the rising sun painting the sky in hues of orange and crimson. This vibrant landscape was his blank canvas, an escape from the clamour of civilisation.
"Eh, mate, you here to take a hike or something?" The cab driver's gruff voice cut through Elliott's introspection, forcing him back into the reality of the musty car interior.
"Something like that," Elliott murmured, the vagueness of his response strategically closing the door on further conversation. The driver turned his attention back to the road. The taxi’s engine whined in protest as they moved further from the beaten path, climbing a rugged hill.
"You know, there ain't no cell service out here," the driver cautioned, his eyes wary as he looked at Elliott in the mirror. "You got a plan to get back?"
Elliott's eyes traced the horizon, drinking in the tranquillity of the scene. "We'll see," he replied, his voice soft. He stepped out of the taxi and stretched his aching limbs. Once the taxi had receded into a speck on the horizon, Elliott turned to face his chosen sanctuary. The tree, a massive maple, reached its limbs out over the prairie as if trying to embrace the sky. A long, jagged scar marred its trunk, evidence of an old lightning strike, the bark roughened and charred but healing with time. It bore its trauma with a silent pride that Elliott couldn't help but admire.
Elliott was an urban creature, born and raised in Calgary's concrete jungle. The rhythm of the city had bore itself into his skull – the bustle of the morning rush, the blare of sirens in the wee hours of the night, and the blur of the Stampede crowds. He used to thrive there, but in recent memory, the city felt stifling. His prose, once as mighty as the Bow River had reduced to a trickle.
So, he'd come here, to the endless prairie, far from the cacophony of urban life. A last-ditch effort. He set up camp under the sprawling canopy of the maple, its scorched trunk a symbol of battles fought and endured.
With his makeshift camp in place, he settled in, allowing the solitude to envelope him, becoming just another actor in the vast narrative of the prairie. His struggles didn't matter out here. Surely.
Beneath the outstretched arms of the maple, Elliott unfurled his notebook, his pen poised over the blank page. He breathed in the tranquility, the peace of the prairie, and began to write:
In the heart of the golden sea, there is a tree,
Scarred by time, yet stands free.
Touched by lightning, but unbroken,
In its silence, stories are spoken.
Its roots deep, its will unfettered,
Bearing scars, yet undefeated.
With a sigh, he reread the words, his forehead creasing in dissatisfaction. The flow was off, the rhymes too forced. The words on the page felt as though they had been written by aliens. Frustrated, Elliott tore the page from his notebook, crumpling it in his fist. The wind picked up the discarded paper, carrying it off over the undulating waves of wheat, as if the prairie itself were rejecting his feeble attempt.
He shrugged this one off. The day was hot, and he was thirsty. Pulling out a plastic bag of lemons from his backpack, he set about making lemonade, his fingers deftly peeling and squeezing the citrus fruits. The sour scent filled his nostrils and the tart taste helped break him free from his darker thoughts. He took a deep breath and began to write once more.
The world gives lemons aplenty
Under the tree, my heart heavy yet empty
Juice, zest, sour and bitter
I squeeze and stir, a desperate flicker
Sweetened by dreams, stirred by hope
A scene reminiscent of grandmother's soap
Drink I do, the tart salvation,
Seeking answers in its tangy libation
Elliott read the poem aloud. The poem was a contrived cliche, a pitiful attempt to extract meaning from the mundane. Had he always been this god-damn literal? He tore the page out. The metaphorical lemonade he had hoped to create was as inpalatable as the actual beverage.
The sun rose higher, casting its harsh light on the lone writer under the tree, as if putting him into a spotlight. As the day wore on, the monotony of his solitude was broken by a rustling sound. From the sea of grass, a red fox surfaced, its vivid coat a splash of color against the prairie's golden hues. It stopped a few feet from Elliott, eyes fixed on him with a mix of curiosity and caution.
The sight of the creature stirred a memory. Years ago, during the fleeting high point of his career, he had written a children's book featuring a clever fox. He'd been proud of that book, pouring his heart and soul into every line, every illustration. The book had been well-received but it hadn't resulted in any stability.
His heart wanned at the memory, a bittersweet reminder of his brief dance with success. Inspired, he picked up his pen and began to write, attempting to capture the essence of the moment and the fox's wild beauty in his prose.
But as his pen moved across the paper, he found himself writing not about the fox in front of him, but the one from his past. The words flowed, revealing not the story of a clever fox, but the tale of a struggling writer who'd pinned his hopes on a stupid children's story.
The words felt hollow, echoing the regret and disappointment he felt about his past. This wasn't inspired - this was as rambling of rambles. The fox, perhaps ashamed to associate with him, gave him a final, lingering look before disappearing back into the grass.
Too deep into the solitude of his own concocting, Elliott's train of thought was derailed. The memories he had kept at bay were now rushing at him like a tide. He wrote about his complicated romantic history and the breakup that still stung. He wrote about his parents, his mother who had drank herself to death, and his father, who had put the liquor in her hand.
Pages filled. Sentences began to eat themselves. He used words that he didn't even know existed. He wrote about the meaninglessness of existence, the absurdity of life, the void that seemed to consume every joy, every achievement. What was the point? He looked up at the horizon. What was the point of all this?
Night fell and the prairie was cast into shadows, yet Elliott continued to write, in a purgatory between catharsis and absolute despair.
He paused only to stare at the tempting rope dangling from his pack.
But then he looked up at the night sky, the stars forming a glittering tapestry above. Its beauty genuinely caught him off guard. His pen moved across the page, gentler now.
Ursa spins in cosmic reel, can she bear what I feel?
Orion's arrow flies - strikes a fox between the eyes
Words of ink, tears of black, lost in cosmic zodiac
Pegasus flies above prairie maze, end or start of earthly days?
Truth askew, Polaris misleads, Stanzas crumble, writers bleeds
The stars are eternal like love pure and true
So what the hell is wrong with you?
The poem was raw and disjointed, his thoughts scattered across the page like the stars in the sky. The world didn't feel real anymore.
***
Morning broke with an unsettling quiet, the usual symphony of the prairie giving way to an eerie stillness. Elliott stirred from his restless sleep, his eyes opening to a sky painted in shades of ominous grey. In the distance, the dark silhouette of a storm stretched across the horizon. The once serene prairie was now a scene of churning turmoil, the golden fields swaying under the pressure of the gusts. The maple tree under which he had taken refuge creaked ominously, its branches whipping about in the frenzy.
Elliott rose, his joints stiff from the cold, and quickly began to secure his camp. He tied down his belongings, using the rope that his mind had concocted a different plan for.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, he found himself staring into the storm, its wild beauty and destructive potential a manifestation of his night prior. He took shelter under the gnarled maple and sipped at his lemonade. Admdist the howling wind and relentless rain, Elliott sat, waiting for the storm to pass, or perhaps, waiting for it to consume him entirely.
The sun cast long, amber beams across the prairie, illuminating golden wheat fields that swayed gently under the warm Alberta wind. A solitary taxi traced a winding path through the expanse, leaving a faint trail of dust in its wake.
Inside the vehicle, Elliott found comfort in the rhythmic hum of the engine. His eyes were drawn to the dance of sunlight upon the grasslands, the rising sun painting the sky in hues of orange and crimson. This vibrant landscape was his blank canvas, an escape from the clamour of civilisation.
"Eh, mate, you here to take a hike or something?" The cab driver's gruff voice cut through Elliott's introspection, forcing him back into the reality of the musty car interior.
"Something like that," Elliott murmured, the vagueness of his response strategically closing the door on further conversation. The driver turned his attention back to the road. The taxi’s engine whined in protest as they moved further from the beaten path, climbing a rugged hill.
"You know, there ain't no cell service out here," the driver cautioned, his eyes wary as he looked at Elliott in the mirror. "You got a plan to get back?"
Elliott's eyes traced the horizon, drinking in the tranquillity of the scene. "We'll see," he replied, his voice soft. He stepped out of the taxi and stretched his aching limbs. Once the taxi had receded into a speck on the horizon, Elliott turned to face his chosen sanctuary. The tree, a massive maple, reached its limbs out over the prairie as if trying to embrace the sky. A long, jagged scar marred its trunk, evidence of an old lightning strike, the bark roughened and charred but healing with time. It bore its trauma with a silent pride that Elliott couldn't help but admire.
Elliott was an urban creature, born and raised in Calgary's concrete jungle. The rhythm of the city had bore itself into his skull – the bustle of the morning rush, the blare of sirens in the wee hours of the night, and the blur of the Stampede crowds. He used to thrive there, but in recent memory, the city felt stifling. His prose, once as mighty as the Bow River had reduced to a trickle.
So, he'd come here, to the endless prairie, far from the cacophony of urban life. A last-ditch effort. He set up camp under the sprawling canopy of the maple, its scorched trunk a symbol of battles fought and endured.
With his makeshift camp in place, he settled in, allowing the solitude to envelope him, becoming just another actor in the vast narrative of the prairie. His struggles didn't matter out here. Surely.
Beneath the outstretched arms of the maple, Elliott unfurled his notebook, his pen poised over the blank page. He breathed in the tranquility, the peace of the prairie, and began to write:
In the heart of the golden sea, there is a tree,
Scarred by time, yet stands free.
Touched by lightning, but unbroken,
In its silence, stories are spoken.
Its roots deep, its will unfettered,
Bearing scars, yet undefeated.
With a sigh, he reread the words, his forehead creasing in dissatisfaction. The flow was off, the rhymes too forced. The words on the page felt as though they had been written by aliens. Frustrated, Elliott tore the page from his notebook, crumpling it in his fist. The wind picked up the discarded paper, carrying it off over the undulating waves of wheat, as if the prairie itself were rejecting his feeble attempt.
He shrugged this one off. The day was hot, and he was thirsty. Pulling out a plastic bag of lemons from his backpack, he set about making lemonade, his fingers deftly peeling and squeezing the citrus fruits. The sour scent filled his nostrils and the tart taste helped break him free from his darker thoughts. He took a deep breath and began to write once more.
The world gives lemons aplenty
Under the tree, my heart heavy yet empty
Juice, zest, sour and bitter
I squeeze and stir, a desperate flicker
Sweetened by dreams, stirred by hope
A scene reminiscent of grandmother's soap
Drink I do, the tart salvation,
Seeking answers in its tangy libation
Elliott read the poem aloud. The poem was a contrived cliche, a pitiful attempt to extract meaning from the mundane. Had he always been this god-damn literal? He tore the page out. The metaphorical lemonade he had hoped to create was as inpalatable as the actual beverage.
The sun rose higher, casting its harsh light on the lone writer under the tree, as if putting him into a spotlight. As the day wore on, the monotony of his solitude was broken by a rustling sound. From the sea of grass, a red fox surfaced, its vivid coat a splash of color against the prairie's golden hues. It stopped a few feet from Elliott, eyes fixed on him with a mix of curiosity and caution.
The sight of the creature stirred a memory. Years ago, during the fleeting high point of his career, he had written a children's book featuring a clever fox. He'd been proud of that book, pouring his heart and soul into every line, every illustration. The book had been well-received but it hadn't resulted in any stability.
His heart wanned at the memory, a bittersweet reminder of his brief dance with success. Inspired, he picked up his pen and began to write, attempting to capture the essence of the moment and the fox's wild beauty in his prose.
But as his pen moved across the paper, he found himself writing not about the fox in front of him, but the one from his past. The words flowed, revealing not the story of a clever fox, but the tale of a struggling writer who'd pinned his hopes on a stupid children's story.
The words felt hollow, echoing the regret and disappointment he felt about his past. This wasn't inspired - this was as rambling of rambles. The fox, perhaps ashamed to associate with him, gave him a final, lingering look before disappearing back into the grass.
Too deep into the solitude of his own concocting, Elliott's train of thought was derailed. The memories he had kept at bay were now rushing at him like a tide. He wrote about his complicated romantic history and the breakup that still stung. He wrote about his parents, his mother who had drank herself to death, and his father, who had put the liquor in her hand.
Pages filled. Sentences began to eat themselves. He used words that he didn't even know existed. He wrote about the meaninglessness of existence, the absurdity of life, the void that seemed to consume every joy, every achievement. What was the point? He looked up at the horizon. What was the point of all this?
Night fell and the prairie was cast into shadows, yet Elliott continued to write, in a purgatory between catharsis and absolute despair.
He paused only to stare at the tempting rope dangling from his pack.
But then he looked up at the night sky, the stars forming a glittering tapestry above. Its beauty genuinely caught him off guard. His pen moved across the page, gentler now.
Ursa spins in cosmic reel, can she bear what I feel?
Orion's arrow flies - strikes a fox between the eyes
Words of ink, tears of black, lost in cosmic zodiac
Pegasus flies above prairie maze, end or start of earthly days?
Truth askew, Polaris misleads, Stanzas crumble, writers bleeds
The stars are eternal like love pure and true
So what the hell is wrong with you?
The poem was raw and disjointed, his thoughts scattered across the page like the stars in the sky. The world didn't feel real anymore.
***
Morning broke with an unsettling quiet, the usual symphony of the prairie giving way to an eerie stillness. Elliott stirred from his restless sleep, his eyes opening to a sky painted in shades of ominous grey. In the distance, the dark silhouette of a storm stretched across the horizon. The once serene prairie was now a scene of churning turmoil, the golden fields swaying under the pressure of the gusts. The maple tree under which he had taken refuge creaked ominously, its branches whipping about in the frenzy.
Elliott rose, his joints stiff from the cold, and quickly began to secure his camp. He tied down his belongings, using the rope that his mind had concocted a different plan for.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, he found himself staring into the storm, its wild beauty and destructive potential a manifestation of his night prior. He took shelter under the gnarled maple and sipped at his lemonade. Admdist the howling wind and relentless rain, Elliott sat, waiting for the storm to pass, or perhaps, waiting for it to consume him entirely.