Eight stories in eight days.
All caught up. We might try something different stylistically or thematically tomorrow, depending on the prompt.
The Mirror
There is a world in which dwelled much ill in this world,
much that gives despair. A world in which even dreams are too dear for most, in
which few joys are open to most.
Few paths to joy save the pilgrimage to the mirror.
The mirror.
A crystal lake as clear as daylight, as still as a newborn robin,
huddled in its nest.
Perhaps as fragile.
The mirror reflects the land around it perfectly, the trees,
the sky, the ancient fortress built in times forgotten. For as long as that fortress
stood, so too did the tales of the mirror. That the world we see through those stillclear
waters is not a reflection of our world, but of its opposite.
A world in which the fortress, hear long abandoned, teams
with life.
A world ruled by a lineage of successions of benevolent
matriarchs. A world in which that famous travelling scientist had a beard.
A world other than this one.
Few go. It’s remote, it’s isolated, it is, to be honest, a
bit underwhelming. You can’t see into this mirror world, merely gaze and know that
it’s there.
For some, that is enough.
They return to their homes and their lives with a sense of acceptance,
if not peace.
For some that is enough.
For others a glance into the mirror is not enough. Each year
some take the pilgrimage, fill their pockets with stones, and step into the
stillness of the mirror. What they find on the other side we’ll never know, but
we can hope that they’ve found peace.
If you see them come to your world, wherever you are, show kindness to them.
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