The Hopeful Wanderer 11 – Unrooted

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An ornate greenhouse existed not only far from civilization, but smack in the middle of an already existing forest. Enormous, though in height rather than breadth. Craning my head back to gaze upward at its towering, clear walls, I wondered what must grow within.

So I went inside.

Warmth blanketed my face like an unpleasant breath, filling my lungs with dew. The warring scents of growth and rot assailed me. Lush green plants grew in clay pots set upon plastic bench tops, rows and rows lined up neat from the door to the back wall. Some small enough to fit in my palm, others taller than me. None of them explained the reason for such a tall building.

But there, in the center. Looking like a shaggy Christmas tree, an enormous Douglas fir rose toward the glass ceiling, roots knotting deep into the dirt. I saw no one else, so I approached the fir. The only sound was the crunch of gravel beneath my shoes.

When I stopped before the  fir, a deep, timber creak rumbled over me, shaking leaves and rattling pots. “Are you a plant?” the tree asked me.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I’m the opposite.”

“A wanderer, then,” the fir sighed. “You have arrived at last.”

My eyebrows rose. “Where is here?”

“Your last stop,” said the fir. “All in my greenhouse once wandered, but they took root here, and now they’re safe.”

With new eyes, I took in the plants around. So many wanderers. All trapped in pots, unable to even touch true earth. A shudder rushed through me. “I’m not staying.”

All the way to the exit, roots followed me, breaking the earth threateningly behind my feet. Fir needles rustled in hissing laughter at my back. “When you weary of wandering, you will return.”


I’m always tired, so please consider buying me a coffee to keep me awake while I write the next story.

The Hopeful Wanderer 10 – The Scribbler

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From Pexels

The room was a disaster of notes pinned to cork boards, diagrams on white boards, stacks of notebooks, piles of crumpled paper, pens scattered everywhere. Every time I walked into the home of the Scribbler, I wondered if she would have begun plotting on the ceiling itself. A glance upward confirmed things hadn’t quite progressed that far. Yet.

At the sound of my entrance, the owner of this isolated house poked her head out of another room. Short brown hair stuck up every which way and a brilliant smile lit her face. “You came back.” She would be awake in the middle of the night.

I set my satchel down next to my favorite spot, a gray, sagging armchair. I had to relocate a leaning bunch of books from the cushion to an over-encumbered table, its surface more dirty dishes than wood. “I always do,” I said, dropping into the seat, closing my eyes.

“Someday you won’t, I think.” Soon, the warm scent of coffee reached me. When I looked, she was holding out a mug bearing the phrase don’t piss off the writer and nothing more, while with her other hand, she rummaged through precarious piles. Spiral notebooks slithered away from her touch like living, shrinking things.

Even accepting the mug weighed on me. Time for me to release the burdens of my recent experiences. Well past, really.

With a triumphant noise, she yanked out a much-abused flip notebook — the same one she had been using to record my wanderings last time — and took a seat on a squishy ottoman. Poising her pen, she turned her full attention to me. “Let’s pick up where we left off,” said the Scribbler. “Now tell me, how did you manage to get an ancient deity to sing to you?”


I’m always tired, so please consider buying me a coffee to keep me awake while I write the next story.

The Hopeful Wanderer 9 – Sparkler

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Photo by Viktoria from Pexels

On some hot summer nights, gunpowder creatures came out to play in the sky. Pops and cracks split the air as they soared and dove, collided and exploded. Trailing sparks cascaded toward the ground, only to gather and rise again in bursts of white magnesium, blue copper, red strontium, and green barium. Their fiery wings drew ember patterns on the undersides of passing clouds and afterimages on the backs of my eyelids.

I stood below them, surrounded by forest and empty countryside, chin tipped back, mouth open in awe. These beauties tended to flock around cities, consuming the glow of streetlights. Never had I seen them in such a dark place as this, where without the competition of light pollution, their colors burned bright and true.

Despite the spectacle, fizzing near my ear drew my attention. Next to my face hovered an inquisitive little sparkler, too small to join the adults cavorting in the sky. It was shapeless as a star, no more than a palm-sized cluster of pale combusting chemicals centered around a white fire. I jerked my head back when it hovered closer, as if inspecting me. Heat licked at my cheeks, forcing my retreat.

“You can’t land on me, little one,” I told it, dusting glowing orange flecks from my arms.

For a moment, the sparkler’s light dimmed. Then it shot upward, spinning around my head in a dizzying whirl, shedding sparks into my hair. Resisting the urge to swat the delicate thing away, I patted the hot embers out, catching the metallic scent of singed hair.

“Go on,” I growled, “before I dump my water bottle on you.”

Flashing in panic, the sparkler zipped away. I couldn’t feel bad; no doubt I had patches of missing hair now.


I’m always tired, so please consider buying me a coffee to keep me awake while I write the next story. 

The Hopeful Wanderer 8 – Glimmering Glitter

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Photo by 3Motional Studio from Pexels

Within a drab buffet restaurant where the aging came to dine, I met a glimmering hostess. Pink glitter twinkled across her skin from head to foot; climbing her cheeks, creeping down her neck bellow the collar of her sensible black blouse, and reappearing from beneath her sleeves to adorn her arms. Microscopic flakes flashed beneath the fluorescent overhead lights, winking at me like tiny secrets as she returned my change to me.

Such a fabulous display of unconventional self-love sparked marvel in me. Moved, I said to her, “Your glitter is wonderful.”

As if just noticing me, she responded only with a polite smile. Because she didn’t need me to tell her so–she already knew.


I’m always tired, so please consider buying me a coffee to keep me awake while I write the next story. 

The Hopeful Wanderer 7 – The Longest Day

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Photo by Marcos Miranda on Pexels

On this, the longest day of the year, as the sun reached and reached and reached for the horizon, the empty roads and secret paths called me forth to wander. Toward whimsical places, toward unforgettable faces, their whispers urged me. “Follow… follow…”

With yearning tugging at my heart, I left without hesitation. Since that day, my toes have traveled trails trod by many, by few, and by none as I explore the unknown and rediscover the abandoned. To reach and reach and reach my hand for the horizon has become my lot, my curse, my gift. I wander ever onward, ever homeward, ever hopeward.

I feel no pressure to return.


I’m always tired, so please consider buying me a coffee to keep me awake while I write the next story. 

The Hopeful Wanderer 6 – A Chance of Light Showers

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While passing a farmhouse late one summer evening, I overheard the weather forecast through an open window, the local meteorologist calling for light showers very soon. Though I saw no clouds in the sky, I took shelter beneath an overhang out in the field behind the house, making myself comfortable as the sun finished passing below the horizon. Hands in pockets, parked on a squashy hay bale, satchel at my feet, I would wait out the coming rain in comfort.

From a nearby barn, some farmhands emerged, the weather report blasting from a radio within. One of them turned it down. The farmhouse back door opened and several of the family members crowded onto the porch. They waved at me and I waved back, puzzled at all their expectant faces turned toward the sky.

Then from nowhere fell drops of light.

They arced in ribbons, showering the field with streaks of gold. Pouring almost faster than the eye could detect, slashing across the inky sky and lighting up the field and surrounding woods as bright as day. As each honey-bright gleam hit the ground, it exploded like tiny fireworks, scattering across the grass in a network of shining webs.

I couldn’t help it; I put out my hand. The sparks glancing off my skin felt like warm afternoon sunlight, nothing more. I let the droplets gather within my cupped palm, collecting there like a pool of golden sunwater, weightless as air. But soon the glowing substance destabilized and broke apart, disappearing into invisibility. The flash left sunspots on my vision.

I supposed it didn’t do to keep the sun. Blinking, I lowered my hand, only a little regretful, and witnessed the bright, brief spectacle until the final drop of light fell to the earth.


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The Hopeful Wanderer 5 – The Wretched Well

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Photo by Úrsula Madariaga from Pexels

When I stopped at a well in the woods, I found within not water but a wretched waif. A pale figure curled up on a bed of grass and crushed flowers, the hands cupped over their head the picture of abject sorrow. Their voice bounced off the stone walls up to me, distorted and muffled. “Do not drink here.”

Warm sunlight beat down on the back of my neck, a contrast to the chilly air rising up from below. “I would not,” I replied, leaning my arms on the well rim, where grit bit at my skin. Surveying the prison below, I searched for a way to free the stranger. No cracks marked the smooth inner walls, no handy rope dangled down. “How do I get you out?”

Grass rustled when the well-dweller turned their head to look up at me. My stomach plunged at the sight; for a moment, the face was mine, or that of someone I had once known. “I would rather stay here,” they mumbled. “I have poisoned the well, but the well contains my poison.”

“You will suffocate, then,” I replied, though I suspected they already understood that.

“Leave me.” The wretch curled up tighter, face hidden from me once more.

I tapped my fingers against the stone, gaze on the mossy middle distance. At a loss, but unwilling to leave. After a minute or three, I dug around in my satchel and withdrew two climbing picks. They thumped against the soft dirt next to the well-dweller’s head and they flinched back in surprise.

“For when you’re ready to get yourself out,” I explained.

Before I moved on, one pale hand reached out and grasped a pick, clenching it in a tight, shaking grip.


I’m always tired, so please consider buying me a coffee to keep me awake while I write the next story.