When you come to think of it, perhaps it is a realm that is not the one you understand. Perhaps this is all these occupants know, but then again it probably isn’t. They’re known, but have been forgotten about, like many others in other realms. They are still mentioned, but their stories are forgotten, similar to a few other occupants of other realms that are nothing but shadows and holes of what they were once imagined to be. 

Perhaps everything exists, even when it is not said out loud. And perhaps everything is forgotten, eventually. With everything everywhere and nowhere with meaning and without purpose all entwined into different ropes of ideas and realms that you can’t understand because you have a mind. 
Death does not have a mind and so therefore he is free. 

That is who sits upon that one occupied chair out of four, staring at the playing cards with a rose in his boney hands. He had a name once, but whoever had dreamt him into existence had forgotten to write it down. Now he was only known as Death. He had a life once, or perhaps he imagined it, a life that his creator had not written down. Not one surrounded by bets and wages and duties. Sometimes he felt as if he was just pulled on strings, swayed one way or the other when it came to governing and falling in line. Perhaps he was, who am I to tell, who is he to tell, who are you to tell? 

He didn’t sit alone for long, but perhaps it felt that way to him. Having the ability to drift off into nothingness as he stared at the rose, moving it gracefully through the bones of his fingers. Three figures returned, there was no sound as they moved about and sat down in their seats, picking up their cards.

“How’d it go?” Death asked, keeping his eyes on the rose.

“Dreadful as always,” one who was covered in continuous blood and had a voice of rage said. That was War. “Sorry about the mess and dragging you into this.”

“You say that every time,” Death muttered, stroking a petal of the rose. “You each say that every time. Why is it that even when I am not present, I have to participate?”

“It’s not my fault every time I present an idea for these creatures to do, he gets in the way,” another said, pointing accusingly at War. That was Conquest. Dressed for battle with a sword and gold wrapped around him. “It would be so much easier if he stopped pestering me.”

“I just match your bet every time,” War sneered. “What is the glory in your art if there isn’t war to follow? How will they feel accomplished and able to cheer?”

“Perhaps if you both stopped fighting I wouldn’t have to be dragged into the messes you refuse to clean up.” Death snapped his jaw. 

“You should be yelling at Plague then,” War glowered, turning to the last of them. “He’s been drunk for however long and is the one that’s making you constantly work.”

“There are too many of them,” Plague protested for the thousandth time. “Death knows this, that’s why he even allowed me to do it.”

“You cheated!” War shouted.

“We’ve all cheated,” Conquest sneered. “Remember -?”

“Shut up.” Death interrupted, his hand tightening around the stem of the rose. “We’ve all cheated so there is no point in arguing about who cheated when and for what purpose.”

“Yes well Plague has just been having a joyous past few years while War and I have done nothing,” Conquest snapped. “You work all the time, how can we work when there is Peace with them?”

“There will never be Peace,” Death countered, stroking the flower. “They killed him, remember? We killed him, remember?”

“Perhaps -.”

“We killed Peace!” Death roared jumping from his seat, the flower decaying in his hands as he glared at the three of them. “So long as Peace is dead, and he will stay that way, I will get dragged into every fight, every disease, and do my job because you three just refuse to take a break!”

Silence.

“It’s not as if they don’t die naturally.” Plague pointed out.

“That’s because Life gets sick of them.”

I ventured into the Plateau, scouting out any movement or vibrant orange accents. After about an hour of searching my ears were finally drawn to an array of various grunts and squeaks. I followed the unquiet noise until my eyes encountered a blazing golden-orange lump, perched on a low hanging tree branch. I deftly inched up to the creature with a plentiful container of lichens in hand, intending to slide next to it. Once I was standing almost parallel to the orange lump of fur I held out a lichen, he then peered at me with dazed eyes and we both made our way home. 

I’ve had Li for almost a year now. He still flaunted his elegant golden-orange fur with a cream-colored belly and long black fur streaming down his immense arms and upon his crown. His face is my favorite part, highlighted in pale blue with his nostrils arranged forward and canines like a hippopotamus. Since I got Li we have grown together, learning each other's language and spending time playing cognitive games, and eating a variety of international foods. However, when it comes to other humans Li resorts to a shy nature. Timidly hiding behind chairs or curtains before making an effort to meet the infiltrator. Li’s social traits and loyalty has provided me with security and vitality. Reinforcing that I can do anything I put my mind to and that the world is full of wondrous creatures that can instantly change ones’ life. 

Yet there I sat again this morning. There I dragged heavy feet and lungs to your eternal wooden bed. You lay beneath the cross and I lay on top of you, arms and head pressed against your chest and ear straining in case your heart beat again. It did not. My eyes welled with tears and dropped onto that dress you loved so much. I apologized profusely and softly, but for the first time in fifteen years you did not stroke my hair and reassure me that everything was alright.

Someone must have eventually dragged me away, taken my hand and led as though I was a helpless child. I remained like a porcelain doll to the world around me, one rough tap away from shattering into pieces that would only inflict damage on others. Your brother had driven me back to the house and gotten me to sit on the couch, on your spot. The one where you could see the rest of the room and a glimmer of the kitchen beyond the corner. The spot where the Sun would shine through the windows and leave golden tracks of light across your face so you appeared to the rest of the world to be as ethereal as you always are to me.

Sometimes sorrow cannot be expressed through words, one must find another way. For me this is screaming, allowing my soul to wrench itself free of my body and talk for itself in the only way it knows how. Screaming is perhaps the absence of words as much as pure blissful silence is. So I sat there and screamed and eventually cried until my head and throat hurt too much to keep going. Our dog came over to rest his head on my knee once I was done, you know how much he hates loud noises.

The inconsolable days

The days that feel like forever

The days that feel like all hope is lost

All the days that felt rough, the ups and downs

All the days you hoped would finally end 

But then there are.

The good days 

The blessedness 

The days that make you wanna live forever

All the days you had been waiting for finally came

She dines with her canine friends.

Watching them consume

Glistening red flesh

Thumping softly there, alone. 

Veins drip with warm blood

Making jaws water.

Slathering maws full of teeth

Swallowing it whole

Drinking in the scene

Chest filled with painful longing.

She has grown up fast.