an atlantis tale.

Nobody really remembers how, but some mythology professor ended up bringing the topic to a conference concerning the matter of Atlantis.

Fairy rings. The professor had been laughed at, in the beginning at least, until he’d began speaking. A circular formation of mushrooms, substance of legends and myths all over the world. The circle and the sphere held important meaning in magic as well as science, and some scientist couldn’t help but wonder, again and again, how a simple arrangement of plants could produce such stories…

Maybe we’re missing something, humanity told itself. Maybe our science hasn’t come far enough yet to detect what we call magic, to measure the form of energy it exudes.

Ancient cities that have vanished appear in stories and tales from almost any culture. Any story was inspired by something, a grain of truth at its core.

How come they couldn’t find Atlantis if there were so many myths about it, humanity wondered. What could possibly hide an entire city with thousands of people from the glance of the world across centuries? How could a whole city change place?

And so they thought, consulted, imagined – and found. A fairy ring, a circular formation below the ocean to thrum with energy we cannot yet measure. A pulse of something close to electricity, to teleportation, that is powerful enough to send buildings and people unharmed from one place to another. A formation in a round shape, grown naturally.

A portal on the bottom of the ocean, just like the so-called fairy rings on land –

Maybe the children of Atlantis love to play in the city’s beautiful coral reefs that surround the outer borders, where an unnamed energy vibrates in thousands of colours as the city shivers between worlds, dimensions, space and time.

But as life and death began to separate from where they had been one since before darkness itself, they wondered if something was missing. And just then, a touch quivered between them. Life and death had wished for a child, not knowing that it had always slumbered to rise as they finally split into two.
Their child, time, opened its eyes. From then on, it became messenger and ruler, and forevermore its endless song echoes from one parent to another, the only moment where life and death can meet as time turns to start over new.

Moami

The crime scene is an abstract artwork of leaves and blood. It’s difficult for the inspector to nagivate her way through the mess all over the forest ground, and she tries not to breathe too much into the stench of moss, wet earth and copper. There are five bodies, a policeman walking by her side informs her while they carefully round the scene, and they only know that because they counted – she chokes a bit when hearing that – the remains of what must have been human heads just a few hours ago.

If she hadn’t been told on the way here that people had been torn apart by some wild animal here, she wouldn’t have been sure what or who had died on the clearing in the middle of the forest.

“There are no traces leading away,” the policeman says then, flipping a page on his notepad, “seems the victims were campers, died about three hours ago. A jogger found them.”

“Of course.” The inspector sighs. Who else would find a body in a forest, if not a damn jogger. “Where is he?”

“Being questioned right now,” another voice says behind her. It’s one of the forensic guys, clad in white from head to toes, waving a gloved hand at her. “We got a survivor, though. A little kid. Looked pretty horrified, splattered with blood.”

The inspector nods and opens her mouth to ask some more questions, but –

A wail echoes through the forest. Everyone jolts, weapons are drawn, the inspector’s hand twitching to her own belt, “come out slowly-!”

It’s a man. He stumbles out from behind a tree, eyes wide and snowy-white. Blood has dried on his face and then he falls, body crashing down, the stump of his left leg hitting the ground with a horrible thud. A few seconds pass.

Then, they’re all at his side, turning him around, “ambulance!” someone yells. The inspector’s on her knees, barks a few orders.

“It,” the man whimpers. His mouth is full of dried blood. “It. Where. Are they.”

“It’s okay,” the inspector says. Her voice is calm now, she moves to let a policeman push on the stump where the man’s pants are tied to hold the bleeding. “Don’t move now. Where’s the ambulance, did they drive off with the kid already?”

A hand claws at her arm. “Hey!” Someone yells, but she lifts her hand, carefully pulls the man’s fingers away. “What is it? Stay down. Breathe.”

The man’s eyes are filling with blood. “No kid. There was no kid.”

“What?”

“Inspector,” a policeman yells behind her, “we have a call, the ambulance – “

“It,” the man sighs. A wave of blood and saliva gurgles out of his mouth. “It came, we, we didn’t know, they screamed and its fangs were there and it bit – ”

Everything goes quiet. The inspector stares at the man’s face. The last blink of light fades from his pupils. “It was so hungry.”

“How can you love something like me? The only good thing I have is you. I’ve got nothing for you to fall for.”

“No. I’m the one who’s allowed to let you be loved, but I didn’t make you lovely. You’ve been that all along. And never could you be anything less than that.”

There is something about libraries that can’t be explained. Why is it that we walk into them and, as if we are being faced with the breathtaking sight of a thundering waterfall or a sun-lit forest full of life, we halt in our steps? Those who enter hold their breath. Our hearts start to beat faster.

The sight of thousands, millions of books waiting for us, the scent of centuries of knowledge and adventure, the thick backs bearing titles in silver and gold – all that sets our mind free.

In a library, our souls feel soothed, but why is that?

Have you ever wondered? Why a simple room full of books brings us such comfort and warmth?

Maybe because the treasure of knowledge never comes unprotected.

Open your eyes. See? The old woman at the counter who checks out your books or accepts them back – do you ever see her go home? Has she always been that old? Her fingers cradle the leather of that book that got you through a stormy night as if it was a child.

The young boy in the corner, flipping through a book that looks heavier than his fragile smile that never seems to fade – has he always been here?

The cat that sits on the windowsill outside, yawning, glancing inside with emerald-piercing eyes. The bookshelf that has never been replaced, that is older than the ceiling itself or the books that it bears with patience and silence. The one book that never seems to be taken away from its place, its cover simple black with barely visible letters, your eyes catching onto it and serenity floods your body.

Have you ever wondered why your mind comes to peace in a room full of books?

That’s because their guardians watch over the sacred knowledge that sits between ink and paper and dust of centuries.

And when you are with them, worshipping their letters with your young, curious eyes, the guardians smile at your back and keep you safe.

“Are you here to kill me?” The beast said.

“No.” The warrior was young, and they stood calm. Their eyes wore the silver of war and more stars than the beast could count.

“Are you not scared?” The beast asked then.

“No.”

“The world fears me.”

“I do not. I want you to come with me.”

The beast blinked. “You are tricking me.”

But the warrior just smiled. They guided the monster out of its labyrinth and into the waking sunrise that bloomed in purple and gold over the ocean.

The beast’s maimed face softened. It had almost forgotten what sunlight felt like. “But why?” It then asked. “Why did you free me?”

The young warrior watched the horizon for what felt centuries to the beast. “Because I feel your pain.”

“I do not understand.” But before the beast could ask again, the young warrior gently put their hand into the beast’s claw and touched their palm. A web of scars nestled in their skin, the flesh pale and thin.

And the young warrior closed their hand around the beast’s claw.

“Not all monsters wear horns.”