MORRASSATRASS

The party is over. Only the scatter of cocktail debris and crumbling sandcastles remain. The copious flow of albino tourists has long since ground to a crawl with only the most ardent travellers now visiting the island. An unknown power has descended upon this land, forcing an eternal autumn. The hand trees have suffered greatly, struggling to bloom with their once lush, large foliage crumbling to mere shells. The lack of shade and the infestation of pig-faced puffer crabs have left this place all but empty. A deep sorrow has filled Morassatrass. The creatures of this world can see no way forward. They are stuck in a never-ending stasis. A glimmer of hope remains that one day, a fresh sun will once again rise. Morassatrass waits.

The Double Happy Rabbits

DARK WATER
Murmurs from deep sleep, the Albino Fisherman

Sleep, sleep, something pulls me from sleep.
The slumber, the stillness has overtaken my all,
Who is it that wakes me from my stasis,
the nothingness, the meaningless absurdity of now?
The water is deep, like the sleep that infects me,
The pink and blue creatures run, they play and they laugh.
Laughter? Joy?
These are things that time forgot.
That I forgot.
A fish! A bite! I remember that now.
Sitting on coldness, in stillness, in time,
I have let slip the reason for being, such simple wonder.
I take in a fresh breath. Breathe life.
It is pink. It is blue.

The Infinite Sadness

VOID CALLING
The nightmare, the Albino Fisherman

The sleep has me.
Gripped in its crush, squeezed to a point,
It is nowhere, yet everywhere,
Pain and agony fill the void, I am particle, only dust.
Dust for an eternity and for longer still.
Existential, reverential, poly-dimensional, this death.
Stuck fast in stillness. No movement. No sound.
Then the sleep rumbles a low, mocking laughter.
I am sick to hear such joy in my demise.
It has me in it’s belly, devoured, subsumed.
I tear myself away and veer towards light,
It screams in anger, in fear, clawing me back. Don’t go!
Then I understand it. It fears being alone.

The History of the Isles

MUD REACH
Sleepwalking histories, the Albino Fisherman

The island is mud. Yet what is mud?
Does mud spring from nothing?
Or is it made, in some mystic oven, baked to glory, to sweet existence,
So we, the creatures of the world, can trample across the divine?
Hold mud in your hands and it slips away, unable to stay still.
There is life in movement, mud moving through fingers, through time.
If mud is divided in half, then in half once again,
Then in half, and in half, and in half once again,
And the pattern continued, all the way down to the end,
What is there left? How far can mud go?
To the end of the world, of all we know to be true to behold?
Are we all just mud, seeping forward in grand design,
That seeks to be something in our time, to be useful, to be known?
“Understand me,” I am mud. As are we.