《The Shapeless River: A Poetry Narrative》 Prologue: At the Riverbank A storm riles the shapeless expanse. Empty silence kicks up a cloud of dust, amorphous, colorless, yet visible tothe shifting eyes of the Nameless: one who drifts about the elsewhere stripped of their colorsIf you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. and threatens to sink into the deceptive comfort of the nowhere. There gather others lost: some to rapid currents that bit back relentless without reprieve and stripped them of their own shapes. Others forsook their shapes on their own. For why would one scale the rapids if it is easier just to float comfortably, effortlessly, mindlessly. The Nameless, too, finds itself there but as an ambassador to the other lost still on the right side of elsewhere. It debates, however, once at the edge of the river where the current washes away all one''s colors and shapes, whether it should dive in itself. Then, by the riverbank, it finds a small star. The Nameless Voice approaches it. It picks up the shining pearl between hesitant fingers that tremble. A thought, it thinks to itself. A musing, perhaps, worth a glance... Musings: The Mantlepiece The old pendulum needs a bit of oil to stop the creaking it belches when it swings left and right. Tired gears, built long ago, not to last grind against each other like a dam that pushes away the rapids. And the people below stand at the foot of the water without a care in the world to watch and take their little pictures they''ll forget about the next day, trying to convince themselves its for a photo album they''ll never make. The memories right in If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.front of them slip from their grasp like the drizzle of all that water the dam misses. But, it''s just a drizzle, so the tourists don''t budge. These days, the guests all have smartphones that count nanoseconds, and expensive watches built under roofs where living humans work as automatons. There''s no heart to their craft. And nobody looks at the time these days anyway. They have plenty to spare. They buy watches for the aesthetic. They hauled the clock from grandpa''s grave house to replace an old vase that nobody remembers getting and nobody wants. The gears grind grit between rusted teeth powered by a tired swing coated in rust conceived to last forever yet build for ruin but a short while later when everybody forgets to check the time. They''ll buy another clock anyways Musings: The Yard 1966: Red, fierce, sharp, meant to quench a lust for motion unimpeded out on the open road. Her front light just on the left half folds into the engine and her wheel through the seat. 1988: Beat up, a gross, tan shade that looks less like paint and more the aftermath of Stolen novel; please report.many drunken nights behind him. Moved on to better things. Something farther from the amber glasses and the stench that kept him from counting. 1956: A classic, something obviously handed down. On the front mirror hangs a pair of unremarkable dice barely scathed by the single point of impact through the front window. Red specs and small, palm-sized dents leave marks on the door that spoke of heres and thens no more. 1929: Nobody remembers when she took the throne perched above the rest not unlike a vulture eyeing a feast. Their frames packed loads more than she in her prime. Yet, all the same, they turn up here. Better each passing year, yet all the same, they wound up here Musings: Silence Unto a Field The second hand ticks over a silent room where sits the empty chair chained at the bent leg. A quiet sunlight tumbles in from beyond the iron bars unyielding. Once, the wind carried a soft flutter of rose warmth and serene sunshine. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Now, a thick dust settles over barren valleys stripped naked, left violated, discarded by those hands that once sowed the soil for the faintest flower. The clouds no longer need to inhabit the sky. They instead don thick coats of dust, radiance, and foul stenches to roam the place Where once there were others. Revelations: Disposable Namelessgasps, as the visions flash before its quivering sight. The sight of the riverbank where color ends soon returns to greet the wanderer with a cold, indifferent scene. Namelessdrops the star by the water, where it tumbles down the hill and into the water, doomed to a fate swept away by the current. Nameless gazes at the soil besides the riverbed and finds a thousand more stars littered about the grass, which slowly fades from green to gray the closer it sits to the current. Somehow, Nameless never noticed the multitude of stars at its feet, discarded, no doubt, by equally nameless and faceless others in search of answers: reasons not to dive in. The lack of others lounging on the shore answers an unspoken question. Nameless turns away from the water Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. betrayed. It believed, for a fleeting moment, long gone, that the stars around its feet gathered to impart upon it a unique answer for its unique troubles. Now it realizes that the many stars that litter the riverbank speak aloud to all yet no one. A peak in the horizon catches Nameless'' attention. It gazes up at the line where the canvas of sky blends with the faraway current, which washes away the bright oranges and blue hues of the fading sunset. A monolith, perhaps? Nameless drags its feet up the hill and away from the water. Soon, it finds itself at the edge of a forest, where the tree branches overhead bend to the shape of a gate. The conifers and oaks loom a presence imposing, and their ancient leaves dome over the light of the fading day, through which an emerald mist shimmers over the lone path carved in dirt and loose pebbles ahead of Nameless. Nameless reaches for an errant leaf lost to the breeze. Musings: Persistence She defied the darkness that festered in her heart, planted her feet and conquered demons with an iron will searing hot with renewed vows to fight the ills of life and give unto others kindness and compassion forever. She died one morning when no one expected because the four winds didn''t care about her vows or her struggles or what she overcame and did or the future she built despite all of the struggles. Another she lived pious and devoted and showed nothing less than kindness to others and to This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.herself. She vowed to bring healing to others less fortunate than her and study medicine, her heart filled with piety and devotion. She died to an unfair illness that she was meant to fight, that came out of nowhere and just took her. He struggled to find happiness before, yet one day, he met the perfect lady who complimented him perfectly. She always watched her health and monitored her lifestyle to be happy and live happy. She died anyway. The struggles of man mean nothing to the four winds and the two poles and the solar flares and the dying stars and the newborn stars and the morning sun and the distant peaks and the rustling rivers and the morning dew and the early breeze and the open seas. We mean nothing; we always meant nothing; we never meant to rise above nothing; to them, we are but an obligatory passage that happens to exist near them. Musings: The Empty Bed A few days ago, she lay without a care. The warm summer wind breathed outside her window, and the passing seasons tinted the leaves from lush greens to vibrant orange hues. In the back of her mind, she made plans for tomorrow, the next day, the next week: all as usual. Downstairs, her parents bicker in amicable tones how much cinnamon goes in the cookie dough. The moon soon blankets the skies in a veil of stars. The lamp by her bedside flickers a faint gasp. She turns the switch and closes her eyes beneath warm blankets and the cold breeze of night. Red and blue lights, sirens blaring, and a deafening silence shatters the morning mist. The bickering turns to bitter cries, If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.and those two same voices the previous night now fought each other with vicious ferocity. One packs his bags and runs off. The other crumbles to the floor, her legs too weak, unsteady. Mayhaps she will never rise again quite the same. An empty black bag goes in. A full black bag comes out, strapped to a gurney. The black cloth resembles a trash bag. Church bells ring, the warm breath of summer now faded. Only one voice stands alone among the others. Now, there was but stone and disturbed earth. God sent no signs. She noticed no symptoms. The Devil sent no soldiers. She closed her eyes, expecting, with plans for tomorrow still swirling inside. Now, by the open window, where the warm colors no longer scatter through glass thickened by silence, there sits an empty bed with vacant, cold sheets. A memory of where something once used to be. Abrupt. Sudden. Without a thought. Without conscience. Random. Empty. Void of reason. Void of meaning.