"I HAVE HEARD tales of this man, this immortal being of utter and sheer power. He controls a world which is said that all worlds meet, and all mortals will see.", my grandfather said with his raspy, withered voice.
"He claims all, child. He knows all as well. The past and future are well acquainted with him. What he cannot see is our current time, they are obscured views that only we can see.: That being said, is it safe to say that my grandfather believes our lives are predetermined? Yes, you could say that might be true. Grandpa closed his eyes now. He drifted off to sleep. It was late, so I too fell fast asleep at the foot of our household hearth.
I woke in the midst of a lush, green grove. surrounded by tall oaks. Light danced on the grass as it pierced the canopy of oaks. I looked to my left and saw my grandpa sleeping next to me peacefully, without a note being spelled from him. I rolled over onto my stomach so I could push myself to my feet, once standing, I filled myself with a deep breath of the crisp and cold morning air while stretching my arms. It was such a serene environment. I could hear birds chirping, running water on a brook, the leaves swaying as they're buffeted by the gentle gusts of winds the flow through the forest.
I stumbled from the clearing down to the brook to wash my face off and try to wake myself up. The birds flew away though, their songs ceased. I knelt before the river and dropped my hands into the water and drew water to my face. The water was warm, until it touched my cheeks. It was ice cold.
Something was wrong. The water trickled down my face to the creek, but I couldn't hear the droplets hit the body. Not only this, but I couldn't hear the leaves rustling with the wind. I reached for the brook again. This time, when my hands touched the water, it too, was ice cold. Withdrawing them revealed that my hands were no longer hands. They were bone and ligaments. I was overcome with awe and pain, Beneath my hands was a murky mixture of blood and tainted water. I rushed up the hill, tripping the many stones that covered its bank until I met the treeline.
Suddenly, the leaves of the canopy fell in troves the forest was disintegrating at a rapid pace. I made it back to where the grove once was, but the leaves were all gone; stolen by am icy wind. Grandpa was still sleeping on a big boulder. I screamed cries of anguish and desperation in hopes that he might wake up, but he still slept on the rock. I reached to grab him with what was left of my hands, but the strenuation of the muscles upon the bone, collapsed them. Grandpa's eyes shot open, pitch black, he said: "Time is coming." and he turned to sand.
