The Light of Inspiration

 by Alex Harford.

There he was, walking down the street, kicking stones in the gutter – not a care where they aimed, whether they hit a shocked passer by, scratched the perfect polished paintwork of a new car or even stoned a bird to death. Once he had even killed two birds with one stone, however cruel, perhaps some people would see that as an achievement…but to him it was nothing. No care he had taken two zestful lives, no amazement at such a great shot.

As long as everything was grey, as long as everything was dull.

He was approaching what would become his darkest hour. He had never witnessed such darkness before; he had seen such obscurity – infact that was all he had seen. To him, he was the world and there was no one outside his own self-centred mind he was aware of. Now he would become obscure to others…people had noticed him and his lack of care, his dull, lowly clothing and his scraggly, unkept hair. But in this blackened vortex, people, most of them, would cease to be aware of his existence. His view of the world would be inflicted upon himself, it was all he deserved for treating life so wastefully and with so much contempt and indignity.

He sank deeper still, when just at the tip of this gloomy vortex, an effervescent blossom, a dazzling aurora like no other he had ever set eyes on. A smouldering twinkle approached him from beyond, pinks and purples and yellows. He remembered the brilliance of the sunrise he had once seen, and the night he captured the sunset before his world fell apart beside him…the night he had redundantly become this thriftless individual.

He sensed a swift, tugging fondle of his hair and a mischievous poke of his back. He would usually ignore or be oblivious to such nonsense, but it felt… favourable… and satisfying. Since when had he felt this way? It felt stupendous! The faerie flickered before him. She was the light who had approached from the distance, the one who had braved the blackness of the vortex to rescue his existence.

He remembered his name, Caelyn, “to be loved forever” he recalled. He had been blessed with a title that had been misused. Instead of kicking the stones aimlessly, for many times at those winged wonders, from now on Caelyn would feed the birds, greet the passers by and polish their cars. He once again admired his surroundings, felt people’s pain and joy and whispered to the faerie every night.

He called her The Light of Inspiration.