Hi, My name is Micah Park Biffle, I am the author of ' A Man's Traveled Heart,' I am a Veteran who found in understanding of my self through writing. I consider myself an architect of the imagination. Here you will see my creations come to life. My short stories, poems, my thoughts, and a little touch of my life. (I AM SLOWLY MOVING OF BLOGGER< FOR NEW STORIES PLEASE CLICK THE "MEDIUM" LINK TO THE LEFT)
Imagination to Change
Imagination to Change
High up we take to our imagination, for the world around us is poor. Broken, an apocalyptic spectacle that teeters on the unforgivable. Hundreds of abandoned buildings stand with dark and dreary faces. Broken windows form with jagged edges. Doors hang like loose nails upon fingers and the walls slowly cave to the unwavering season of winter.
Empty lots of concrete split by the hand of nature. Weeds sprout like appendages reaching desperately for air. Once covered in the crust of heavy darkness they now breach with a chance of breath.
But how foreign they appear to us, to me and my brother. We have been here our entire lives, in this, dark phantasmal place. This cryptic realm of what we are told is reality. But something we have always felt lingers in our heads, this thought of a better place.
A place where people smile as you pass by. A place where the efforts of man are not stricken with disaster. A place where children live in homes that are not strung with disarray. A place no longer captive of worry for the next meal.
A place where bellies are filled at the whim of choice. Where winter is not a season to fear, but to enjoy. A place where children, parents, family and friends do not fear the night. Do not fear the constant possibility of death by the hands of their own.
Our bellies often ache through the day, but it has become the natural order of things. We are only two years apart, me and my brother. So we suffer along side each other with equal feeling. We neither go without conversation or the comfort of each other.
We are often alone in the desolate place as both our parents work two jobs. We are a humble family, though we be as broke as the next wondering soul of these streets. We pride ourselves in our hard work, our desire as a family to free ourselves of this suffering.
See, even our parents believe there is more to this reality than the dismal abandonment of structure, physical and spiritual. For too long has our family been trapped in the repetition of generations. The repetitive chaos of mediocrity.
And so our family has taken up the burden to live. To be the golden ropes that lasso the moon and pull it in. To bend the gravity of our past and toss it to the ocean of stars. And through such ambition, we, my brother and me.
Have built a legacy of imagination. We have strung wondrous thoughts inside our minds, our heads. We have created a world that shall be ours. Not only in thought, but in reality. For we have watched even our parents transform us from the poorest, walking bare foot from shelter to shelter.
To having shoes upon our feet. We are no slouches to the empty echoes of the old. But were are bold and imaginative architects of change. And so now we ride our hearts as if they are bulls. And we shall ride them till we can hold on no more.
A Wanderers Inn I have been traveling for thirty days. My horses are weak and I thirst dearly for water. My belly aches as hunger constricts my gut. I am fearful of death in such an unsuitable way. I have always seen myself dying in daring act of life. Be it in war or the saving of a child. Or maybe, even in the defeat of a dragon as I get one last blow with my blade before it strikes me down and it falls to its death beside me. Feeling its last breath of heat roll over my body as our eyes see only our fading souls. I have always thought my death would be glorious. Yet here I am, traveling alone with no more rations, nor water. My horses no longer walk with fervor but lackadaisical steps. And so I pray to find shelter before the cold takes us. Before the empty plains of barren trees and darkness finds us. I wish not to be detritus before my days. Decaying slowly to the maggots as my body lays helpless upon the earth. Becoming a gruesome vision of what lies inside. B
A Crash that Left him Stranded log 1) The plane I was on crashed landed upon an island. I am the only survivor and it has been fifteen days. The only lucky thing of this is not all the food burned up in the crash. But I did not go unscathed, much of my body is burned, I am hoping the salt water is enough to sustain the wounds from festering. But I fear they may be beyond repair. How much longer I have, I cannot say? But the agony of my burns is only increasing as the days go on. Sleep as been horrific, I am in constant nightmares and waking to sweat. Keeping hydrated is most difficult as I must drink the rain water. I have built a small bowl in the sand just outside my sleeping quarters to catch water. I have sewn leaves together with thread I had found in luggage that dropped from the plan. I placed them in the sand as to help sustain as much water as possible. I am no seamstress so the water slowly seeps through into the sand. But it has been enough to get me throug