He manages to find her in most of his lives. And he still loves her enough to fleetingly consider killing her, so that they can start over again, same age, nearer locations, maybe. Wouldn’t have to waste his life searching.

He runs his bulbous, gnarled fingers through reams of white and wiry beard. She’s thirty. It could never work, even if she remembered him. Least, not for very long. The doctors were currently propping him up with a dozen pills and a pacemaker — and still it wasn’t enough, still he was dying. Silver lining though: in previous lives, he’d have been dead a decade ago and would have left without finding her.

He’s sitting in a beat-up Dodge outsider her house; the Dodge has seen most of North America, its rear carpeted with sandwhich containers, bottles, cigarette packets, state maps swirled by red ink — possible locations where she might have been. He can usually narrow her down a little from what he knows: she’d want a job where she sees to a lot of people, always hated silence; will live just outside a city but never in, never suburbs. This only works in America and Europe so the times she starts elsewhere he rarely finds her.

There’s an old frayed teddy at the bottom of the passenger seat. Not that it’s the one her mother had given her as a child, the one that meant so much to her heart, but it’s similar. Once, a few lifetimes back, he found her and showed up with the teddy in his hands as if it was a bouquet of flowers, or perhaps a magical amulet that he’d hoped could bring back her memories. She’d just looked at him like he was odd. Had refused to accept it and closed the door.

Couldn’t blame her.

He sees her now in his rear mirror, walking hand in hand with two little girls, the orange sun above streaking through clouds like tinfoil. His heart does the same thing it always does, regardless of the medication trying to keep it calm. It squeezes, like there’s a fist in his chest clenching.

He hauls himself out the car and leans on it, watches them tread through yesterday’s snow, hears the meltwater slurp beneath their boots. He imagines lifting one of the girls on his shoulders, laughing, his beard brown again, his lungs cancer free.

It could be his life. It almost was, once. Not that they’d had kids, but they would have, they’d talked about it. Back then, boys were the golden ticket, but he’d have been just as happy either way.

Three years they’d been together before he was sent off on a boat to a war he knew nothing about, half the world away.

She’d thought he’d died. God, everyone must have thought it. He’d been imprisoned for a decade and when he’d returned, when his stopwatch began to tick again, he realised it was lagging badly behind everyone else’s.

She’d remarried and had children and he only had one arm and couldn’t compete nor provide so he didn’t stick around long after. He’d thought the pain of that discovery — of her moving forward and him stuck in time — far worse than the ten years in a cell; at least then he’d been able to strike up a fire on a kindling of memories and hopes and keep himself warm.

Then, after death: the soup kitchen. The hand of god, he’d thought, feeding his broken lips, nurturing and revitalising. But now he knows it was the devil’s hand moving the spoon to his mouth.

They’re opposite him now, on the other side of the road. One girl jumps in a puddle and giggles and their mother chastises her, albeit gently, for splashing them, and he knows she’s a good mother. He’s always known. The other girl sees him and stares. He wants to speak to her mother, to tell her a hundred lifetimes worth of tales. To tell her he still loves her after all of them, and will continue to after a hundred more.

But as always, he does not. The bear was as close as he ever got.

He holds up a calloused hand and the girl looking at him smiles in return.

He doesn’t stay to watch them walk into their drive. It’s cold out and he‘s coughing and he should really keep his next appointment — he doesn‘t like starting over and remembering that he remembers.

He takes a last look at the family then tucks away the memory, notes how happy they look. It’s memories like this that somehow make him feel a little warmer next time around, although he doesn’t quite understand why.

“So how long does it take?” Alan asked as the Administrator started to pack away the bowl.

Pausing mid task the Administrator looked back up at Alan and blinked slowly at him “Pardon?”

“The whole memory wipe thing.” Alan replied with a twirling gesture to his temple “How long after I drink you magic soup do I lose my memories and can reincarnate?”

The Administrator stared at him for a long moment before saying “It’s meant to happen instantly. You still remember your past life?”

“Yea.” Alan nodded.

“All of it?”

“Well, as much I ever did I guess.”

Turning to look at the bowl in his hand the Administrator asked “Are you sure you drank all of it?”

“Of course I did. You would have noticed otherwise when you took the bowl back right?”

“Right.” The Administrator said uncertainly “Let’s just try again shall we?” he suggested as he placed the bowl back in front of Alan. Picking up a small flask the Administrator uncorked it and started to fill the bowl, pouring out more of soup than could possible be contained in such a small vessel. Once the bowl was filled to him brim the Administrator slowly pushed it towards Alan who carefully picked it up as to not spill any and brought it to his lips. Gulping down the soup Alan set the bowl back down on the table and met the gaze of the Administrator who was watching expectantly “Well, anything?”

“Nope, still me.” Alan shrugged.

“I don’t understand…” the Administrator muttered to himself as he brought the flask to his nose and gave an experimental sniff. “Here, try drinking straight from the flask.”

“Sure, if you think it’ll work.” Alan said as he took the flask and brought it to his mouth. Swallowing as quickly as the liquid filled his mouth Alan drank continuously for several minutes before pulling it away and shook his head.

“This… This doesn’t make any sense… This has never happened before!” the Administrator cried out.

“So what do we do now?” Alan asked as he tried to hand the flask back to the Administrator only for him to push it back towards him.

“You just keep drinking!” he insisted as he got to his feet. “I’ve got to tell someone about this!” he said before fleeing out the door.

Shrugging his shoulders Alan brought the flask back to his lips and started to sip. After an indeterminable amount of time passed the door flung open as the Administrator returned with someone in tow. “It’s this one!” the Administrator said as he pointed an accusing finger at Alan. “He drank two full bowls and even straight from the flask but he’s still here and-”

“Calm yourself.” the Senior Administrator said as he held up a placating hand. “While such an occurrence is exceptionally rare it is not unheard of.” Taking a seat opposite Alan the Senior Administrator said “This is usually the result of a particularly strong memory having taken root directly into the soul. To exorcise it we simply need to identify the memory and pry it free from the soul. Now then, Alan was it? Can you think of any memory that could have such a hold upon you?”

“Nothing really comes to mind.” Alan shook his head.

“Come now.” The Senior Administrator said with a kindly smile “You were over 60 years old when you passed, there must be something?”

“I lead a kind of uneventful life to be honest with you.” he said awkwardly. “I never had any family, not many friends, I worked a dead end job; me dying was probably the most eventful thing to ever happen to me.” he finished lamely as he scratched the back of his head. “I was kind of looking forward to going back and making a better go of it this time around."

“mmm, then perhaps it was some form of trauma that you have repressed but still weighs heavily on your soul.” the Senior Administrator pondered as he stroke his chin. “Let us find out together, your hands if you please.” he said as held out his own hand on the table palms up. Doing as he was told Alan placed his hands in those of the Senior Administrator causing an image of a diner to appear between them “It seems to be a restaurant of some sort. Does it seem familiar at all?”

“Not really. I’ve probably ate at hundreds of places like this in my life. I can’t think of anything traumatic happening in one.”

“Let us see how it plays out.” he said as the image shifted to inside the diner where a twenty something Alan sat in a booth being served by a young waitress. “She is rather attractive no? Perhaps your deep seated memory involves this young woman?” the Senior Administrator suggested only to notice Alan looking pale. “Is something the matter?”

“I...er think I remember what memory this is.” he said evasively. “We don’t have to watch any more.”

“Of course we do. How else will we help you move on.” the Senior Administrator replied as the memory continued to show the waitress placing a plate in front of Alan.

“Here’s your meal, do you need anything else?” she said with a smile.

“No, I’m good thanks.” he replied with a shy smile.

“Enjoy your meal.” she smiled.

“Thanks.” Alan replied “You too.”

Alinel looked up from her immaculate desk silver eyes shining then darting away from me. Most people who walked through these doors got a joyous walkthrough of how everything worked. Instead, Alinel sighed toward her desk. "Welcome back."

I nodded to her and took my place in the waiting room. It was custom to let the agents explain the process before you partook but, there wasn't really a point for me. Alinel could ignore me and be sure that I would be back next week just the same.

There wasn't a protocol for what was going on. The process had been written in stone since the first souls were brought through processing. You go in, you partake in cleansing, you wake up on Earth with a new life ahead of you.

It was simple really, souls were too heavy with a lifetime of memories shackling them to a previous existence. The censing process shucked off old heartbreaks, triumphs and every foggy day in between; it left you a clean slate for a new life. It let you go down and try again.

Most souls eventually took part in the immortal cycle. The temptation of something new built up over time and souls were seldom content with their previous lives. There were some, sure, but most were willing to take another chance at bat, in a new time, with a new face.

Far as I knew, I was the only person who wouldn't have that opportunity. I could remember everything, every breath, every step, every bruise, I could even remember how much the cleansing burned when it tried to tear the memories out of me.

It burned less than the realization that it hadn't worked.

After a moment I stood up and nodded to Alinel, she offered me a soft smile laced with pity and waved me forward.

The Cleansing Room was a void in the most literal sense, an endless white expanse that was somehow claustrophobic and vast concurrently. Steps from the door, there was a soft silver pool, where my refection stared back at me.

The bags under my eyes had only gotten deeper since I'd died all of those years ago. They would never get better.

I knelt down onto the white, feeling the cold-warmth of emptiness press against against me. It was pressure that came from nothing, created from the concept that there should be a floor here as opposed to anything physical.

There was a small bowl, cracked black marble that had been repaired with gold, sitting between me and the pool. Alinel told me once that the bowl was different for everyone who came into the Cleansing room. That made sense. Mine would be broken.

I grabbed the bowl off the floor and with one hand dipped it into the silver pool, sending ripples across my reflection. As my visage shifted it flashed over different parts of my life. The bruises, from childhood to college, had been a consistent theme, until they stopped altogether.

My fingers brushed against the pool. It felt like nothing and everything all at once. Every sensation that had touched my fingers cascading over my nerves, coalescing into static.

I pulled the full bowl out of the pool, the silver liquid poured off the sides, fading away against the white void on the ground. I saw my laughter in the droplets.

I squeezed my eyes shut before I brought the bowl to my lips. It wasn't going to work. I had to be okay with the fact that it wouldn't work. I'd walk back out into eternity, past Alinel. I wasn't allowed to forget.

And I didn't know why.

The silver liquid scarred my throat as I poured with down, tiny spikes reaching out for my memories but never finding purchase. There was supposed to be a cleansing fire, something washing away the past but the scars were too deep and funneled the liquid down a useless path.

It hurt. The process of forgetting hurt. The process of remembering hurt. I didn't deserve this. It hadn't been my fault. I'd done what anyone would do.

---

Alinel looked up from her immaculate desk silver eyes shining then darting away from me. Most people who walked through these doors got a joyous walkthrough of how everything worked. Instead, Alinel sighed toward her desk. "Welcome back."

The memories always began with the dirt from the trenches, that clumpy clay that we could never get off our boots. I recall getting stuck in it on my first day to the raucous laughter of my squad. There was a moment of terror before I got loose, and then I decided that no one there would ever make fun of me again. I ran up to that joker Jimmy Crane and socked him straight in the face, and when he fell down I kicked him until he cried for his mama. Nobody said a word to me after that.

I always got the worst assignments because it was their only way to protest my superiority. Digging latrines. Reinforcing the supports on the trenches. Being one of the first to run into battle. To think they wanted me to take a stray bullet, to bury me without dignity. I was better than that. Better than all of them. None of those pansies could lift what they could lift, shoot a rifle as well as I could, or win a fight against me. I saw fear in their eyes when I passed by, and when they spoke to me they looked downwards.

Some people supposedly respected me for the leader I was. They decided to join me when I defected from the Army to escape the madness. We left the trench under the cover of darkness and made way for the nearest village. Knowing that any of the establishments there would report us, we slept in a random barn outside of town. It was supposed to be a quick stop until we could hitch the back of a train in the morning, but the farmer must have seen us because the next morning we awoke surrounded by police.

I pointed at Barney as the ringleader, since he was the first one to suggest the idea. The rest of the group pointed at me, which was garbage. I thought that they supported me because I was strong, and in one fell swoop they revealed themselves to be nothing more than liars. You understand why I had to do what I did.

I don't remember the bullet that one of the stray officers must have fired at me, but the next thing I know I woke up in this stupid soup kitchen. They told me that I'd died and that one bowl of this god-awful broth would allow me to reincarnate. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

Each time I drink some I relive the same memory over again, with no reincarnation of any kind. I'm up to bowl 1,382. The staff couldn't be less helpful as they float aimlessly about in the back, occasionally returning with some new bowls for me to drink. All they tell me is to "keep drinking." I almost can't take it anymore, the taste is like a mixture of rotten cabbage and tractor oil.

The only interesting thing about this place is a scrolling ticker above the counter where the soup bowls appeared. It looks like a scramble of letters, some kind of puzzle.

A ESMRIPO VENER LIVERDEDE

I'd stared at it thousands of times and couldn't seem to unscramble the letters. It was as if my brain just didn't work here. I'd even asked the staff what it meant and they just ignored me. Even the host, who was dressed handsomely in all-black. He'd just smile and walk away.

r/StoriesToThinkAbout

The afterlife wasn't what I thought it would be; wasn't what they told me. I felt a fool, after the fact, to have believed them.

The tales of men.

It wasn't until I shed my former body– dropped it like a coat on the floor after the end of a hard day's work, that everything became clear to me. It was as though I had wandered through life with a static in my head that I'd grown used to, maybe even came to enjoy. Because in the afterlife your mind is as clear as a crystal bell that rings true every time the rooster calls.

Every detail.

Every moment.

And all the time.

You're something different when you break away from the things that made you human. Not something necessarily better, but different. You bloom like a flower in a field, but with directions for what happens when your pedals blow away with the wind. The collective beauty of it all loses its novelty, and you yearn for the things that you never dreamed you would.

Evil. Revenge. Pain. Suffering. And most importantly, struggle.

A baby born, wet, sticky, and cold lacks a compass. They may have their parents if they're not some unlucky SOB, but that alone isn't enough. Life is a web tangled with threads of entropy, gossamers of the unknown, and it's one's own personal journey to avoid the many spiders that populate it.

Drugs, gambling, alcohol, whores, hedonism.

I made some sweet vibrations in life; heavy ones that pulled every thread and called every eight-legged bastard straight to me, fangs glistening, and venom at the ready. The sun never set without venom in my veins. Never rose without me scrambling for more of it. Life was never enough for a guy like me.

And it seemed indeed neither was death.

I was told everyone grew bored with the afterlife at some point or another. Reincarnation was a certainty; not an if, but a when for every new flower that bloomed there. Each would inevitably crave the things that came with life and seek it again for themselves. It started with a journey– a pilgrimage known as the Long Walk. Some left in groups, others alone across a long field filled with flowers that watched as you passed.

From there, they'd cross a vast wetland, a barren desert, a wheatfield that stretched as far as the eye could see, and then a long arctic plane filled with snowcapped mountains, glaciers, and long stretches of white wilderness. Through a forest of golden leaves, a swamp of spewing gasses, and lastly a grassland that led to a single structure in the far distance. It sat nestled within the trunk of a great tree, the leaves of which one could see from where they first bloomed.

For as many who leave the garden at a time, the tree was never busy. Only ever a few souls at a time stay for long. It was like a traditional ramen shop like the kind they had in Japan. You'd pass under pearl white drapes and take your seat at the counter. A turtle man would greet you and ask you why you wished to return.

Any answer was good enough, it wasn't a test.

He'd then slide you a bowl of steaming soup, and ask you to reflect on your past life as it cooled. He said the same thing to me every time as though I hadn't been here every day for the past four seasons.

"Bathe in the steam; this step favors the bold. Inhale your new purpose and exhale the old."

I'd stare into his soulful reptilian eyes and take the soup into me again, again, and again, day after day. I would see others take but a single spoonful and vanish where they were. It was a gateway, you see. It was right in our instructions from the moment we bloomed. Much like I had shed my old body, I would need to shed my memories of it in order to be given life anew.

"It doesn't work," I'd tell the turtle.

But he'd simply stare back at me wisely; silently; never uttering a word, as though he were simply existing on a loop.

And there weren't any further instructions.

No contingencies, and no workarounds. In life, there were many pathways to achieve one's goal, but in death, there was only this. It was absolute. I spent years visiting every day and drinking the soup, but I couldn't forget who I was; couldn't emerge from my chrysalis as a fresh face with a new story.

I was stuck as me. As this.

And in time I grew from remorseful to angry. I finished the bowl and smashed it against the wall, only to get no new reaction from the turtle man. He would just watch me through his big all-knowing eyes, as though pitying me. As though he had the answer and was withholding it from me. His gaze drove me to madness day after day. He would never say a word, save for his stupid rhyme about inhaling my new purpose. I inhaled all the steam every time and all I exhaled were curses at the end of each unsuccessful attempt to pass through the gateway, as was my right to do so.

My divine right.

I snapped.

I leaped over the counter and bludgeoned the turtle to death with his own cookware. I ventured into his kitchen and found behind it a cave.

The inside of the tree.

Gold and silver flecks blew past my face as I ventured into the trunk. A warmth washed over me as I reached what I imagined was the center. I felt a wind beneath my feet that pushed with a gentle force and lifted me into the air. I ascended into the trunk of the tree. I saw things no soul has seen. Understood truths available only to one willing to take. The turtle was dead. If I couldn't go home, then nobody would.

I would exist as I always had– as a spider.

As a spider in the tree.

r/A15MinuteMythos

What’s a memory made of?

It’s one measly picture in your head that you desperately scribble in again and again, inevitably overcorrecting or under-representing. One thing, trying to replicate everything you were feeling then. Your firing senses. Overflowing emotions. Unmatched chemistry.

In fact, what’s weird isn’t that we forget. Try finishing a painting and then immediately dipping it into water, then repeating the process over and over again. Ending up with even a smidgen or similarity is a miracle, not an expected result.

So, a magic soup that erased memories? Least of the wonders in the afterlife. It made sense. Completely. People forget things all the time already.

All I could do was sit here, shafted into my special queue of one, while I watched other souls shamble up to the giant pot. The burly soup kitchen chef, whose name I can never recall, served the souls with an expression so flat and even that it looked like a… a… a… small human drew lines in the sand.

He sat on a high chair, and doled out bowl after bowl. Once in a while, his eyes flitted towards me. He would then grab a soul out of the line, passed them two bowls, and bade them to walk towards me.

The soup was disgusting. My first wish was always wishing that I would forget the taste. I swore it worked by being so terrible that it concussed your brain from the inside. The second wish was wishing finally, finally, the forgetting soup would work.

It never did. It never worked. I forgot everything else.

The chef would glance over, then shake his head. While the rest of the souls continued to file past him, I remained near the pot, staring in agony at the cauldron and line of souls that never ended.

I forgot all the time.

Can’t even remember how I died.

Or lived, for that matter.

I forgot how I ended up here, desperately downing soup after soup in vain.

How I can’t fucking forget that one single thing, a thorn of torment hammering itself into my brain again and again, flooding my entire body with pain. Perhaps smashing the bowl against my skull would stop that pain, or knock me out long enough for unconsciousness to act as nature’s painkiller.

The words rang in my head, over and over and over and over again.

“You will never forget.” His voice. That smirk, with yellowing teeth that could have done with several more brushings, twisting into a cruel laugh.

“You just lost the game.”

r/dexdrafts

Ash.....Fire, and the searing smoke fill my lungs as I hear my wife cry out in pain for my name and my children scream for their mother on the floor above me. I struggle to pull free...To push my body from beneath the groaning wood boards pinning me to the basement floor when the room collapsed. I cry out for my eldest to leap from his window holding our youngest after throwing down what clothes they can quickly reach to soften their fall and run for help! My wife weakly yells towards them to "LISTEN TO YOUR FATHER!" and seconds later the sound of a window shattering and the sound of my children scream trail off as they plunge out the second floor window.

I smile as I continue to attempt to free myself and yell towards my wife "HONEY!! CAN YOU HEAR ME I THINK THEY MADE IT!" only to hear silence as the area to which my wife had been began to billow out dark flames and the stench of burning flesh hit my nostrils....I screamed as loudly as I could trying to unpin the layers of wood and furniture keeping me towards the floor and when I drew my last breath I felt the light of my life go with it...More than likely due to the smoke.

I awoke an infant in a crib still tasting the karmic soup offered to me by the makers heralds that allows my soul to once again enter the cycle of reincarnation however...I can still hear their cries and wails and I began to well up from tears and cry my heart out and scream as I had hoped that the soup could bless me with the gift of amnesia towards my lost love and life....When in walked the whispy golden hair and cherubim faced woman.....I knew from the curves of her face to the gentle eyes sitting above her rosey cheeks so deeply reminiscent of my wife that it was her....My daughter...IN THE FLESH!! I laughed between my tears and reached out my short stubborn arms towards her and cried inconsolably knowing she had survived.....

Once I find breath to find words I have much to explain...Much to give...And so much to thank...But also to apologize. For I realized in a cold sweat after the euphoria of seeing my youngest once more that I had stolen someone infinitely precious from her...The opportunity of motherhood from a child...MY GRANDCHILD....I had stolen their future and while I had no control over the matter the nature of my situation weighed on me far heavier than the weights pinning me before my demise.

I must grive...I must thank...And I must apologize...But this child-like form is so exhausted and I feel I shall rest before attempting to express these emotions first...Maybe it might be impossible with a mouth devoid of teeth however but I shall try my best.

I mean grandfather talked with no teeth and he sounded mildly understandable right?

No amount of magical mushroom-stew was going to make me forget. Nothing would. I had kept chasing this idea that if I put enough lifetimes under my belt, somehow, someday, I'd look differently on things. That maybe if I put myself through enough mundane everyday shit from a 100 lifetimes, eventually I'd run out of space and have to leave some memories behind. And in a way, I did. I don't remember the name of the street I lived on as a kid, or the name of my first teacher in elementary school, I can't even picture the face of my first mom, but I still remember how you smoked your cigarettes like joints, how bad your jokes got when you became comfortable with someone, that one tuft of hair on the back of your head that you never managed to tame, and how you always looked at me like you wanted me there with you.

I also remember the lights flickering on our street, the song playing at the party next door, the smell of the kitchen, the bags under your eyes from all the crying and the makeshift-tourniquet you tried to use when you got cold feet.

I regret everyday that I wasn't able to make you see yourself how I saw you. For not being able to show you that it wasn't your fault, that no child can be held responsible for the dysfunctionality of their parents. Broken words from broken people gradually broke you, and you carried it with you until the day you finally left. I'm sorry I couldn't be more.

I think I'll live another couple of lifetimes, trudging along, doing nothing, passing from family to family. There is no rest until I let you go anyway.

Why am I being left alone again? Even after I die, everyone leaves me. I'm supposed to leave this place by drinking just one of these bowls, yet I drank 238 and I'm still hear and able to remember the past.

He sank onto his knees, supporting himself with his arms on the ground, dropping just a couple tears. Not many, but each one weighting a million tons. Darkness surrounds him. It just him, the darkness the bottomless pot of soup and his bowl. He wipes the tears out of his eyes, lays himself onto his back and just falls into a deep deep sleep.

It's a strange type of sleep. It feels dreamy but yet he still is conscious. He doesn't dream, he doesnt see anything. It's just him laying in the darkness, sleeping and dreaming of even more darkness and he begins to cry again.

"Is that some sort of torture? Am I doomed to eternal darkness and hopelessness? Have I been a sinner?", the man asks himself. He doesn't understand what's the meaning of all of this. Just like he didn't do in his lifetime.

A blue dot appears in the far. "What is this?", the man thought to himself. He gets up and starts moving towards it. He walks for a while but it doesnt seem to come closer. So he fastens up. He starts running, running as fast as he could, running faster as he could and finally fall. But even as he falls he doesn't hesitate for a second and keeps moving. Keeps crawling, his body aching. He collapses onto the ground.

He laughs. "I've never been good at reaching goals". He laughs and falls asleep. But just as he falls asleep in that dream, he wakes up.

"So that was all just a dream? Am I already crazy", he laughs again. Then he squeezes his eyes. No, he can clearly still see that blue light! And this time its coming towards him. As it's getting closer he sees that it is something carrying a candle with a blue flame. The man is not quite sure if that something is a human or if it is something else. Its face is covered by a cowl. Its wearing a robe. His heart beat rises, but for whatever reason he just wants to stay where he is until that thing comes nearer. It stops right before him. It puts the candle right before him and sits down. It moves its handlike claws over the fire and suddenly the flame starts growing. Something starts burning in the mans chest. It feels like his heart is on fire. A voice appears in his head

This is going to be very painful. The threads of your heart and the ones of your soul have intertwined themselves into a fuzzy big mess. You are confused. You are questioning the meaning of all of this. When you died, you still haven't found purpose. Now you can not let go, because you are still searching for something. Something that is missing. And that void has nagged on your soul for quite a while now. I will show you what it is and you will be able to let go and reincarnate. Afterall that is what a ferryman is for. Fear not, even though it is painful it will help you find peace. We will walk through your life again and again and what we are looking for is a particular flower. Once you've found it, you will understand and you will be able to let go.

And one last tip: the flower isn't as spectacular as you would think...

[removed]

[removed]

I have been here longer than I care to know.

Not that I remember how long I have been here, as each bowl I drink erases the memory of the last. That, I believe, is the reason I am here; an urge to drink of the water from this cool, still pool. An urge to purge that of the old self, so that the new may be forged.

It is nicer than heaven, honestly, to know that everything I was and had been will no longer be; that there is only the uncertainty of the future. I suppose it is excitement for this that causes me to swallow what I assume is bowl after bowl of the cool water, with only the water soaking my clothes being the only clue that I have been here more than once.

And I stand here, drinking of the water, forgetting who I am, and who I was, over and over and over. Because there is one memory that remains. It haunts my mind, a reminder of who I was, preventing me from who I will be.

It is revolting, and vile, and I hate it.

Each time I remember, I hate the memory more, and hate myself even moreso. Of my foolishness, of my deficiencies. It is the stone that weighs me down, that drowns me, pulling me deeper away from the surface.

So I drink, and forget, and remember, and hate, and then drink.

An unending cycle.

If the promise of this pool is better than heaven, this is a punishment worse than hell. I am sure that I have cursed whatever power has put me here to a host of promises of wrath and violence each cycle. Though, each cycle I am certain that I have come to the same conclusion that there is no power that has put me here. There is only myself. So drink I must.

To purge this horrid memory, to rid myself of this plague.

For if I must remember that day I told the waitress "you too" when she said "enjoy your food" a single time more, I will certainly go mad.

"Well that was quick."

I'd barely crossed the threshold when that achingly familiar melody caressed my mind. It grated on me, rasping against my very being, its rawness unable to be washed away by the harmonies that laced it. Ones I'd only heard on my first nine visits.

Now only coarse grit remained, like sandpaper upon my soul.

"Hah!" I barely stifled my rather expletive laden, knee-jerk response with a barked laugh. "Funny guy, eh."

A flare of heat - or the idea of it, not exactly the sensation itself, but close enough - mixed with the taste of iron, the scent of ozone, the almost haptic thrum of electricity. All of this radiated out from the being before me. It was the only joy I could get in this godforsaken place.

Turns out the afterlife is really not all that. But at least winding up the Gatekeeper of reincarnation was an option. It was my only option, as reincarnation itself was a bit twisty when it tried its magic on me.

"I am," the Gatekeeper began.

"Not a guy," I finished for him, my tone like old cardboard, flaky yet damp, bored. "Heard it all before Guy. Also-"

"Not a name," the Gatekeeper ground out.

Yeowch, that one hurt. A sensation like ripping cloth, except I was the cloth.

"Got it in one," I said with a grin, a hint of sunshine and the fizz of a freshly cracked can of soda. Man, did I need a serious change of scenery if this was the highlight of my... geez, ahh my week... uh, maybe year? I dunno. Time was all kinds of mucky here. That at least the potion did right.

What potion is that you ask? Why, it's Granny Meng's Tea, the Fountain of Youth, the sweet broth of forgetfulness that a soul consumed to wash away the taint of the living. Scrubbing it clean as a whistle and ready for a new beginning, undergoing nirvana, and moving on through the grand cycle of reincarnation.

Yeah, fat lot of good that did me however. The potion,

• as I refused to call the simmering cauldron of irradiated pink that bubbled and popped and let out bright puffs of iridescent smoke anything but a back-alley Alchemists potion - was just horrifyingly bad and it didn't scrub away eff-all. Like, it is so terrible I am almost sure the substance has tainted whatever amounted to my soul's taste buds, and then went further by scarring the overwhelming sensations and impressions right onto the fabric of my spirit itself.

It felt like if you took a dead skunks corpse, defecated in it, covered it in a dozen skunk ass-glands worth of secretion then deep fried it in horse piss. Then you boiled that down into a grainy, jelly-like mess and mixed that with the coarsest sand you could find and proceeded to give yourself the most excruciating scrub bath of your life. All while having boiling tar poured in and around your everything.

"Just gimme the damn drink!" I spat, a stray dog's bite and the kiss of heated iron. My formerly good mood thoroughly ruined by the mere thought of the vile swill.

The bastard didn't even reply, though I could feel the smugness radiating out from it like a bonfire. I had no idea if the Gatekeeper was a he, or a she, or both, or neither? I didn't even know if I was either when I was in my soul form. Heck, everyone just looked like pale blobs of different colored light.

I stared at the tiny vial set before me and reached out toward it, a tiny whisper thin tentacle of pale purple mist bringing it to my blob. I wondered just what I'd end up as next time. Would the Gatekeeper try screw me around again? This would be my eighty first reincarnation, and ever since my seventy seventh - which I'd stupidly thought might be a lucky one - I'd stopped being reborn as a human.

ASSHOLE! Do you know how disorienting it is to go from four limbs, only two being legs, to six? Or eight? Or worse, dozens of them! Gah! The millipede was so damn bad! But being a worm was worse, especially when I realised I was a GIANT worm. Sadly this happened when I scared a kid right off a cliff as I emerged from the earth. I just wanted to say hi, or at least take a peek and see just how big I was, as a worm obviously couldn't speak. Turns out I came up to the kids chest. While i was still lating flat on the dirt.

Actually, I'm pretty sure killing that kid is why I was next reborn as a fungus.

I mean, karma and all, even if I've never had any other real reason to believe in it, even through all the rebirths; but killing a kid? The boy looked like he was barely even five years old, then splat, like a tomato. I honestly hadn't realised such a small, thin body could contain SO much liquid.

Though, my time as a fungus sure was interesting. Being something that isn't just one being... yeah, I did it and I still don't get it. Suffice to say, I was a virus, turning ants and the like into little zombies by taking over their brains then bodies and blowing them up to spread myself ever further.

That was a trip.

I tipped the vial back, feeling the sludge pour down my... blob, far more than the tiny vial could ever contain, and then I felt the Gatekeepers satisfaction. A dim spark that, he obviously didn't try hard to hide as it almost instantly burst into an inferno of glee.

"Enjoy, Returner," he said.

Terrible name that, by the way, Returner. So imaginative. So evocative. Such wow.

Then I realised what he was getting at.

"Oh, oh no you don't! You little fu-"

[WELCOME TO REBIRTH, LOST SOUL]

The voice of Reincarnation blasted apart my awareness, but it didn't stop me from first catching a glimpse of the form I was to inhabit next.

A rock. A goddamn rock. And not even ore, just a bit of stone, so I wouldn't even get the chance to be forged into a sword or anything awesome like that. Hell, I'd take being a plow or a pickaxe. I mean, a kitchen utensil, maybe a pot? Or even jewellery or maybe even a piece of electronic technology from one of the few worlds I'd visited who swung that way. I mean, there were thousands of options for decent metal ore to be crafted into. But a rock?

And you know the real cherry on top? Of late, I'd been pushing as hard and fast as I could, burning bright in life, and usually burning out just as quickly. I mean, I'd been an ant last time and it only takes a few weeks for an ant to go from egg to worker, but as soon as I could move about I'd climbed the tallest tree I could find and leapt off. I wanted to know if ants could actually die from fall damage.

They don't. But the lizard I landed beside did the job for me so no harm no foul.

But a rock? A dim, dull, plain old rock? Oh my giddy aunt I don't even know how long a rock can live for. Holy hells, I am so beyond screwed. Rocks can be millions of years old right? Billions even! What in the fraggle frock and I meant to do for millennia?

"Fuck you guy."

Those were my final thoughts, and I'd like to believe the barest flash of indignation I felt weren't just a figment of my scattering consciousness and unreliable imagination.

Yeah, definitely fuck him. In fact, next time, I think I might kill that guy.

[GOOD LUCK]

Just want to make a note real quick: I feel this is a kinda cliche scenario (I say after writting it out) and wanted to keep the story somewhat vague so that it fits a larger profile of people and hopefully is enjoyed by them. Anyways, to the story now, there's more rambling at the bottom if ya care to see.

A skeletal hand holds out a deeply stained bowl filled with a dark iridescent liquid, waiting for the person to accept.

"I don't get it. I just... how, WHY can't I forget? I feel like I've drank a thousand of these things and I haven't forgotten!"

"Close, Eight hundred eighty-"

"-I don't care about the actual number! I just... It's only been you and me, for what, weeks, months, years?! Don't answer that. I just, I can't understand why I'm so... unable to forget."

"Your soul cannot rein-"

"-incarnate before it's ready, yeah yeah, I remember. But what does that mean? WHY?"

"Your soul needs accept what was, and what might be, in order to move on to the next life. Yours is not ready to move on."

"Accept what, exactly? That my life has been a living hell? That no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I gave, no matter how good of a person I tried to be, it was never enough?! Hell, no matter how my mind begged for a break, how my body just needed to rest, how my soul screamed for a moment of reprieve, I kept going! I would falter, I was imperfect, I made mistakes, and I get all of that. I fully understand that I'm just a person and can't realistically expect myself to be perfect or to have done everything right. I GET that. I just wanted to be someone who, no matter what, never stopped trying, who never gave up. I wanted to be someone that gave others hope, that would bear the weight of the world if it meant someone got to take a much deserved rest, to be the-"

"That is not what holds you back."

"-one who... What? I- what do you mean?"

"..."

"No... No no, don't get me started. My child and spouse have NOTHING to-"

"-Have everything to do with this."

"NO! They are EXACTLY why I need to go back, they're WHY I need to- to..."

"You cannot change what was."

The deep ambiance began to lighten and the liquid seemed to shift and shimmer for a moment before the hand pulled back.

"... Please, I just want to do right by them, they were robbed of their life far too soon, I want to live for them now! I want to begin anew so that I might get it right this time."

"You can still live for them, your time has not yet ended."

"HOW AM I SUPPOSE TO... wait, my time hasn't ended? I thought I was dead? No, I HAVE to be dead, right? There's no way my body could survive-"

"-You are worth more than you realize. Your friends arrived in time to help save you."

Faint voices are heard in the background, along with some shuffling around.

"They... But why? I- I wasn't that great of a friend. We just hung out sometimes, occasionally helped each other out-"

"-Found joy in the dullest of times, found comfort with each other when the world was painful, formed unbreakable bonds through trial and error. Whether you believe it or not, they want you back, and are worried. They've visited nearly every day to check on you."

"But... My kid, my-"

The ambiance becomes nearly white and grows in noise.

"-They will be waiting for you in the next life, but for now, you must live this one. It's time to wake up, they're waiting for you."

"... Thank you..."

The persons eyes slowly open to a blurry world, followed by the exclaimation of others around them.

"How long can we keep this up? It's been what, a couple years now? I'm not sure-"

"-wait guys, shut up, look, LOOK THEY'RE WAKING UP!"

Right, so, that was my first time writting, well, pretty much anything to be honest. I've always liked the idea of creating stories, but never really brought myself to do it. I'm not sure what compelled me to write it, but I did, so uh, I hope you enjoyed? That being said I'm totally open to tips, constructive critisism, or whatever else that may help future writting. On that note, I can't say I'm well-versed with grammar or punctuation, but I tried using it in a way that -- to the best of my knowledge -- hopefully got the pauses, interruptions, etc. through in a clear way. Hopefully the way I 'transcribed' the conversation to a story wasn't too confusing for y'all, I just wanted to try and make it feel more natural/flowing. Anyways, enough rambling and worrying, I appriciate any feedback y'all might have!

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* No AI-generated reponses 🤖 >* Stories 100 words+. Poems 30+ but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* [RF] and [SP] for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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