A Stork Forlorn

Jack Champlin is a junior who is passionate about all kinds of storytelling. He is particularly fascinated by surrealism and all of the oddities accessible through writing. His favorite author is Kurt Vonnegut.


“Catfish.” She told me.





She spread her wings and soared away.


What on earth was she talking about? Talk about an inconsiderate final word to tell someone. I’m only left with more questions now. 

My walk home is filled with fog and little noises. Those little noises are nice, like the clinking of fine cutlery. Although it wasn’t fine cutlery, I think it was bugs. A bird flies above me. I look up, partially expecting her return. Instead, all I get is some half-hearted Déjà vu.


There’s a crack in the path. I stepped over it eventually, but I stood there and looked at it for a while. This crevice was like a friend, so I wasn’t too hasty to leave. But eventually, I did.  


The clouds were gone today, but the sky was dark. 


In the distance is a mountain covered with leftover snow. I can see a small avalanche occurring. 


I was feeling strangely alright for the first half of the walk, but then I reached the halfway marker. I saw the shabby wooden sign attached to the shabby wooden stake in the ground. My legs were out of tune. I collapsed, but the ground caught me. I can still smell the alloy formed of gravel from the ground and the skin that scraped off of my knees. Someone must’ve left the faucet in my brain on, because the water was beginning to come out of my eyes. 


I sat there frozen for easily a year. Maybe two. 730 days and still no clouds. Why couldn’t I move? If I were unable to see them, I would’ve thought my legs were gone altogether. Soon I mustered up the courage to stand. I arose and then fell again. 


A cloud of apprised dust stained my eyes.