Horace the Horned-Elf | By: Joseph Schlegel | | Category: Short Story - Self Realization Bookmark and Share

Horace the Horned-Elf

The trees and the groundlings were jabbering while Horace the horned-elf walked slowly beneath the awning of the forest. He noticed a chipmunk foraging under the leaves of a nearby nettle. As the sun set on this serene environment, Horace recalled a moment from his past - a moment that he had never forgotten, and yet, by some strange stroke of fate, had never recalled.
The sun was up, and the trees were alive. Each leaf seemed to be shouting to him - calling in some form of elven-understood language; Horace understood every word. They were saying, "Hooray for springtime! Hooray for life!" Others, however, were not so kind. As he brushed by the nettle leaves, in particular, they said, "I hate you, Horace the horned-elf. I hope you die!" But, apart from the animosity of the nettle, life was quite grand. Horace had no problem forgetting about the nettle, for he never felt the need to converse with such deplorable foliage.
For awhile, Horace walked on through the dense forest, with no particular destination. He climbed a few trees, hemmed some of his elven-leaf clothing, and lied down to think. He thought about life, and about his brothers and sisters. He had left them long before to leave on his journey through the forest. They had supported him: encouraging him to follow his heart and find his true self. He realized now that through the process of his journey, it had not taken long to find himself. He found that he was not truly himself without his family. Out here in the forest, all he had were leaves. Leaves, and wildlife. He noticed that with time, he started to dislike some of the leaves - the nettle in particular. He decided that he must return home immediately and share his love for his family with his true friends: his family.
At this moment, Horace fell asleep, never to awake again. He had been poisoned by the nettle when he walked by, and was now in a nettle-induced coma in which all he could do was think about life. It all seemed so realistic now, just as it had before. The trees and the groundlings jabbering. The awning of the forest cascading over the serene beauty of the inner forest. And the chipmunk under the nettle. Apart from the occasional and sporadic respites of truth granted to him, Horace would forever see this specious scene repeated through his memory. For forever and for all eternity.

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