The Diary of a Lazy, Random, and Weird Person

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First Story: The Devil's Lake

Entry Four: First Story: The Devil’s Lake

(I wish I could use emojis on here)

What I mean by five minutes I mean a day. Enjoy. Oh, and I might continue this story that’s why I wrote “First Tale.” Enjoy!

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The First Tale

“Take a drink from the promised land.” The tall man softly said.

I looked at the lake, hesitant at how deep it was. Noticing my hesitation he encouraged me, his voice becoming softer, sweeter, angelic.

“Go on, take a drink from the promised land.” Trying again, his voice became even more sweet.

I furiously shook my head. Despite still having a lifelong journey of understanding this world, I knew not to be within ten yards of this lake, let alone be drinking from it.

My village had cursed the deep, dark waters with the name, “Devil’s Lake.” Why? I did not know. Nobody would dare to utter the

“Are you scared because of the souls that ventured into the water and never returned? Because in truth, they turned their death into life. Not life to death, like the villagers say.”

The mysterious man, who visited my village three nights ago, had a strange way of speaking. He himself was strange. Tall, slender, long, he stood proud - his height hulking above all. His eyes, darker than the darkest nights, compelled you to stop still, and desire to drink them in. Glistening black hair complimented his eyes, as it framed a heavy head. His face, a snowy canvas, possessed the ability to betray innocence. In different shadows of the day, his sharp features would soften, and one would swear that instead of a clever and alluring gentleman, a promising child was amidst them. Completed with small, full lips, blushed red, he was the embodiment of beauty. Despite the air of beautiful magnificence that enveloped the man, something was off. Something deep beyond the man’s angelic demeanor was lurking.

Chuckling, like one does remembering a nostalgic memory, he broke his strong stance squatting low. Despite practically touching the Earth, I still had to look up to meet his eyes. He looked like a sitting dragon, readying itself to attack. In being so close to the natural ground, his eyes momentarily betrayed the emotions driving his very being. Disgust, anger, vengeance, his eyes spoke of, before drawing a saccharine smile onto his cherubic face, as he set his unsettling eyes onto my naive face.

It was early in January, and the once green fields were now white blankets. The ancient Pomeroy trees began to crystallize. Not a cloud graced the limitless sky. The sun freed to shine powerfully, brought lightness into the temporary surrounding white. Moments like this, the world seemed to only exist within the snowy fields, and the tree-like glass figurines.

However, all beautiful moments were rendered at the hands of Devil’s Lake. Despite the strong chill of mother winter, the lake remained unaffected. Everything promised youthful joy, everything except the dark lake, and the man. From faraway, a passing spectator would believe that the man was a black extension, spawned from the lake.

It was apparent that the colour black held some sort of a divine position in the man’s life. From the first moment he came to the village, to the first moment he spoke to me, from head to toe he was draped in black, his ivory face, and red lips escaping the blackness. His hands, always gloved, blended in effortlessly with the rest of his attire. The gloves had fitted his hands so perfectly, I had thought for a second, black skeletal claws were reaching into the dark lake, cupping some of its water.

The man brought his cupped hands up, allowing the water to sparkle in the sunlight, bowed his head down, as if offering a sacrifice to the gods, closed his eyes and prayed in a hushed whisper. Finishing his quiet prayer, he tipped his face upwards to the sun, and he let the water wash over his head, and down his face. Every drop of water rolling down from his forehead, along his cheeks, and down his chin, erased a bit of the man’s beauty.

I looked away, and asked. “Why do you call it the promised land?”

“If you look closer into the water, you’ll see the promised land is right beneath the surface. You just have to look closer, and you’ll be there.”

I looked.

Suddenly, like a storm clearing, the water was pure. It had became a mirror of truth, and truth I saw. Reflected in the lake was a young life, promised a lengthy journey of virtuous power. Next to the young life was a broken, scarred creature, hunched over. It was black all over, it’s face ghostly pale, a twisted mouth made from two bloody lips, and its eyes fill with endless haunt.

I wasn’t scared in that moment. I don’t know why or how, but I wasn’t scared. With simple calm, I continued the conversation with him, with it.

“Why did you show me the truth?” On the surface, the question was the creature’s, but deep down I had intended for the lake.

“The Devil’s Lake is the Devil’s Lake because it reflects the truth. You are pure dear child, and if you want to always see the clear lake you saw today, hold onto your innocence.”

“Nur-aish!! Where are you?” My mother’s voice hollered through the thick forest, and into the clearing of the lake.

I looked up from the lake and followed my mother’s voice, and looked back into the lake. It was shallow and pure. I looked up to my left, and saw that I was alone.

“There you are! Nur-aish, you scared me!” Again my mother broke the eerie silence. I ran to her, as fast as I can, terror flooding my heart at my realization.

“Mama! Mama! I now know why it’s called Devil’s lake!” I claimed to my mother as soon as we were back in our little cottage, sitting in front of the slow burning fire.

“Nur-aish, forget about the lake, and never go anywhere near it.”

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