The Gods Of Atlantis (ON-GOING) Book 5 Of TLI Series

Chapter 3: HMS Warrior 1860

Chapter 3: HMS Warrior 1860

The short story is dedicated to George_sales01. George_sales01.

Thank you for your genuine admiration! Highly Appreciated!

The cloud's fog started to cover these nature colored mountains as the planted stems in between me are flewed by the wind even if there is a bodily water underneath their growing leaves and stems.

I have awaken just by the noises of the nature, when I get up I started to make my own coffee. And afterwards, I prepared my two buckets with water then I walked ever so quietly but with grace. My long wood supported of how I carry these two buckets on my shoulders. Then I wore my farmer's hat as I will be going to start my day through harvest.

I walked in the midst of our beautiful farm. In the land where the waters is near to our place. The birds happily chirping as the wind give us the refreshing feeling.

It is where you can no longer think of gadgets for the farm with the natural resources itself are enough. The green fields. The foggy mountains. The ancient nipa huts. The singing birds. The windy air yet solacing. The kindest people who you can only find in provinces. And of course, the ever so beautiful history behind every farmer's abundance.

While harvesting our crops, my sweats flow like damn, it is still early but I already sweat. This is what hard looks like. I wiped my sweats for a while then I continue to harvest and at the same time, plant my newly acquired seeds.

My father knows I love what I am doing. Even if they always told me I am for the city. I am born to be in the city. However, I can no longer take the noises in there. I can no longer focus and just live happily without pressure. I wanted peace. I have always wanted peace. And now that I obtained one. Here. In the farm. In my family's farm. I could not ask for more. I am contented in here. I can do my best, I can do what I want in here. Than in the city, I'd be more criticized even if the work have overexcelled their expectations.

Just when I cut the other leaf from this plant, It was like I am the plant and the leaves are my wings. As I touch it with my gloves, my memory delve into a series of pictures. But the inspiration why I get to soar higher again is my favorite.

My wife rested her head while she lays on her hospital bed while her eyes watch the falling cherry blossoms. The only thing that lacks in her sight-seeing is when she could have her hands pointing at the direction where those lovely flower leafs fell. But she is too weak to execute that.

It was in the month of April when I witnessed how her eyes fell for the sakuras. Little did I know she wanted to be one of them. A sakura. A cherry blossom. From the April's Tree and Season.

It was in the month of April when the moment I touched and held her hand, she breath the last word of love for me.

"I love you, George Sales..." Then with her pure tears from her misty eyes flown through her cheeks, Indeed the saddest scenery but hers is the happiest. She felt happy when the blood and the beat of her heart stopped. For the very first time, I find death sacred. So sacred knowing my wife died in immaculate bliss. She expired with no regrets.

And as I called the doctor to check up on her, alas, she finally, have expired.

In her expiration is another's revival. There is something beneath her hospital gown. And when we look at what is moving under it.

We saw a baby. I saw my ever so cute child. I became a father to my deceased wife. Lately, I was thinking of how could I live or go on in this life of mine if my ray of light is gone. Yet, then, she left me an angel of her reflection.

Instead of mourning for her death, I am actually at peace. For her words will always linger in my veins. For her last words and her last gift would always remind me of her. She is indeniably unforgotten. And I will never replace her just because. My daughter already has her honor and excellence to make his father proud, to make me proud.

I put the plant beside me as it resembles the memory of her, of how she died, of how I get to carry the softest body of our child in those days and I will preserve this plant just like how I protected our daughter from harm. My wife, her mother knows best but the father knows wiser.

My parents bequeath their land while my dearest lover and wife give life to my child. Even at her lowest moments and weakest state, she did not give up. She did not give up trying to save our child. She persevere until the last ends of her breath.

And in the conclusion of my reminiscence, there comes a cold wintry breeze of air. Embracing me as if the one I have been waiting for, have come. That for all the years, she visited again and that she comes back just to see her father. Although, my daughter always visit me here whenever she have a free time. But weekends are her sure schedule. She once promised now she always grant my wishes. To be in the field where for once, for a moment, for a while, for a time being, she can breath and it would make her alive again.

Then I saw a car parked afar from where I am at. A girl with her white dress, and with her dangling freed hair, she walks as if she has finally arrived home. My grandparents first greeted and give her warm hugs. If this is winter, they can be called olaf who loves warm hugs from people whose dear to them.

And when she finally passed every relatives doing our harvest, she is now approaching my direction.

She is like her mother, humble and kind. No matter how wonderful are her achievements in life. Still, she move with humility. Not to go against the tide of a silent greatness. The waves will forever be on her favor even if the moon would always claim his throne with her. What a fucking hidden gem!

***

Despite the critics I received, my movements for my desire never falter. In silence, my seed shall grow. Even if it is unseen. Well, the only competition I wanted to acknowledge is with myself. Thy self. Only thy self. Only the self.

I have always adored my father and I never thought I'd never ask an escape to his reminders. A reminder that my humility kept my ruby stones from crystal diggers.

George Sales, my father, the father of his words. For his words alligned to his actions. The father who never fails to carry on inspite the enchanting sorrow my mother left him.

"Father, what was the first words my mother breath to you?"

"Let the farm be the symbolism of our love."

"Therefore, thee's seed and harvest is the reflection of my mother's light. An another oceanic nature from the muse." I added.

"Yes, and I named it Hope."

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VentralCord