PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Humid spent his days attempting ridiculous magic tricks. He would turn into alligators, and alligators into carpets, on occasion. Lukewarm spent his days watching.

      Lukewarm was much younger than Humid, and was taken in as his apprentice. They were a meager two, hermits high in the mountains of Seasalt. Humid had named them Seasalt, for no specific reason, really.

      It was the largest mountain range in the world, located in the dead center of the everlasting winter, Antarcica, unknown to civilization.

      "People are a disease, Lukewarm," Humid had said,"They are parasites, and the earth is their host."

      "Well, what makes us-"

      "Them. Not us."

      "What makes them any more a parasite than any other form of life?" Lukewarm questioned.

      "No other species has treated the earth this way, systematically taking, not for benefit, but for pleasure. In my opinion, Lukewarm, there is an extreme difference. To satisfy benefits is to give yourself what you need. To satisfy pleasure is to give yourself what you do not need. It's that simple, Lukewarm."

      "I see your point, Master." He surrendered his argument.

      They lived in a small but comfortable igloo on the cloof of Mount Freud, also named by Humid. They liked their seclusion. It gave their minds space to function as, what Humid said, "a human mind was meant to function."

      The strangest thing about Humid and Lukewarm was that Humid was 64 years old, and Lukewarm, 45. Humid, though Lukewarm's master, was not much older than he, to their standards. Humid had atteneded college, and held a Doctorate in Physical Science and Mathematics. Lukewarm was an orphan, with no education.

      Humid taught him all he knew. He came to the mountains in his mid-twenties. He was inspired deeply by writers of old, including Henry Thoreau, Soren Kierkegaard, and Edwin Abbot. Call him a pioneer, call him an idealistic existentialist, it didn't phase him. He despised human nature, and thereofre did all he could to seclude himself from it. One day, while taking his mornig walk, a book of Practical Magic under his arm, he heard a distinct hum in the distance, that of an airplane.

      "The British are coming," he muttered with a slightly sarcastic chuckle. The plane flew steadily from the horizon line, a microscopic dot plunging closer to Humid through the void of air, in a persistent motive of projectile. Humid stared dreamily as it progressed closer, heading for the vast streach of dominating white plains of tundra.

      As the plane sped closer, the engine revved, and its rpm's increased, and suddenly, without notice, it dove, crashing into the ground as if it had stumbled! The glassy spell in Humid's eyes was shattered, and he dropped his book and ran to the crash. It had landede about 150 yards away, so he couldn't have missed it.