GARRETT PRANGE - I'M TOLD YOU WERE THE BEST

Garrett Prange is a sophomore at Full Sail University and is working on his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing. He comes from the far northern reaches of the frosty mitten known as Michigan. From the bland white expanses, he developed a passion for the strange, the supernatural, and the fantastical. Currently, he suffers in the swamps of Winter Park, Florida and fondly remembers the distant cold of his home. He channels his excess creative energies into games of the video, tabletop, and board variety, and he firmly believes cats are the familiars of witches and writers.

I’m Told You Were The Best
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​            I sat there for hours. The blossoms on the trees fell silently to the ground as the morning sun drifted lazily above. Its bright, warming rays contrasting the solemn event.  Their kind outlives each and every one of us. They are brilliant beings of both immense kindness and terrible cruelty. I was lucky enough to have known the previous. They live such long lives.
My grandfather was the first to know him. “Keeper,” grandfather called him. Though, this was long before my time. They met when both were young, mischievous, and playful. The stories of the two were always such youthful tales of adventure and exploration. Never were they far apart from each other’s side.
My mother was the next to know him. She was there when he found a partner of his own. The family he started grew and grew until the fields they ran amongst were too small. She was there when they buried grandfather beneath the ancient oak, marking the bark with a sharp edge, and bidding their last farewell to such an old friend. Her brothers and sisters left with his children. I suppose it was a way to remember him. She was not given away though, and I would be the next to know him.
The shadowed man stepped behind me. Just as I had sat watching their proceedings, he had been watching me. “You do not have much longer. We must go soon,” he said.
“Were you once one of them?” I asked. “You look so similar, yet so different all the same.”
His voice was stone grinding against stone. “I am what they fear the most. Their end and their beginning. They seek to elude me, to leave something behind so that they are not forgotten, so they might believe they have the last laugh,” he said.
He stood next to me for a while. He loomed over my shoulder like the shadows he seemed to be made of, but he did not mean to menace or cause fright. After all, it would be a terribly lonely trip he did not guide those like me. “Can I have just a few more minutes, please?” I said.
“Very well, but we cannot linger long. There are others I must attend,” he said.
 When I knew the Keeper, many of his children had already left, but a few of them still remained. They helped my poor mother handle my siblings and me. Eventually, strangers came and took some of my siblings to other homes, and the Keeper’s last children left and took some as well. Soon, it was just the four of us: the Keeper, his partner, my mother, and me. We buried her not long after. It was then that I began to realize the Keeper was not as young as I had heard from the stories. His hair had begun to grey, he moved slower than my walk, and his face showed the signs years. It occurred to me that I would be the last that he would care for. If that was the case, how could I not care for a man who had cared so much for my family?
When he called for an item, across the room or the den, I would fetch it, so his joints would not ache. When the cold winds blew and white blanketed the ground, I draped myself across his lap to keep him warm. When strangers encroached upon the home, I screamed and shouted them away.
Though, I could not stop all his woes. The day came when his partner was taken out of our home, and they never returned. For many months, his face grew solemn. Many days, he would leave for hours, and, even when the sunset beneath the horizon, he did not return. Finally, he came to be dressed in black and led me to where they were buried. The Keeper and I waited there for quite some time. He shed many tears, and I could do nothing for him.
I still cannot begin to comprehend the end of one of these beings. They live for so long, have such vast knowledge and wisdom, and simply vanish. I turned to the shadowed figure. “Why do they live so long?” I asked.
He was quiet for a moment. “They live to leave something behind. To change or make a difference. For many, it takes years, even decades,” he said, becoming silent again.
I turned back to the Keeper patting down my grave next to my mother and grandfather beneath the ancient oak. My final days appeared again. My hair had gone grey, and my joints began to ache just like his. I could no longer outrun him, and my youth had long since faded. We spent many days sitting together listening to the birds while he read to me. It was one of those days when I faded away with my head in his lap. I felt no pain or fear, only the sensation of sleep washing over me, and I did not wake up. Instead, I watched as he realized I had gone. The tears welled up in his eyes and he sat there for many hours stroking my back. I had wanted to outlive him, so he did not have to feel the pain of burying another. It is my one regret that I could not be there for him in his final days. The Keeper sat next to the graves of those that came before me and watched the sunset drift down. I turned to the shadowed man again. “I’m ready,” I said.
“Good. Come now,” he said.
I stood and began to follow as he led me away. I turned to face the Keeper for a final time. “One more question,” I said.
The shadowed figure stopped and turned back to look at me, waiting for me to speak.
“Was I a good boy?” I asked.
He was silent for a time. “No,” he said, “I’m told you were the best.”