He started to get white orbs blotting out his vision and his focus was starting to feel lost in the sea of this confusion. As wave after wave of stimuli racked his body. It was feeling like his consciousness and body was being dragged, ripped asunder in a million directions and he was starting to lose his sense of self. The realities of time and choice, meaningless… drifting… sinking… dispersing and spreading out.

Though as if plucked from the astral storm by a gentle motherly light-hand caressed away and abated the flow of drifting. Clint latched on to that feeling and gradually coalesced into the cradle that was pulled further into the depths of nothing and everything into the island outside the astral storm.

His body still felt odd, but more settled than the chaotic mess that was starting to feel like the beginning to an end of life as he knew it, combined with a life not actually lived flashing before his eyes was disconcerting to say the least.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

What he saw was a small bubbling brook from his past. One he used to come to hang out and cool off next to during the hot summers. He went there especially when he wanted to goof off from the menial labors of farm work.

There splayed a checkered bedspread, weaved picnic basket, and tall umbrella/parasol staked into the ground.

There sat a familiar face, it was Luna.

"Hey there sleepyhead, why don't you take those boots and poncho off and come have a sip." She dangles a bottle of apple pie moonshine whisky that his father used to make from her hand.