Jul 29, 2013
quiet
seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada
seen from South Korea
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Lithuania
seen from Italy
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Argentina
seen from United States
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from Yemen
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Norway
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Singapore
quiet
the fight
The warrior made her way through at first without confrontation. She stood tall and steady with her sword across her back. Her boots were not worn down, but they were well-used. Once the sun stood at its highest, the altercation started.
It started when her foot snagged on something unknown and she stumbled.
At once insectlike enemies seemed to grow up from the ground, rushing in a coordinated mass. She was caught off her guard—she wasn’t ready.
The sun beat hot against the ground and thoughts chipped at her resolve. Her hands drew out her sword anyway as the enemies surrounded her. They did not pause, they didn’t hesitate, they were at her at once and it was all she could do to keep swinging her weapon. She stayed on the defense—anything else and she was done.
The crawling, vicious things tore away at her armor and she felt them cutting into her. They were behind her—beside her—attacking from the front, sides everywhere. She bled. She fought even though she was on her back and barely alive.
The light pierced their eyes and something began to change. Without expectation a tremor ripped through the ground and fissures swallowed half of their number. The rest finally stopped, shaken.
She allowed herself a second to assess the situation.
Then she jumped to her feet, her sword smashing down on one’s hard back. They seemed to almost wake up and begin their attack again. She flailed for a moment before regaining her senses.
Some of the enemies suffered from the heat and she slashed them in two—she began her counterattack in seconds and they began to rush at her once more. The earthquakes started once more but she always kept her solid footing while the enemies fell and were crushed.
And all at once, they were gone. She fell to her knees and gave thanks for the heat and the tremors.
As the warrior made her way from the plains, she stopped at a stream. Her rest there proved fruitful and she continued her journey.
She faced such attacks before, and would later on, but she could always survive.
The Worth of Something
The winds ripped across the grass and blew his hair out of his face. He frowned as he twisted his mother's rings around on his finger.
"So, how about it?" The man across from him in black. "You'll get out of that awful job. You'll make your own way, decide your own rules. Find freedom."
"What do I have to do?"
"You only have to give over that ring on your finger."
"It's not mine. It's my mom's."
"An old ring like that is certainly worthy of what I'm offering." The man in black said.
"No." He stood. "It's not." And he left.
Unnecessary
The deceptively simple door faced him like a challenge to a duel.
To turn around and run would be walking into check, and after that, there would be checkmate. He couldn't refuse. He swallowed and placed a hand on the cold metal handle, turned it and pushed the door open.
The door closed behind him-- before he registered it, he had walked in. The small room was a pale, natural green.
A young man smiled at him.
"Come in, sit down."
He complied.
"It's going to be fine." He explained as a weight lifted off his shoulders.
Loneliness
The room sprawled out into something more of an auditorium, rows of bleak chairs and white walls framing the abundant space. The stage was not raised, instead the curtains were pulled back across a stage at the same level as the audience.
He faced the chairs as if they were people, eyes watching and ears listening.
He had worked his hardest to memorize lines, improve his acting, and make his performance perfect.
And he performed.
Alone on the stage, with no spectators but the chairs. No one with him.
He paused.
Something was missing. The actor ignored it and continued, finishing the show with a masterful flourish. He walked off the stage evenly.
And nothing happened after that.
No reviews published, no books written. No inspired children walked off filled with dreams.
It ended there.
Monument
No one could take responsibility for its creation or its sudden appearance.
However, as hours passed, children began to climb on it. The sun didn’t shine so brightly, and the metal wasn’t hot.
Days passed and people began to pass by it just like they did with a new store or attraction, sparing it a few glances now and then before walking towards their destination.
A few couples carved their initials in it.
Grass grew around it.
Everyone gathered around it once more when a graffiti word was discovered, brazenly sprayed on its front.
Gradually more and more paintings appeared on the monument, and the weather chipped and scratched its varnish until its crevices wore off.
And then it fell over.
The next day it vanished. People couldn’t explain who or how it was taken away.
The day after that, a new one was in its place, shining in the sunny day.
Soon afterwards its perfection was broken by a scratch and a dent.
Children converted it into their playground, and so did casual artists. One of its wings was taken off by a car.
The bronze chipped off and rust crawled over it.
It fell over and took down a signpost. The next day, it was replaced by something the same shape, yet it was gold.
It took no chip or wear or scratch.
It resisted paint and marker and any sort of pen or brush.
The children climbed all over it.
Rust did not overtake it.
And in the end, the people respected their monument.
Saturday's Story
An abandoned body of a great bird lie there.
Its wingspan stretched about six feet, tip to tip, and it was spread out on the ground.
Its feathers were an array of dull green, purple, blue, with little flecks of gold scattered on the wingtips. Its sharp, pointed beak had a green tip to it. Its eyes were open and a bright green.
“It looks like some sort of hawk, or something.” The first driver’s southern accent came through. He was tall and had a baseball cap on his head.
“It’s nothing I’ve seen before.” The second one marveled. His accent was neutral and he wore a brown suit. “What are we supposed to call for this?” He asked.
“I dunno.” A shrug. “Wildlife Services?”
“That sounds right.”
The first driver whistled.
“Sure is big.”
“Yeah.” The second driver nodded as he dialed a number on his phone. He put it to his ear and listened, pushing a few numbers along the way. “Hello, yes I’d like to report…”
As the citizen spoke on the phone, the first driver approached the body of the hawk-like bird. It was spread out with its back to the starry night sky. He slowly placed a hand on its wing, like an appraiser handling an antique or a priest inspecting a religious artifact. Two blue and purple wing feathers fluttered to the tips of the grass below. He picked them up with a cautious reverence.
“They’ll be over here in half an hour.” The man in a suit reported. “What are you doing?”
“Here.” One feather held out in his hand.
“… Thanks.” He took it and held it up to the light.
“My name’s Hunter Pope.” The first driver stuck out his right hand. “Good to meet you.”
The other driver shook his hand.
“Henry Princeton. Likewise.” He smiled.
A green truck owned by the Wildlife Services rolled up to the site. As the ranger hopped out of the car, he found two men laughing and talking as if they were brothers. They reported what they saw to the ranger and drove off in separate directions.
Story's Birth
She wouldn’t change into her pajamas until she wrote.
She wouldn’t sleep until she finished.
She finally closed her browser and forced her fingers to write words on the blank document.
It was an obscene time of night but something needed to be written, something needed to be created in that moment.
She had a minimum she had to meet.
After multiple eye-rubs and as the seconds ticked loudly by, the story stretched out on that Word document, growing with every moment.
She rolled her shoulders and stretched out her arms, and immediately after she returned to writing.
No music, no internet, no games, no distractions but the silence and the ticking clock and herself.
She pulled herself from glancing around at the room she knew. The familiar sights held no inspiration for her.
Seconds and minutes passed. The story unfolded and grew.
The keys her fingers tapped formed letters forming words making sentences which when strung together made something cohesive and coherent. Little black dots made a story that came from her thoughts.
With a sleepy, proud flourish, the story was done. The final period on the final sentence sealed the first (and quite rough) draft of something to be crafted into greatness. She would grow and return to the story. She would polish and perfect it until it shone. Her only obstacles could be defeated.
It was done.
She was finished. It was complete.