Take my hand some other day
The roaring receded to little more than a whisper. A few of the survivors cautiously took their hands away from their ears and peered about into the darkness. After nothing followed for a time almost all took up their tools and rekindled sources of light. A few gathered and risked using what little remained in their flasks to clean the mud and ash from their faces; among them one was given distance out of respect. A voice from somewhere, delicate and careful, addressed the solitary figure, though its source remained outside of torch light.
“Master, what of the children?”
“Let the children flee,” the figure replied without looking up.
“But surely they must go accompanied to the vista.”
“We old ones are tired. It’s too rainy for a midnight walk.”
“There are some that would go.”
“They simply pine for an empty sky.”
“This entire day went without a sound. And now there is so much undone. Think you nothing of the land that dawn will reveal?”
“Such is the vicious nature of preservation.”
The voice did not respond. The solitary figure stood, his feet sinking into the waterlogged earth, his thumbnail digging into the moist helve of his hammer. He labored forward until wet soil gave way to vegetation, and he found himself standing in a ring of kempt grass. “Tell them,” he began to say, though the roaring returned before he could finish.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 27th, 2007 at 10:48 pm and is filed under Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response.