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Author Topic: The Mayor and the Well  (Read 606 times)

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Offline DuskbornTopic starter

  • The Crooked Path Walker
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The Mayor and the Well
« on: August 26, 2011, 09:44:04 PM »
Comments, critiques and suggestions - editorial or otherwise are welcome and requested.
Thank you for reading. ((Modified to fix some obvious typos))
==============================
Duty


It had been as it had always been. It was as it would always be. The wind howled and the sands scattered and the man awoke. It was morning. The time for rest was over.

He slid wearily from bed. He pulled the smock over his head and he took the gnarled oak handle of his broom. Steadying himself, he started for the door that hung exhausted on its hinges - grey light beaming through its tired boards. The room he departed without a glance was a plain and usual thing. Wood slats coverred the walls, as shadows hung sullenly hostage to a candle that never burned out but continued burning dim. The bed sagged under the weight of an unravelling blanket. A single picture hung on the wall. It was bleached of color or detail, a grey-black pane on a grey-black wall.

The man's feet moved, following the path that was followed in trudging, halting steps. His broom drug behind him in persistant protest. The light of day was indirect and ambivalent. It had no source and no destination. The buildings squatted all around him. Signs and billboards were blank, store fronts empty. There was no scent to this place. The sand that drifted here was not the man's concern. He was the Mayor here, but the sand here was not his concern.

He followed the street, waking along the worn stones that shifted slightly beneath his steps. He counted his paces, watching his rag covered feet. He would need eighty more before he was there. The post office was near him now. He never swept the sand there. The post office was thirty paces from the place that he was going.

The Well was at the center. It stood sharp and glistening, reflecting back a casual brilliance that gleamed alone in this town like a beacon into the fog. Stout and dignified, a thin crown of emerald moss adorned its lip. Water listlessly whispered from its throat. The Well belonged to the Mayor. This was the place that was swept. The broom protested no more.

He swept and the sand clung. Sand fought the effort, grasping the the Well's limey, stone bodice with stretching, uneven fingers, grasping through the straw broom. The broom continued swinging, the sand continued fighting. The constant even strokes nudged and shoved. Inevitable was the motion and determined, the broom moved relentlessly in its toil. Futility finally overcame passion and the sand was stripped of the Well. Cast aside, it lay before the icon in submission.

The Mayor sat at the edge in the place that the moss had left bare for him. The cool surface of the stone was welcome to his warm skin. The water whispered and he knew that his duty was done.

The Well was behind him. His room was ahead. It was time for sleep. Tomorrow he would tend the Well. Tonight he would rest.
It was seventy paces before he was sleeping again.

==================================
« Last Edit: August 31, 2011, 09:29:44 PM by Duskborn »

Offline DuskbornTopic starter

  • The Crooked Path Walker
  • Lord
  • Orgiest
  • *
  • Join Date: Aug 2011
  • Location: The Desert, USA
  • Gender: Male
  • Trying to remember what the reminder I left meant
  • My Role Play Preferences
  • View My Rolls
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Re: The Mayor and the Well
« Reply #1 on: August 31, 2011, 09:45:02 PM »
Divergence


It had been as it had always been. It was as it would always be. The wind howled and the sands scattered and the man awoke. It was morning. The time for rest was over.

He slid from his bed. His toes, touching the sand blasted boards of the floor. He knew it then. A sense, a prickling of his skin, something was amiss. A subtle change, alien and uncomfortable, had invaded his air. It tasted wrong.

He pulled his smock over his head. He reached for the oaken broom handle, but his fingers fell short, his nail glancing over its surface instead. Wrong. He grabbed it violently now, throttling the wood. Trembling, he stood and glared heatedly at the door. He started outside already raging inside. He stumbled at the threshold. Wrong, again.

The sand drifted, content to conceal the abomination in its wake. His steps from the day before were still imprinted into the shifting canvas. He followed with malevolent steps, scattering the dusts as he went. His city opened before him, looking upon his angry march with suspicion. The wind skittered listlessly around him. He sought the source of the perversion. He continued forward.

The Well was at the center of his city. It stood stout and rebelliously rigid. The water rippled in casual dismissal of his approach. The emerald moss was speckled with flecks of wet sand. The image froze him in his tracks. The rage flooded from him in one retreating heartbeat.

He saw and he was afraid.

A woman stood, magnificent and unconcerned, holding a thin board and scrawling a note as she stared at its surface. She seemed to take no note of him as he stood gawking at her presence. She was in his city. She was at his Well. She wore a brilliant white jacket. Her hair was short and a shade of commanding brown. Blue eyes snapped up to inspect him. He trembled under their weight.

"Motor muscles are developing well, I see. Responses are improving."

She said more, but her words were lost. A darkness began to fall over him, silencing her sounds and choking back the light from his eyes. Just before the last, he saw her leap back into the Well.

The Angel was gone.

The time for rest was now. He was twenty paces from the Well.