|
1:34am Dec 4 2011 (last edited on 2:04am Dec 4 2011)
|
Normal User
Posts: 62
|
The Fatalist. He has no name, he has no form, he has no purpose. He was the most feared person in the world for two centuries. Then, without warning, he just disappeared. Vanished, taking all evidence of his existence with him. Eventually, though, just like all great men, he faded and became just a story, a story used to scare children at night. The Fatalist, the possessor of the demonic eye that sees truth, lies, lust, envy, hate, greed wrath, pride, and the spirits of the departed, was reduced to a mere myth. A shadow of his former self. and, quite frankly, he liked it that way.
***
The town of Amiste was a small town. The kind that elects mayors, not presidents. It was a tired old town, the town that when you looked at a map, you couldn't find it anywhere, simply because mapmakers deemed it as unimportant to add. Nestled in between two great mountains, the people of that town were strong and self- sufficient. They were, at least, until the Road to Amiste was built, and it became a metropolis, world renowned for it's natural beauty. It was then split into two halves as it grew. The agricultural half, which the villagers affectionately called Ag H, and the other half, the trading half, called Trad H. Trad H was always bustling, the tourists were so busy clamoring over each other like wild monkeys to catch a glimpse of the beauty in Trad H, that they ignored Ag H completely. Ag H was the half that no one really knew, just because it wasn't worth knowing. In the busy clamour of the afternoon in Trad H no one noticed the man with the strange headband walking with his head bent to the ground towards Ag H. The only man there who knew differently.
In Ag H, behind the old dilapidated barn, near the edge of the forest is a tree. An old oak tree to be exact. Withered and worn, the bark rough like sandpaper, and holes in the trunk from woodpecker's violent kisses. It is the oldest tree in the forest, the residents of Ag H whisper, that there is the tree where the witches sleep. This was, of course, not true, but it made for a good story, and a reason to keep the children out of the woods. The good thing about a story is that it can be molded like soft dough to form a slightly different story to best suit the teller. The new story with the old tree was every day, a strange man sat beneath the tree with his head hung low, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Not a witch, but a man. And this story was, in fact, true. There was a man, and there was an tree, and the world was always on his shoulders.
so how is it? it needs a bit of work, i know, and i'll post more once i continue writing, when my teachers decide they don't want to bury me under a mountain of homework. thanks for reading!
|
Normal User
