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Post by ASGetty ((Zovo)) on Oct 15, 2013 14:08:54 GMT -5
 DEADLINE: October 25th, 2013
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Oct 18, 2013 8:01:51 GMT -5
“Do you remember when we used to go to the pub? That pub … what was it called again?” There is no reply in the dark. The man seems to think for a moment. “Yes, that’s it. The King Will! Those were some good years. You used to do the karaoke and I would sit at the bar and cheer you on. We would party like there was no tomorrow. You always looked sexy, especially that little black number …”
He smiles but there is only moonlight with which to see it. His gruff and calloused fingers place stones on top of each other, carefully balancing each one in turn, creating miniature towers along the lake’s shore. He is slow and calculated with every movement; choosing each stone from beside his legs. The stones are tested for their smoothness using his fingers and ability to balance before being added to the art. The lake is small and surrounded by a dense forest. Not far from his feet, clad in tough and worn work-boots complete with steel-toe-caps, the shiny liquid of the lake laps quietly.
“I always wondered what went wrong, you know?” He starts talking again, although he appears to be alone with the lake and his stone-built towers. A harsh wind rushes over the small lake, pushing over the man’s stubble covered face; each whisker shivers in the breeze. He pulls up the collar on his Denim jean jacket to keep out most of the harsh night air. “Cold out here now … used to come down to this lake every summer. You liked to skinny-dip. It’s not summer anymore.” Tears glisten in the dull light but are briskly wiped away by the ever-present wind.
A tower collapses with the wind and the stone that caused the weakness is tossed casually into the lake. It creates good sullen thud as it breaks the surface and then ripples outwards to lap at the shire. Somewhere in the distance an owl screeches. The sound carries well in the stillness. He starts making another tower. There’s at least five others all balancing along the shore. He’s been here a while; long enough to heat the surrounding rocks with his slightly over-weight body. The tower starts to rise quickly in the silence.
“I wish it was still summer. If we could go back to … when everything was still fun. Back to when we didn’t have a care in the world. That would be my one wish and also my only regret.” His voice cracks and for the moment he gives up with the tower. His coarse fingers move to shift around in his pocket. He pulls out a squashed packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Do you mind?” There is no answer but he doesn’t appear to wait for one either. The sudden orange brightness from the lighter shoots out over the lake and illuminates his face briefly. He is in his mid-forties and unshaven. He has a bulbous nose that’s threaded with veins. Beneath his eyes are huge black circles and bags big enough to stash the world’s contents in. The cigarette is soon going, the little red tendrils fading to grey and dropping away with the wind. The cloying smoke hangs before getting dashed away. It’s a good blend, hand rolled cigarettes using the finest tobacco.
He savours the moment to take a few big mouthfuls’ of smoke before tapping away the rest of the ash. “You never did like the smell of smoke. Guess you can’t stop me now.”
The cigarette is stubbed out on some of the art, knocking it over for a final time. He gets up. His big boots cause a few of the stones to tumble away down to the lake, causing more ripples and tiny plops in the silence. It takes a lot to get his large frame up but he manages it slowly and with a grunt or two. Once on his feet he strides purposefully back to his truck. It’s a beaten up old Ford truck, parked up near the forest edge. The trucks’ mostly rust more than anything else. He opens the tarp covering and pulls out some wood and a fuel canister and heads back to the edge of the lake. His eyes never leave the ground. His steps crunch over the stones until he is stood before a white bed sheet that appears to be covering something large. The eyes flit over the cover in a sad and regretful manner. He exhales a large sigh, the stench of the cigarette still lingering on his breath.
“I loved you …” he pauses, thinking what to say, “but it’s obvious now. You didn’t love me. You said you did but those were only words.” He places the wood in a small pile and grabs the corner of the sheet and yanks. The fabric whisks away and underneath is the frail body of a woman. She’s slumped over the rocks, her body twisted and contorted in ways not possible. Even in the moonlight her body shows the damage done to it. There are bruises and blood spills from her nose and mouth. Along her arms are more bruises and at least three broken bones. One of the bones has broken the skin. The pale light bone almost shines in the light. She is wearing what appears to be a nightie but that is stained with blood.
He tosses aside the bed sheet which crumples over some of the logs. “You made it go wrong,” his tone is venomous. “It was your fault. I told you not to talk to him. You didn’t listen.” This time his voice does break and quickly the tears follow. He gulps down the hurt. “I didn’t want to do this but you made me.”
He picks up her body, which is easy enough to do for the broad man, but her head slumps back heavily. Soon she is on the fire pile and a match is lit.
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LLV
Junior Scribe
Posts: 17
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Post by LLV on Oct 25, 2013 18:26:17 GMT -5
"Try again."
Furrows crease my brow as I bend to set the stones flat against the sand, wrists turning smoothly; I must've done this a thousand times, and yet balance eludes me. With a scowl reserved for my teacher, I sit on an old storm-felled pine.
"Begin," his voice floats through the early morning air.
And I do. Slowly. I close my eyes and allow my senses to see what my vision denies: trees on the far side of the lake whispering with the breeze, fish rippling through the water, birds greeting the rising sun. And deeper: currents of wildlife thought, the caress of light wafting through clouds. The dark is colored by flashes, then impressions of vital energy that surrounds me.
I focus on what is in front of me - five oval shapes, clumps of compressed air and stone - and slowly shape my will and need. A pebble rises and settles on the log opposite where I sit.
Quickly, I search out the next and repeat the process, painstakingly balancing it atop the first.
Each stone added to the growing tower requires additional concentration, and therein lies the lesson. I succeed in placing the fourth pebble - and hold my breath as it wobbles unsteadily. I feel moisture coating my forehead and try to ignore it. But the instant I recognize its presence, my attention slips.
My eyes open to find the pebbles in disarray.
"This is a damned stupid exercise..." Into the stillness my voice intrudes, irritation clearly evident.
"Balance you must learn if you wish to impose will on ordered world." The foreign tongue dances with phonemes, making music of speech.
"Will alone you have, but how useful when you lack delicate touch needed for gentle workings?"
For the hundredth time I want to whip around with a smart comment. Or even to hurl the rocks at him. But I remember the strictures binding him to my teaching, and grit my teeth, anticipating the words to come:
"Try again."
~~~
Two days pass, and the lesson continues. Fasting to achieve a mental sharpness, my stomach protests, citing cruel treatment. Mind weary, body sore, I accept each trial and loss with apathy born of part boredom and part acceptance that maybe I just don’t have the discipline to rein in my wandering mind.
Each time I attempt to focus my will on those rocks, a stray thought or emotion or sense of thing intrudes, shattering my concentration. It isn’t a matter of blanking my mind and thoughts - quite the opposite. It is an open invitation to all my senses: to See without seeing, Feel without touching, Hear without listening. To soak up as a sponge all that surrounds me, and then distill that overwhelming connectedness to focus on one object at a time, then two, then three, until all the pebbles are separate gleaming threads in the tapestry of colors in my mind, slowly blackening out the background so only they remain.
To say that's difficult is a vast understatement in the face of an onslaught of sensation.
And so, on this new-moon night, we begin anew.
The darkness is all encompassing before my open eyes, but still I close them and sink into the consciousness of land around me. It's become easier - seeing the trees dancing elaborate patterns with their branches, hearing the owl serenade the night, feeling the water sinuously licking the shore. Watching currents that guide each and every interaction in the forest darkening the palette of violets and blues and blacks that color the night. Sensing the residual heat in the stones, mockingly in an ordered row, awaiting my mind’s touch.
I begin with the first and easiest. One stone with no need to split my focus. Another joins it, lying gently only by force of my mind. Edge to edge another two balance atop those and all that remains is the last, the hardest. I must suppress gravity and remind the air within the stone of what it once was and how it could be again.
Moments pass, and I slowly open my eyes, not quite sure that what I expect has come to pass. And I know that opening my eyes will kill my focus and send the round, egg like stones crashing to the sand. But for a second or two, what I see surprises me, and I feel my mouth stretching upwards, breaking the mask of apathy.
All five pebbles are perfectly balanced on the log, held there by sheer will alone!
"Well done, friend."
And the timelessness that enveloped the tableau suddenly snaps and sends the world back into motion. Trees rustle, the lake laps against the shore, and nearby bushes shake as a night borne predator gives chase to prey. The fullness of the tapestry blooms into focus once more, though in a more mundane way, and I sigh into the night, mind at ease with my recent accomplishment.
I wish to turn to my teacher, to see him acknowledge my triumph, and chafe at my desire; to do so will violate our agreement to accept his lessons. But this once I make the exception and turn –
And meet with a mist, a vapor – a dissipation of his self from where he kept vigil over my struggles. Disappointed, I turn back to gather my things, but as the fog passes by me, I feel a touch of mind and hear his voice fading into the night:
“Balance you achieved this night, but forget not that to truly learn you must apply to all things.”
Easterly clouds over the lake’s far shore reflect a growing light as comprehension dawns in me. The true lesson in balance lies not with the stones. True balance must first come from within, with a tempering of my impulses and a serenity of spirit.
I swing my carrysack over my shoulder and consider the stones in my palm. I smile at the rising sun.
“Not so stupid an exercise after all.”
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Post by dfdf on Nov 15, 2013 12:46:17 GMT -5
“Do you remember when we used to go to the pub? That pub … what was it called again?” There is no reply in the dark. The man seems to think for a moment. “Yes, that’s it. The King Will! Those were some good years. You used to do the karaoke and I would sit at the bar and cheer you on. We would party like there was no tomorrow. You always looked sexy, especially that little black number …”
He smiles but there is only moonlight with which to see it. His gruff and calloused fingers place stones on top of each other, carefully balancing each one in turn, creating miniature towers along the lake’s shore. He is slow and calculated with every movement; choosing each stone from beside his legs. The stones are tested for their smoothness using his fingers and ability to balance before being added to the art. The lake is small and surrounded by a dense forest. Not far from his feet, clad in tough and worn work-boots complete with steel-toe-caps, the shiny liquid of the lake laps quietly.
“I always wondered what went wrong, you know?” He starts talking again, although he appears to be alone with the lake and his stone-built towers. A harsh wind rushes over the small lake, pushing over the man’s stubble covered face; each whisker shivers in the breeze. He pulls up the collar on his Denim jean jacket to keep out most of the harsh night air. “Cold out here now … used to come down to this lake every summer. You liked to skinny-dip. It’s not summer anymore.” Tears glisten in the dull light but are briskly wiped away by the ever-present wind.
A tower collapses with the wind and the stone that caused the weakness is tossed casually into the lake. It creates good sullen thud as it breaks the surface and then ripples outwards to lap at the shire. Somewhere in the distance an owl screeches. The sound carries well in the stillness. He starts making another tower. There’s at least five others all balancing along the shore. He’s been here a while; long enough to heat the surrounding rocks with his slightly over-weight body. The tower starts to rise quickly in the silence.
“I wish it was still summer. If we could go back to … when everything was still fun. Back to when we didn’t have a care in the world. That would be my one wish and also my only regret.” His voice cracks and for the moment he gives up with the tower. His coarse fingers move to shift around in his pocket. He pulls out a squashed packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Do you mind?” There is no answer but he doesn’t appear to wait for one either. The sudden orange brightness from the lighter shoots out over the lake and illuminates his face briefly. He is in his mid-forties and unshaven. He has a bulbous nose that’s threaded with veins. Beneath his eyes are huge black circles and bags big enough to stash the world’s contents in. The cigarette is soon going, the little red tendrils fading to grey and dropping away with the wind. The cloying smoke hangs before getting dashed away. It’s a good blend, hand rolled cigarettes using the finest tobacco.
He savours the moment to take a few big mouthfuls’ of smoke before tapping away the rest of the ash. “You never did like the smell of smoke. Guess you can’t stop me now.”
The cigarette is stubbed out on some of the art, knocking it over for a final time. He gets up. His big boots cause a few of the stones to tumble away down to the lake, causing more ripples and tiny plops in the silence. It takes a lot to get his large frame up but he manages it slowly and with a grunt or two. Once on his feet he strides purposefully back to his truck. It’s a beaten up old Ford truck, parked up near the forest edge. The trucks’ mostly rust more than anything else. He opens the tarp covering and pulls out some wood and a fuel canister and heads back to the edge of the lake. His eyes never leave the ground. His steps crunch over the stones until he is stood before a white bed sheet that appears to be covering something large. The eyes flit over the cover in a sad and regretful manner. He exhales a large sigh, the stench of the cigarette still lingering on his breath.
“I loved you …” he pauses, thinking what to say, “but it’s obvious now. You didn’t love me. You said you did but those were only words.” He places the wood in a small pile and grabs the corner of the sheet and yanks. The fabric whisks away and underneath is the frail body of a woman. She’s slumped over the rocks, her body twisted and contorted in ways not possible. Even in the moonlight her body shows the damage done to it. There are bruises and blood spills from her nose and mouth. Along her arms are more bruises and at least three broken bones. One of the bones has broken the skin. The pale light bone almost shines in the light. She is wearing what appears to be a nightie but that is stained with blood.
He tosses aside the bed sheet which crumples over some of the logs. “You made it go wrong,” his tone is venomous. “It was your fault. I told you not to talk to him. You didn’t listen.” This time his voice does break and quickly the tears follow. He gulps down the hurt. “I didn’t want to do this but you made me.”
He picks up her body, which is easy enough to do for the broad man, but her head slumps back heavily. Soon she is on the fire pile and a match is lit.
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