The World Upon His Shoulders day 2
Thoughts of that night and the kindness of the old man slipped across the surface of Atlas’s mind as he dipped his hands into the rock. He was now nearly fourteen years old, and he was deep into his fourth year Earth Pushing. The cold grey surface of the slate before him sat begrudgingly against his palms. With a thought, the molecules shifted, and the surface wavered. First just his fingertips sank below the surface, and then his palms, and before long, his entire arms were gone below the slate’s gritty face.
Out of sight, his hands felt the fluidity of the rock around them. Though to most it appeared to be stagnant, static and still, it had a motion to it, an ebb and flow; if one could manipulate that ebb and flow, one could push it and control it. With training, you could do it from a distance, and it was said some could even manipulate rocks miles away, or metal, even, as it exists as a purification of many of the elements found in stone, but few believed the former, and fewer believed the latter. For Atlas, it was all irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was what was in front of him at that moment, and with that mentality he worked through the day.
With a breath he began pulling his arms from the ground, distorting the earth only slightly with the extraction. His sleeves, made from a combination of microfilm (developed at the turn of the millennium as an alternative to leather and other animal-based cloth) and sand, carried with it thousands of shards of slate. By fragmenting the brittle stone along the length of his arms, and clutching the newly formed rubble with the sand in his shirt, he was able to harvest a great deal more slate than what would be possible without such a system. Atlas released the pieces once they had broken from the main body of the rock, and let them fall into the heavy granite tub at his side. Having filled it, he stood, put his hand on the edge of the tub and lifted, a little with his muscle, but mostly with Earth Pushing.
The walk back to the Depository was a long one, and he could have easily traversed it in minutes, skating across the dirt like an ice-skater on a freshly frozen pond, but he enjoyed the sounds of the forest around him. The trees were healthy, and, though not without plenty of space for growth, remained fairly modest in both width and height. The canopy over-head was thick enough to shelter from the harsh sun of the Northern Continent, but sparse enough to allow one the pleasure of a sunlight-kissed stroll. A mild breeze that smelled like moss and leaves and dirt and life danced between the trees and over the short, bitter shrubs that clung tight to the ground. Atlas listened to their roots as the soil’s silent waves swayed them imperceptibly to and fro.
At the dull metal window affixed to the side of the Depository, Atlas exchanged the shale aggregate for his day’s pay and, after checking out his belongings, he turned towards the setting sun and starting walking. Bellvale Valley, the city in which he lived, was an hour walk from the Depository, and as he walked, he entertained himself by conversing with the rocks.
total read: 941 words
total written: 3970 words
Out of sight, his hands felt the fluidity of the rock around them. Though to most it appeared to be stagnant, static and still, it had a motion to it, an ebb and flow; if one could manipulate that ebb and flow, one could push it and control it. With training, you could do it from a distance, and it was said some could even manipulate rocks miles away, or metal, even, as it exists as a purification of many of the elements found in stone, but few believed the former, and fewer believed the latter. For Atlas, it was all irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was what was in front of him at that moment, and with that mentality he worked through the day.
With a breath he began pulling his arms from the ground, distorting the earth only slightly with the extraction. His sleeves, made from a combination of microfilm (developed at the turn of the millennium as an alternative to leather and other animal-based cloth) and sand, carried with it thousands of shards of slate. By fragmenting the brittle stone along the length of his arms, and clutching the newly formed rubble with the sand in his shirt, he was able to harvest a great deal more slate than what would be possible without such a system. Atlas released the pieces once they had broken from the main body of the rock, and let them fall into the heavy granite tub at his side. Having filled it, he stood, put his hand on the edge of the tub and lifted, a little with his muscle, but mostly with Earth Pushing.
The walk back to the Depository was a long one, and he could have easily traversed it in minutes, skating across the dirt like an ice-skater on a freshly frozen pond, but he enjoyed the sounds of the forest around him. The trees were healthy, and, though not without plenty of space for growth, remained fairly modest in both width and height. The canopy over-head was thick enough to shelter from the harsh sun of the Northern Continent, but sparse enough to allow one the pleasure of a sunlight-kissed stroll. A mild breeze that smelled like moss and leaves and dirt and life danced between the trees and over the short, bitter shrubs that clung tight to the ground. Atlas listened to their roots as the soil’s silent waves swayed them imperceptibly to and fro.
At the dull metal window affixed to the side of the Depository, Atlas exchanged the shale aggregate for his day’s pay and, after checking out his belongings, he turned towards the setting sun and starting walking. Bellvale Valley, the city in which he lived, was an hour walk from the Depository, and as he walked, he entertained himself by conversing with the rocks.
total read: 941 words
total written: 3970 words