His Story
Once upon a time, there lived a handsome young angel who resided in the clouds far above the land. He was slender, clothed in layers of white silken robes, with light brown hair and piercing green eyes. On his back grew a majestic pair of feathered wings (just as all angels had, naturally), soft to the touch and of the purest hue of snow white. This particular angel had been tasked by Heaven to watch over the World, observing the planet and all of its changes over time, all of its inhabitants, all of their sorrows and all of their joys. The Angel was never to interfere with the course of things, as that was neither his decision to make nor his job to carry out. He merely needed to continue watching.
Months melted on into years, years gave way to decades, decades stretched in turn to centuries, and the Angel began to grow weary of his berth - not because he had grown tired of the World, but rather just the opposite: fascinated by all he had seen, he longed to be included in it. He sat alone amongst the clouds, lost deep in thought about his dilemma. At length, he emerged with a glimmer of an idea. If he could not be a part of the World, he would bring a part of the World to himself by writing stories about it. The people below fascinated him, and the Angel realized each of them were, in essence, a Story. Unlike angels, they each had a 'beginning' and an 'end'. Some Stories were long, with more ups and downs than could count. Others were lamentably short. There were Stories that made people cry, Stories that made people smile, and even Stories that made people laugh.
The Angel was not to interfere with the World, but there had been nothing said to him about not being able to write about it, and so he had decided that was precisely what he would do. However, the Angel had no tools to write with. Although he was not sure how he would be able to write these Stories without the proper implements, his determination was so great that he entertained nary a thought of abandoning his dream. After silent contemplation, he proclaimed:
"Though I have no parchment, I have the clothes on my back."
Without hesitation, the Angel tore off a strip of his own robes, the frayed edges fluttering amidst the spring zephyr.
"Though I have no pen, I have the feathers in my wings."
A long, white feather was plucked from the Angel's own body without eliciting whine or wince.
"Though I have no ink, I have the blood in my body."
The Angel, resolute, pressed the sharpened end of his quill into his own finger, drawing crimson life into it.
Tools in hand, the Angel set about his work. Not once did he bemoan the difficulties of writing so small so as to ensure he would have plenty of silken material to write on, taking great care to fill every possible inch with words on both back and front. He did not even notice, using quill after quill, the he had plucked so many of his own feathers that he could no longer fly. He did not care once he had realized that he had already plucked the last feather from his right wing - he simply started in on the left. Even when he was driven dizzy and faint from anemia, he rested only as long as was necessary to regain the strength in his hands to write before drawing his own blood once more.
As he continued to write, the Angel noticed a curious and amazing thing. Every person of the World, every Story, seemed to be a part of a bigger one. People met, and people parted ways, but their Stories had already indelibly intertwined. People touched each other - sometimes without ever realizing it, and sometimes generations later - and their Stories became part of something much bigger. The Angel soon realized that even throughout time and over great distances, every Story was not only connected with the Stories close to it, but with every other Story that was, is, or would be. With this, the Angel realized he had not simply been writing each individual's Story, but the Story of the World.
Months melted on into years, years gave way to decades, decades stretched in turn to centuries, until the day finally came where the Angel could write no more.
He shivered from the cold air, for he no longer had any clothes.
He no longer had wings on his back, for he had plucked all of his feathers.
He needed food and rest, for he had drawn all the blood his body had to offer.
And yet still the Angel yearned to write, for he had not yet had a chance to discover how the Story would end. That in mind, the Angel fell into a deep slumber, filled with despair.
When the Angel finally awakened, it was to warm rays of sunshine falling upon his face and to the soft feel of grass against his naked body. Above him, past the rich, green leaves of the treetops which rustled in the breeze, he saw only endless blue, dotted with a few traces of wispy clouds far, far in the distance. Gazing up into the infinite expanse of the sky, he knew he needn't worry any longer about finishing the Story. Now, he knew, he could start his own.
Months melted on into years, years gave way to decades, decades stretched in turn to centuries, and the Angel began to grow weary of his berth - not because he had grown tired of the World, but rather just the opposite: fascinated by all he had seen, he longed to be included in it. He sat alone amongst the clouds, lost deep in thought about his dilemma. At length, he emerged with a glimmer of an idea. If he could not be a part of the World, he would bring a part of the World to himself by writing stories about it. The people below fascinated him, and the Angel realized each of them were, in essence, a Story. Unlike angels, they each had a 'beginning' and an 'end'. Some Stories were long, with more ups and downs than could count. Others were lamentably short. There were Stories that made people cry, Stories that made people smile, and even Stories that made people laugh.
The Angel was not to interfere with the World, but there had been nothing said to him about not being able to write about it, and so he had decided that was precisely what he would do. However, the Angel had no tools to write with. Although he was not sure how he would be able to write these Stories without the proper implements, his determination was so great that he entertained nary a thought of abandoning his dream. After silent contemplation, he proclaimed:
"Though I have no parchment, I have the clothes on my back."
Without hesitation, the Angel tore off a strip of his own robes, the frayed edges fluttering amidst the spring zephyr.
"Though I have no pen, I have the feathers in my wings."
A long, white feather was plucked from the Angel's own body without eliciting whine or wince.
"Though I have no ink, I have the blood in my body."
The Angel, resolute, pressed the sharpened end of his quill into his own finger, drawing crimson life into it.
Tools in hand, the Angel set about his work. Not once did he bemoan the difficulties of writing so small so as to ensure he would have plenty of silken material to write on, taking great care to fill every possible inch with words on both back and front. He did not even notice, using quill after quill, the he had plucked so many of his own feathers that he could no longer fly. He did not care once he had realized that he had already plucked the last feather from his right wing - he simply started in on the left. Even when he was driven dizzy and faint from anemia, he rested only as long as was necessary to regain the strength in his hands to write before drawing his own blood once more.
As he continued to write, the Angel noticed a curious and amazing thing. Every person of the World, every Story, seemed to be a part of a bigger one. People met, and people parted ways, but their Stories had already indelibly intertwined. People touched each other - sometimes without ever realizing it, and sometimes generations later - and their Stories became part of something much bigger. The Angel soon realized that even throughout time and over great distances, every Story was not only connected with the Stories close to it, but with every other Story that was, is, or would be. With this, the Angel realized he had not simply been writing each individual's Story, but the Story of the World.
Months melted on into years, years gave way to decades, decades stretched in turn to centuries, until the day finally came where the Angel could write no more.
He shivered from the cold air, for he no longer had any clothes.
He no longer had wings on his back, for he had plucked all of his feathers.
He needed food and rest, for he had drawn all the blood his body had to offer.
And yet still the Angel yearned to write, for he had not yet had a chance to discover how the Story would end. That in mind, the Angel fell into a deep slumber, filled with despair.
When the Angel finally awakened, it was to warm rays of sunshine falling upon his face and to the soft feel of grass against his naked body. Above him, past the rich, green leaves of the treetops which rustled in the breeze, he saw only endless blue, dotted with a few traces of wispy clouds far, far in the distance. Gazing up into the infinite expanse of the sky, he knew he needn't worry any longer about finishing the Story. Now, he knew, he could start his own.