(no subject)
Another drabble/summations post. prompt 3: the sun
It's through the brilliance of progression that the world sings, its roots of life and communication growing, stretching, entangling, snaring.
'The ships from the East have arrived at Venice's port,' they say, and the markets are abound with rumor and gossip. Perhaps there isn't much difference between the two, really, since it depends on who's doing the talking and who's listening. Each rumor turns into gossip and every gossiping girl boy child man change the rumors little by little, a painting of reds and greens and oranges and blues violently mixing together to form a murky gray-brown.
There is a gunshot as clear as a palette knife that cuts through canvas, and the clamor ceases.
A man walks through the streets, his form obscured by the white stained cloth wrapped around him, and he lifts his hands when he stops at the center of the square. The pistol is loosely held in his hand.
No one could react. They did not know what that metal device in his hand was (a faucet? isn't that only supposed to appear a century from now?), nor have they seen his style of dress before. Desert folk rarely walked on their cobbled roads or sat in their gondolas that ran through their watered passageways.
"Your lives are lies." His voice is the world, and every part of them hears it. It holds no accusation - only statement. "This city is a lie. The weapon I hold is a lie. All of these things are lies."
He reaches above him and his hand closes on air. When he pulls down, the skies and the sun and the earth fall, a clean rip in two.
They find the man in his studio the next day, asleep on the floor next to the cracked plaster that fell from the ceiling. In one hand is his pistol; in the other, the second half of the painting that remained on the easel. They brought him to his bed and nursed him, already calculating the cost for a funeral they might have a few days from now and telling each other and themselves that it had been a waste; it was his best work, is he going even more mad?
The man sleeps on, aware of what he'd find when he woke up, the demands he'd get to see the doctors and the pills, and know that they were wrong.
There were better worlds that he held in the palm of his hand.
It's through the brilliance of progression that the world sings, its roots of life and communication growing, stretching, entangling, snaring.
'The ships from the East have arrived at Venice's port,' they say, and the markets are abound with rumor and gossip. Perhaps there isn't much difference between the two, really, since it depends on who's doing the talking and who's listening. Each rumor turns into gossip and every gossiping girl boy child man change the rumors little by little, a painting of reds and greens and oranges and blues violently mixing together to form a murky gray-brown.
There is a gunshot as clear as a palette knife that cuts through canvas, and the clamor ceases.
A man walks through the streets, his form obscured by the white stained cloth wrapped around him, and he lifts his hands when he stops at the center of the square. The pistol is loosely held in his hand.
No one could react. They did not know what that metal device in his hand was (a faucet? isn't that only supposed to appear a century from now?), nor have they seen his style of dress before. Desert folk rarely walked on their cobbled roads or sat in their gondolas that ran through their watered passageways.
"Your lives are lies." His voice is the world, and every part of them hears it. It holds no accusation - only statement. "This city is a lie. The weapon I hold is a lie. All of these things are lies."
He reaches above him and his hand closes on air. When he pulls down, the skies and the sun and the earth fall, a clean rip in two.
They find the man in his studio the next day, asleep on the floor next to the cracked plaster that fell from the ceiling. In one hand is his pistol; in the other, the second half of the painting that remained on the easel. They brought him to his bed and nursed him, already calculating the cost for a funeral they might have a few days from now and telling each other and themselves that it had been a waste; it was his best work, is he going even more mad?
The man sleeps on, aware of what he'd find when he woke up, the demands he'd get to see the doctors and the pills, and know that they were wrong.
There were better worlds that he held in the palm of his hand.