Singer
Author: Amata le Fay
Title: Singer
Story: Omni
Flavor(s): Teaberry 30 (the idle singer of an empty day)
Toppings/Extras: None
Word Count: 356
Rating: PG (mentions of death and unborn-child-death)
Notes: Jack spins a speech and a riot begins. // Ugh, must think of a better title... Writing this was the first time I felt like Jack was actually sincere. Hm. Character development.
"What can I say?" Jack surveyed the crowd, soaking in its sobriety. No one else spoke or screamed. The mob was at a lull, the quiet before the storm. "What could I possibly say to do justice to this tragedy, to mourn the bright souls that died too soon and empower you to be able to change the world for their sake? All I have are words. And what can words do, really?
"Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
I cannot ease the burden of your fears,
Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
Or bring again the pleasure of past years,
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.
"That was written by an ancient poet, William Morris. It too makes me ponder my job as a writer, the powerlessness that can come with it. What can words do? I am just another voice in the wind to be drowned out. For each man that I inspire to action, a thousand dismiss my words completely. I am just an idle singer of an empty day.
"Which is why I will let this too-true story speak for itself. This Machine, the Omniscience, killed in cold blood. It killed an innocent, joyful young girl. It killed the promise of the compassionate mother and loving wife she could have been, and it killed the promise of the child that she was carrying in her womb."
The bomb dropped, Jack stepped away from the microphone and let Colin Day fly into his galvanizing rage. Jack watched dispassionately, sympathy plastered in his face, and knew that William Morris had been wrong about words.
So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating for the steely sea,
Where toss'd about all hearts of men must be;
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,
Not the poor singer of an empty day.
Title: Singer
Story: Omni
Flavor(s): Teaberry 30 (the idle singer of an empty day)
Toppings/Extras: None
Word Count: 356
Rating: PG (mentions of death and unborn-child-death)
Notes: Jack spins a speech and a riot begins. // Ugh, must think of a better title... Writing this was the first time I felt like Jack was actually sincere. Hm. Character development.
"What can I say?" Jack surveyed the crowd, soaking in its sobriety. No one else spoke or screamed. The mob was at a lull, the quiet before the storm. "What could I possibly say to do justice to this tragedy, to mourn the bright souls that died too soon and empower you to be able to change the world for their sake? All I have are words. And what can words do, really?
"Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
I cannot ease the burden of your fears,
Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
Or bring again the pleasure of past years,
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.
"That was written by an ancient poet, William Morris. It too makes me ponder my job as a writer, the powerlessness that can come with it. What can words do? I am just another voice in the wind to be drowned out. For each man that I inspire to action, a thousand dismiss my words completely. I am just an idle singer of an empty day.
"Which is why I will let this too-true story speak for itself. This Machine, the Omniscience, killed in cold blood. It killed an innocent, joyful young girl. It killed the promise of the compassionate mother and loving wife she could have been, and it killed the promise of the child that she was carrying in her womb."
The bomb dropped, Jack stepped away from the microphone and let Colin Day fly into his galvanizing rage. Jack watched dispassionately, sympathy plastered in his face, and knew that William Morris had been wrong about words.
So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating for the steely sea,
Where toss'd about all hearts of men must be;
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,
Not the poor singer of an empty day.