natemellum
It cracked - the fire did.
Noticed by none, it continued, in no demure.
An old man continued too.
As all heard his pauses, and rises, and falls.
The fire - it cracked.
There are 246 tiles on the floor. 246. And the room is a rectangle. I know because the tiles aren't the same amount on the length and width. It's terribly sad everyone one who sits at this desk is going to have to read the 'shuttup' which was scribbled incoherently and can only be seen in a certain angle of pale light. It'd be much nicer to have something encouraging, or a puzzle to solve maybe, at least I wouldn't be stuck making up things to do, like, counting tiles...
"How many?"
Five. I wanted to say five. It was always five. When had it not been? I couldn't remember a time. Say anything different was insolence, I knew that. Why do they have to ask, must I be reminded constantly? Apparently.
"Four. There are four in a our party."
I was glad of it. I could see the hills rolling around us, and the other mud huts dotting them. I could see we were surrounded. And I was glad of it. Glad to have the tears of the heavens angrily diving into the tin roof above us and on the earth around us.
A large, round, brusque man walked to the microphone. He seemed to gather up his words before he spoke, they were buried deep within his large frame. As a man who'd done his job well, but maybe a bit too long for the liking of newer folks, he gave speeches out of a certain duty and not because he overly enjoyed addressing the shapeless public.
Full of awe, cold stones, cold hearts, and irony, they stand as a testimony of too many things:
Of man's ability to build upward, but not inward.
There wasn't anything like coming home, home way out here and across the ocean, after that. After all that. Home was like a dream and war was your life. You wouldn't believe it ended, it was too big for that.
It wasn't until I smelled home that I knew I was there. I saw the house and the plowed fields and the big patio with the chipped, blue chair. But I didn't know it until the breeze of the plains floated through the window. The breeze had passed through the barn before the car, and I smelled the barn; the hay, the straw, the musty. It brought my whole childhood back to me along with the war.
There has to be the knowledge of a thing, in order for your understanding of it to shine through. The goal is: concise, succinct, clear. In short, if it is short because it's made up and not true, it will show; if it is because you know it well and put it into 5 words instead of 10, it will be a classic.
As she sat I could see it building within her. She was trying to ignore hearing, which caused the feeling she had. But when your work is that important and all of you shows up to write, the smallest hard noises ring through you, bringing a clanging halt to your mental train, and she had shown up today. At last, almost to my relief more than her own, she stood with an authority which immediately brought the noise of the others to a stop.
WIthout looking at anyone, she took her seat, and kept writing.
It occurred to him as he sat and tugged methodically at his pipe, the vast and peculiar way in which Nature mirrors our own natural state. He had traveled and seen, and conversed, and inspired and been inspired, but his feet were weary, his clothes tattered and his mind wander-some.
The bird settled agilely in it's nest with the product of it's wanderings, he mused, and decided it should soon be the case for him.
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