The other day I was talking to one of my friends about everything going wrong in her life, and I realized that I really am blessed. She is suffering from unrequited love, a bad housing situation, and had been diagnosed with fibromyalgia. My little troubles of liking the wrong guy and struggling with my classes really seemed small compared to that. Recently I have been whining too much, and I'm rather ashamed to admit that. I have so many things going right, but I've been ignoring that.
For instance, the other day I found a recording made for me by Grandpa Bone. It's only seven minutes long, but in it he reminds me of his love and reminds me of his testimony. It was made only a few months before his death and is one of the greatest treasures in my life. Literally, it's a miracle that this recording survived, and I've made sure to have it in multiple locations so it stays with me.
I've also been very lucky in my work on my paper. The other day I was absolutely stuck on it, my draft was awful, and I was deeply frustrated. I took a day off, saw a movie with my roommate, and when I came back to my paper I knew where to go. Inspiration is a powerful thing, and because of Heavenly Father's kindness I have finally finished my paper. Now I have two days to edit it, and then I can submit it to the undergraduate contest that is attached to the conference. I'm very excited and confident--I know my work is good and that I am a talented presenter. I have faith that everything will go perfectly.
And lately my testimony has truly been edified. Whether it is my grandmother knowing exactly when to call and make sure I was all right or my mother giving me advice on things she did not know were going on in my life--God has been inspiring the people in my life to make sure I do not fall. The amount of love I have been shown in the past week has truly helped me, and I know I am not alone.
I know God lives and that He loves me.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Poetry
It is rare that I really find poems that I like, but I thought I might share the ones I do enjoy with you. I've tried to keep it to the shorter poems, if only because posting all of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight would be a little ridiculous. But, these three poems bring me a little bit of happiness. Hopefully they brighten your day at least a little.
Outwitted
by Edwin Markham
He drew a circle that shut me out —
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in.
---
The Highwayman
by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
---
I find no more peace
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not--yet can I scape no wise--
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
Outwitted
by Edwin Markham
He drew a circle that shut me out —
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in.
---
The Highwayman
by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
---
I find no more peace
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not--yet can I scape no wise--
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Self-Issued Insanity
Well, I have survived to the middle of the week, and that is something of an accomplishment. Between being dumped for a date and a root canal, I'm pretty impressed with the fact I have made it this far.
But that is not the point.
Recently I have had a lot of occasion to think--about life, loneliness, and race.
My week started with watching My Name is Khan, an Indian film about a man with autism who has to deal with prejudice against Muslims. For those who can read subtitles and handle intense material, I would certainly suggest watching it. I have never felt quite so uplifted by something that handles the difficult topic of racism. Ironically, this came after being forced to read Amiri Baraka's "The Dutchmen", which also handles the same theme. "Dutchmen" made me feel like I was worthless because I have white skin, and I was beginning to think that there was nothing about racism that would resonate with me. Thank heavens I was wrong. While "Dutchmen" bashed and ranted, Khan showed me a different perspective and allowed me to feel empathy for those I did not understand before. I just wished that everyone came at the topic with that sort of sensitivity and ability to address it peaceably.
Of course, the next day the guy I was supposed to go on a date with pulled me aside. "I'm dating this girl" were the words of doom that began the entire downward spiral. Turns out the day I asked him out he went on to ask another girl out, and things are becoming more serious. In a week. I'm just becoming frustrated with dating in general, if only because it seems like everyone else is getting asked out, engaged, married... It's horribly lonely, especially since I'm going to be turning 22 this fall. I know it's not that old--I tell myself so all the time--but I'm afraid I'm going to end up alone. Guys seem to always go for the girl who is under 5'5" and 130 lbs, which I definitely am not. I just want to scream to the entire male populace that I'm really wonderful and that they should give me a chance...but I don't think there's a megaphone quite that big.
Not even an hour after that charming discussion I found myself in a dentist's office getting a root canal. It was just one of those days. Thankfully the root canal was not that bad, and my dentist seems like a pretty good guy.
Life, though, is a really funny thing. I woke up this morning telling myself that things were only going to go up. "It can't get worse than a root canal and a date-ditch in one day, Kirstin. It'll be great." In some ways I was right--it did not get worse. I've realized that my opinion and perspective has a lot to do with how a day turns out, and the fact that I'm specifically looking for the day to go better has made it work. Scary phone calls and boring classes are nothing in the face of stubborn optimism.
This week is going to go better. I know it is. And if it doesn't? Well, that which doesn't kill you makes you strong, and that which does makes you dead.
But that is not the point.
Recently I have had a lot of occasion to think--about life, loneliness, and race.
My week started with watching My Name is Khan, an Indian film about a man with autism who has to deal with prejudice against Muslims. For those who can read subtitles and handle intense material, I would certainly suggest watching it. I have never felt quite so uplifted by something that handles the difficult topic of racism. Ironically, this came after being forced to read Amiri Baraka's "The Dutchmen", which also handles the same theme. "Dutchmen" made me feel like I was worthless because I have white skin, and I was beginning to think that there was nothing about racism that would resonate with me. Thank heavens I was wrong. While "Dutchmen" bashed and ranted, Khan showed me a different perspective and allowed me to feel empathy for those I did not understand before. I just wished that everyone came at the topic with that sort of sensitivity and ability to address it peaceably.
Of course, the next day the guy I was supposed to go on a date with pulled me aside. "I'm dating this girl" were the words of doom that began the entire downward spiral. Turns out the day I asked him out he went on to ask another girl out, and things are becoming more serious. In a week. I'm just becoming frustrated with dating in general, if only because it seems like everyone else is getting asked out, engaged, married... It's horribly lonely, especially since I'm going to be turning 22 this fall. I know it's not that old--I tell myself so all the time--but I'm afraid I'm going to end up alone. Guys seem to always go for the girl who is under 5'5" and 130 lbs, which I definitely am not. I just want to scream to the entire male populace that I'm really wonderful and that they should give me a chance...but I don't think there's a megaphone quite that big.
Not even an hour after that charming discussion I found myself in a dentist's office getting a root canal. It was just one of those days. Thankfully the root canal was not that bad, and my dentist seems like a pretty good guy.
Life, though, is a really funny thing. I woke up this morning telling myself that things were only going to go up. "It can't get worse than a root canal and a date-ditch in one day, Kirstin. It'll be great." In some ways I was right--it did not get worse. I've realized that my opinion and perspective has a lot to do with how a day turns out, and the fact that I'm specifically looking for the day to go better has made it work. Scary phone calls and boring classes are nothing in the face of stubborn optimism.
This week is going to go better. I know it is. And if it doesn't? Well, that which doesn't kill you makes you strong, and that which does makes you dead.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Color: Me
Color: Me
I’m white
--skin the color of a fine piece of parchment.
The world tells me, orders me, to hate that
To hate myself.
All of the crimes of the past:
A skin color?
Nobody ever committed a gross injustice--
Unless they were white.
White. Caucasian. Trash?
I don’t believe it,
That I’m worthless because of my flesh.
Hate me for my mind,
Disregard me for the words that come out of my mouth,
Loathe me for the things I do--
But never judge me by my skin.
I am not a portrait of the past.
I am the present, the future, the inside--
Me.
I’m white
--skin the color of a fine piece of parchment.
The world tells me, orders me, to hate that
To hate myself.
All of the crimes of the past:
A skin color?
Nobody ever committed a gross injustice--
Unless they were white.
White. Caucasian. Trash?
I don’t believe it,
That I’m worthless because of my flesh.
Hate me for my mind,
Disregard me for the words that come out of my mouth,
Loathe me for the things I do--
But never judge me by my skin.
I am not a portrait of the past.
I am the present, the future, the inside--
Me.
Friday, August 27, 2010
School = Stress
So, here we are at the end of the first week of school. I feel quite proud of myself to still be alive, especially considering how much homework I've had in the past four days.
It looks like I am going to be nothing if not busy. To start with, I am working on two different plays this semester. I will be working as dramaturge for "Love's Labors Lost" (which means I look up the words they don't know and make sure they stay accurate to the world of the play), and I will also be assistant directing "The Glass Menagerie". Those all by themselves would be enough to make life exciting, but I never know when to stop. I'm also taking a Methods of Theatre Education class with Michael Bahr, who directs the Utah High School Shakespearean Competition; three English classes; my theatre capstone; and, I'm also taking a math class. If I survive to the end of the semester I will probably be very happy, not to mention highly prepared for the next phase of life.
In all actuality, this semester does not scare me. I am very excited to get to work on all of the projects that await me, and I really feel like this is the time to prove myself to myself. The fact that I get to go to Ohio for the Shakespearean Conference and do so much hard work with my classes is the sort of challenge I live for. Besides, it just goes to prove that I am ready for the things that are coming in my career. Speaking of which, it looks like I will get to do an assistantship in the spring and be able to help teach the Shakespeare Drama Lit class, which would be horribly exciting.
I'm just... so enthused about this semester. I can't wait to take it on, tackle it, and conquer it.
It looks like I am going to be nothing if not busy. To start with, I am working on two different plays this semester. I will be working as dramaturge for "Love's Labors Lost" (which means I look up the words they don't know and make sure they stay accurate to the world of the play), and I will also be assistant directing "The Glass Menagerie". Those all by themselves would be enough to make life exciting, but I never know when to stop. I'm also taking a Methods of Theatre Education class with Michael Bahr, who directs the Utah High School Shakespearean Competition; three English classes; my theatre capstone; and, I'm also taking a math class. If I survive to the end of the semester I will probably be very happy, not to mention highly prepared for the next phase of life.
In all actuality, this semester does not scare me. I am very excited to get to work on all of the projects that await me, and I really feel like this is the time to prove myself to myself. The fact that I get to go to Ohio for the Shakespearean Conference and do so much hard work with my classes is the sort of challenge I live for. Besides, it just goes to prove that I am ready for the things that are coming in my career. Speaking of which, it looks like I will get to do an assistantship in the spring and be able to help teach the Shakespeare Drama Lit class, which would be horribly exciting.
I'm just... so enthused about this semester. I can't wait to take it on, tackle it, and conquer it.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Chaucerian Cavorting
It's kind of funny, but the more I read about Chaucer the more I like him. He's sardonic, self-deprecating,and horribly silly, but he was a man who really shaped his world. As a writer he was able to influence kings and ultimately served as the foundation for an entire language--the most widely used language in the world. If I could be half so influential in my writing I would consider my life more than successful. I'm just grateful to have had a chance to learn so much about a great man, and I look forward to learning even more about him.
Friday, June 25, 2010
General Awesomeness
Well, I got my paper accepted to the Ohio Valley Shakespearean Conference! So long as I get help from UGRASP (the undergraduate research assistance program here at SUU), I should be heading to Toledo, Ohio this October to present. This does mean I am going to try and find Klinger, and hopefully my friend Olivia will be able to be found as well.
Lately my time has been taken up with writing--in fact, there are many days where it seems like it is all that I do. At this point I have a solid 3032 words on my high fantasy novel, which I am very excited about. I am so excited, in fact, that I am going to be just a little silly and post a bit of it for you. After all, if I can't share with you what's the point in writing? It's still got a lot of editing to go through, but I'm happy with it. This is just a segment of the first chapter.
Well, that's it for the moment being. Let me know what you think?
Lately my time has been taken up with writing--in fact, there are many days where it seems like it is all that I do. At this point I have a solid 3032 words on my high fantasy novel, which I am very excited about. I am so excited, in fact, that I am going to be just a little silly and post a bit of it for you. After all, if I can't share with you what's the point in writing? It's still got a lot of editing to go through, but I'm happy with it. This is just a segment of the first chapter.
He had not expected to die.
Not that way, at least. Taking his own life or dying in the war sounded a great deal more palatable than the mockery of an execution that awaited him. Then again, most anything seemed better than being drawn and quartered.
With his hands caught in the strangely reassuring grip of the manacles, he could not even tap his fingers to match the rhythm of the horse’s deliberate pace. The tightly shuddered walls of the carriage prevented him from having much of a view--there was not even enough light for him to see the myriad of bruises and cuts that transfigured his pale skin into a macabre parody of lace. He did not even have the benefit of a sneering guard to give strange looks to since the vehicle was practically a moving cell. No, the only company he had on his final ride was sound: the clomping and chomping of the horse, the shifting of the chains, and then there was Selen Plaza. At first the roar of the crowd was nothing more than a distant ripple at the very edge of his perception. Slowly it expanded into a furious rainstorm of noise until at last sensation exploded into his world with the opening of the carriage door.
Vicious sunlight slammed its way into his unexpecting eyes, causing the poor man to try and pull his head back into the comparative safety of the dark half of the carriage. The Sentinel in front of him gave a harsh command that could not be heard over the soundless screaming of the masses--only the movement of his lips suggested he had said anything at all. Confusion turned the skeletal lines of the prisoner’s face--he did not know what the guard wanted--but the answer became clear as he was yanked to the cobbled street. Ahead of him stretched what seemed to be a writhing tunnel of humanity, and at the end he could see a point where the crowd gave way to what looked to be blessed freedom. But that was not the case. At the end of that tunnel waited the horses, the chains, and the executioner.
With the half-hearted resistance of one hopeless of salvation, he let his feet drag as the police escort of fifteen Sentinels formed their ranks around him and tried to hurry the man to his death. “I wonder if they will run on time,” the prisoner wondered. “It would be awful if they were late getting home to lunch.” And yet his pace remained agonizingly slow.
The semidarkness of the gauntlet was nothing compared to the absolute brilliance of the stairs. Breaking free of the crowd was like surfacing from beneath a wave: there was simultaneously too much and too little going on around him. With no crowd to protect him from the sun, he was basked in the unforgiving noon sunlight and even more thoroughly blinded. A soft silence subdued parts of the crowd: prisoners had been brought to die at Selen Plaza countless times, but few had looked to be so near death upon arrival as the man standing before them. Everything from his glassy blue eyes to the traces of fresh blood on his clothing suggested the most extreme violence--both mental and physical--which was a new level of soullessness for the Politicians to have reached.
The prisoner did not care for the audience’s newfound awe for their government as he had a different battle to face in the form of a sharply angled staircase. He squinted at the faintly blurred shapes of the steps in an attempt to see them better, but misjudged his next step by a few inches. Biting pain--the one constant in his life since his arrest--crackled its way up his arm as the lip of the wooden step gnawed at his palm. Oxygen struggled through his bruised lungs as he tried to push himself upright, but the world seemed to twitch violently to one side at the simple attempt. Fighting back a gasping laugh, he lifted his gaze in order to share the cruel joke with the crowd.
But they did not matter. Nothing did in that moment--even the pain melted away. Caught by a certain green gaze, the prisoner felt everything fall away from his bony shoulders. “Why did you come?“ he was tempted to yell, scream, cry, anything to get his friend to flee to safety. Slowly, panting like a dog caught in the summer heat, the man pushed himself upright and stood tall on the creaking step.
Silence.
For a timeless moment he felt free. But, as always, Lord Time shoved his way back into the forefront, this time in the form of a rough push from one of the Sentinels. As he stumbled up the remaining stairs he lost sight of who he considered to be the most important person in the entire world. The sliding clarion call of trumpets was nothing in speed compared to the flickering of his gaze as he tried to find that one face among hundreds. Left, right, near, far--nowhere. Words proclaiming his crimes were ignored in favor of hunting for that beloved face, and his heart seemed to double the time of its beats with every fruitless moment that passed. Sweat streaked its way through the dirt and gore on his face as the executioner attached the chains first to each ankle and then to each wrist.
And then, there towards the left of the fountain, the man found his refuge. His breathing slowed, and his hands fell limp in the executioner’s cold grip. Even as the growing roll of drums filled the air and the chains bit into his skin, the man smiled just a little. The whiny of a restless horse punctuated the din, and then his world erupted into a myriad of sensations yet again.
Anything.
Everything.
Nothing.
Well, that's it for the moment being. Let me know what you think?
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