I actually just finished, and haven't done editing/etc.
By no means is this done, but I was wondering if some of the more scholarly massassians would like to read it? I'm very open to suggestions.
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I was born hundreds of years ago. My father was a craftsman. His hands were rough and strong. His shoulders were broad, and his vision was exquisite. He died when I was very young, and his memory is but a faint mark in my long past. Look at my legs, and you will see him. I have the same strong shoulders, and like my father before me, I have grown old as a master of my profession.
My father was not a civil servant, as I am. He taught me well the few short years I knew him. He taught me where to be in the world, and how to know my place. Most of all, I learned from my father how to be content. Indeed, always have I been content.
As for now, I live in the frigid north of North of Japan. Winters are long, and summers are short. I have seen many years, and known many people. Only in passing, though. Acquantences, I guess you could say. I was born here, and have done no travelling. The hills around me are all I know. The village and its people, the seasons of this place, they are all that is familiar to me.
Ah, and the river. The river I know like no man. My favorite thing to do as I pass the time is watch the leaves float downstream. The sound of the water gurgling over the smooth round stones is relaxing to me. It is quiet on the river, and it has been a place of refuge all my life.
Ever since I was young, the river and I have been friends. We are not ones to talk, but we have spent many passing days staring into one another. As the sun sets, and the world turns to brilliant colors of orange and red, we are one. The sun sinks slowly in the sky, and our faces change, the river and I together.
It was during the red dawn of one cold winters day that I lost a dear friend of mine. His name escapes me now, but I remember his face. He loved the snow, and I could expect him to join me every year at the first snowfall. He never told me why he came, but I imagine it was to watch the lovely river as I did. We would stand together and watch the sun rise, before heading off to work.
He wore sharp black clothes, a stiff little hat, and had brilliant little silver buttons down his coat. He carried with him a very heavy gun. This one thing about him, I never understood. The people smiled at us when they passed, and they were always very kind to him.
I could feel some awful in the breeze, and in the way the birds were chirping. Something wasn't right. I could even see it in the river, who also bore a look of worry. When my friend came to join me for the day, he seemed afraid. His clean innocent eyes were not on the river and its flowing water. His eyes studied the road and the trees. He rested his hand on my shoulder, but I could give him no comfort. His was the problem, and I merely a spectator.
I longed to ask him why he trembled. I longed to ask what it was he searched for in the tree line, but he did not hear me. His ears were listening for something else. Footsteps crunched through a layer of fresh snow that had fallen in the night. Someone was coming from beyond the path.
I gave my friend all my support. It was all I could do.
The stranger approached, and the closer he got the more my friend trembled. He lifted his gun, and screamed. The stranger broke into a sprint, and came running at us with his head bowed low.
There was a burning flash of light, and a sound a thousand times louder than a flooding river. Faster than I could see, my good friend had been cut open by the steel of a strangers blade.
My friend fell on to me, as did the stranger. They both threw forth warm blood onto the clean white powder. Their blood ran together all over me. It dripped off into the waters of the river, who could never know the feelings that I was experiencing.
They both laid there cold and lifeless for hours. The snow slowly burried their wounds and weapons. I did not know their quarrel then, and to this day I do not know the why. Does it matter? I can tell you how they died, for I was there. And there I shall remain, until the end of time.
By no means is this done, but I was wondering if some of the more scholarly massassians would like to read it? I'm very open to suggestions.
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I was born hundreds of years ago. My father was a craftsman. His hands were rough and strong. His shoulders were broad, and his vision was exquisite. He died when I was very young, and his memory is but a faint mark in my long past. Look at my legs, and you will see him. I have the same strong shoulders, and like my father before me, I have grown old as a master of my profession.
My father was not a civil servant, as I am. He taught me well the few short years I knew him. He taught me where to be in the world, and how to know my place. Most of all, I learned from my father how to be content. Indeed, always have I been content.
As for now, I live in the frigid north of North of Japan. Winters are long, and summers are short. I have seen many years, and known many people. Only in passing, though. Acquantences, I guess you could say. I was born here, and have done no travelling. The hills around me are all I know. The village and its people, the seasons of this place, they are all that is familiar to me.
Ah, and the river. The river I know like no man. My favorite thing to do as I pass the time is watch the leaves float downstream. The sound of the water gurgling over the smooth round stones is relaxing to me. It is quiet on the river, and it has been a place of refuge all my life.
Ever since I was young, the river and I have been friends. We are not ones to talk, but we have spent many passing days staring into one another. As the sun sets, and the world turns to brilliant colors of orange and red, we are one. The sun sinks slowly in the sky, and our faces change, the river and I together.
It was during the red dawn of one cold winters day that I lost a dear friend of mine. His name escapes me now, but I remember his face. He loved the snow, and I could expect him to join me every year at the first snowfall. He never told me why he came, but I imagine it was to watch the lovely river as I did. We would stand together and watch the sun rise, before heading off to work.
He wore sharp black clothes, a stiff little hat, and had brilliant little silver buttons down his coat. He carried with him a very heavy gun. This one thing about him, I never understood. The people smiled at us when they passed, and they were always very kind to him.
I could feel some awful in the breeze, and in the way the birds were chirping. Something wasn't right. I could even see it in the river, who also bore a look of worry. When my friend came to join me for the day, he seemed afraid. His clean innocent eyes were not on the river and its flowing water. His eyes studied the road and the trees. He rested his hand on my shoulder, but I could give him no comfort. His was the problem, and I merely a spectator.
I longed to ask him why he trembled. I longed to ask what it was he searched for in the tree line, but he did not hear me. His ears were listening for something else. Footsteps crunched through a layer of fresh snow that had fallen in the night. Someone was coming from beyond the path.
I gave my friend all my support. It was all I could do.
The stranger approached, and the closer he got the more my friend trembled. He lifted his gun, and screamed. The stranger broke into a sprint, and came running at us with his head bowed low.
There was a burning flash of light, and a sound a thousand times louder than a flooding river. Faster than I could see, my good friend had been cut open by the steel of a strangers blade.
My friend fell on to me, as did the stranger. They both threw forth warm blood onto the clean white powder. Their blood ran together all over me. It dripped off into the waters of the river, who could never know the feelings that I was experiencing.
They both laid there cold and lifeless for hours. The snow slowly burried their wounds and weapons. I did not know their quarrel then, and to this day I do not know the why. Does it matter? I can tell you how they died, for I was there. And there I shall remain, until the end of time.