Villager
10-04-02, 07:03PM
This isn't a poem. It's part of a story/idea I've been working on. What I want is ideas that you think would surround this well; be it before, after, or during. Anything you think would be good. THe story as a whole has lost its direction and I am unsure where to put certain scenes. This is a particularly problematic scene.
A pebble. Just a solitary stone, its curved face reflecting a glimmer of the moon’s light, a fraction of movement in the otherwise motionless night. There was nobody around at this time, they had all gone home. No buzz of daily life, no clink of machinery, the only noise was that of complete silence. He picked the pebble up, and played with it, his fingers caressing the smooth, content face. He imagined himself much like the pebble. They were both alone, both cold in the harsh night, both unwanted. He had found a friend in his pity. All around him nobody cared, and yet everyone looked down at him. He was trodden on by all but did nothing in provocation, he had done nothing wrong. He wondered if his understanding of right and wrong was like other people’s. Did other people even think about right and wrong? How can they give a reason for his inferiority when he only ever did what seemed like the best thing to do. He was never aware of hurting anyone, couldn’t remember doing something which he knew was wrong. Of all things these questions haunted him the most. ‘Why am I alone’?
There were others like him, many. Wherever he went he always found others who shared his fate, but he was still alone. Long had the hard and unwelcoming routine of his life become predictable, but as time went on he began to lose hope that there was a better future awaiting him, some radical outside change that would swap his life for another. He habitually told himself otherwise, but he feared that for a long time to come he would never know more than the misery and hunger than had been the only constant in his still short life. When he thought about his pains and his hunger his head began to hurt and the empty space in his stomach seemed to make itself that bit louder, but he could hardly help it. There was nothing else. He had nobody, and so it had been for as long as he could remember. The others weren’t like him. They talked to him, on occasion, and sometimes he saw in them something of the lost and confused mind he bore himself. Usually though, they seemed accepting of what had been done to them and never had he heard words of hope or encouragement, their eyes always seemed resigned to bearing out life with as little suffering as they can. He gripped the pebble between his thumb and forefinger. Did the stone hurt too? He wasn’t sure if he cared if it did, but he was glad he had found it. Something that he could identify with, something that knew how he felt. Fatigue was numbing the sharp interruptions that sprang from his stomach, so he closed his eyes, the lonely moon his closing memory.
A pebble. Just a solitary stone, its curved face reflecting a glimmer of the moon’s light, a fraction of movement in the otherwise motionless night. There was nobody around at this time, they had all gone home. No buzz of daily life, no clink of machinery, the only noise was that of complete silence. He picked the pebble up, and played with it, his fingers caressing the smooth, content face. He imagined himself much like the pebble. They were both alone, both cold in the harsh night, both unwanted. He had found a friend in his pity. All around him nobody cared, and yet everyone looked down at him. He was trodden on by all but did nothing in provocation, he had done nothing wrong. He wondered if his understanding of right and wrong was like other people’s. Did other people even think about right and wrong? How can they give a reason for his inferiority when he only ever did what seemed like the best thing to do. He was never aware of hurting anyone, couldn’t remember doing something which he knew was wrong. Of all things these questions haunted him the most. ‘Why am I alone’?
There were others like him, many. Wherever he went he always found others who shared his fate, but he was still alone. Long had the hard and unwelcoming routine of his life become predictable, but as time went on he began to lose hope that there was a better future awaiting him, some radical outside change that would swap his life for another. He habitually told himself otherwise, but he feared that for a long time to come he would never know more than the misery and hunger than had been the only constant in his still short life. When he thought about his pains and his hunger his head began to hurt and the empty space in his stomach seemed to make itself that bit louder, but he could hardly help it. There was nothing else. He had nobody, and so it had been for as long as he could remember. The others weren’t like him. They talked to him, on occasion, and sometimes he saw in them something of the lost and confused mind he bore himself. Usually though, they seemed accepting of what had been done to them and never had he heard words of hope or encouragement, their eyes always seemed resigned to bearing out life with as little suffering as they can. He gripped the pebble between his thumb and forefinger. Did the stone hurt too? He wasn’t sure if he cared if it did, but he was glad he had found it. Something that he could identify with, something that knew how he felt. Fatigue was numbing the sharp interruptions that sprang from his stomach, so he closed his eyes, the lonely moon his closing memory.