A story.... Sherry, you know this one.
Dec. 21st, 2004 04:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
joegodaIn the Village of ShopKeepers, if you go left from the Dragon Gate, and head
past the village square, which isn't really square, you'll see a small alleyway
of to the right.
If you travel down that alleyway, and go alllll the way to the end you'll see a
tall 3 story building.
At the very tippy top of the building, there's a window where the attic is and
if you were to look in this attic window, you'd see stacks and piles and
bunches and tons of paper and books old ink wells, old pens; sharpies, bics,
quills.
It's all illuminated by one single lamp, way in the corner over a small desk,
which has 3 legs of the same length and the 4th, well, it's propped up by a
book. Sitting at that desk is an old old older than old man with little wisps
of hair on his ears and little round glasses sitting on a long pointed nose.
In his hand is one of a hundred pens on his desk, and he's writing writing
writing on parchment,on paper, on old phone books, on anything that will hold
the letters. Even his clothing are full of words.
And on a night when the moon is full, and the wind is high, sometimes you can
see him stop writing.
The sound of the scritch scritch scritching will stop, and the chair he is
sitting in will screeeeeech away from the desk, and, wearily, tiredly, he will
gather up the story he just finished and scramble his way to the attic window,
and with a heavier sigh than stone ever made, he'll open the window and wait.
He'll wait for the moon to have just the right shadow, for the taste in the
wind to have just the right flavor and then...
And Then, with a capital T, he'll take the story he's written and FLING it out
the window, with as much strength as his arm can muster and you know?
Those pages just seem to take wing and fly away, out out out to the world to
find, to seek, to locate just those children that need them the most.
And if you were to watch the man at the window, after the pages were all flown
away, you'd see just the tiniest hit of a tear in his eye, and just the
smallest possibility of a smile on his old craggy face,right before he closes
the window and shuffles his tired, lonesome way back to the chair, the desk,
the pen and his dreams
The end
past the village square, which isn't really square, you'll see a small alleyway
of to the right.
If you travel down that alleyway, and go alllll the way to the end you'll see a
tall 3 story building.
At the very tippy top of the building, there's a window where the attic is and
if you were to look in this attic window, you'd see stacks and piles and
bunches and tons of paper and books old ink wells, old pens; sharpies, bics,
quills.
It's all illuminated by one single lamp, way in the corner over a small desk,
which has 3 legs of the same length and the 4th, well, it's propped up by a
book. Sitting at that desk is an old old older than old man with little wisps
of hair on his ears and little round glasses sitting on a long pointed nose.
In his hand is one of a hundred pens on his desk, and he's writing writing
writing on parchment,on paper, on old phone books, on anything that will hold
the letters. Even his clothing are full of words.
And on a night when the moon is full, and the wind is high, sometimes you can
see him stop writing.
The sound of the scritch scritch scritching will stop, and the chair he is
sitting in will screeeeeech away from the desk, and, wearily, tiredly, he will
gather up the story he just finished and scramble his way to the attic window,
and with a heavier sigh than stone ever made, he'll open the window and wait.
He'll wait for the moon to have just the right shadow, for the taste in the
wind to have just the right flavor and then...
And Then, with a capital T, he'll take the story he's written and FLING it out
the window, with as much strength as his arm can muster and you know?
Those pages just seem to take wing and fly away, out out out to the world to
find, to seek, to locate just those children that need them the most.
And if you were to watch the man at the window, after the pages were all flown
away, you'd see just the tiniest hit of a tear in his eye, and just the
smallest possibility of a smile on his old craggy face,right before he closes
the window and shuffles his tired, lonesome way back to the chair, the desk,
the pen and his dreams
The end
