《Talking Heads》 1/4 ...and then the sun went out. ... What? The story is finished. What else were you expecting? After hundreds of pages and thousands of lines, there is no more to be told. There isn¡®t, really. Wait, do not take your feet off that footrest. No, stop, that bookcase doesn¡®t have anything else. Stop shuffling around¡ªno, not that book. Put it back to the green covered ones¡® place! Ah. Alright. Sit down. Lay your back to the soft cushion. Open the book, look inside. How unfortunate, the yellowed pages are empty! I wonder why? You wonder too? Alas, I have no answer. No, don¡®t say otherwise. I don¡®t know the answer. No matter how much you persist, I will answer the same. ...you are making things difficult. Just stay seated, don¡®t stand up. Here, the fireplace is burning with tender crackling wood now. Also a blanket, to keep you warm. Exactly. Would you want a cup of hot honey-milk? No? A coffee, is it? Quite mature I must say. Now, take a look at the book again. Not that rough, open the first few pages and look at the contents page. See, it is barely written. No, it is no magic. I just have not thought about the next story. Making a story takes a lot of time. It isn¡®t so simple as to imagine once and it comes all to you. Sometimes it does, most of the time it does not. The other books you ask? They are all ideas. Green cover ones are, to be precise. Red cover ones are discarded, yellow cover ones that you have read are finished. Black covered ones are waiting to be found. No, I don¡®t know why the colors are like that as well. Just they are there, like your coffee and blanket and couch and footrest which should not be here but still are. Now look again. The first twenty pages are there...twenty-one, yes. I am working hard, you know? Do not make fun of me. It is all for you to have read something, anything. Stop laughing. This is no joke. Do not make light of me, I am quite sentimental as you see. Look, I do cry. Look at my tears. They are all aquamarine, most pure, and my tear ducts are so fresh. What do you mean they can¡®t be fresh? They are. I said so. Hm? The book, yeah. I understand you are curious about it, but reign it in. What if you repeated the same thing in it? I would have to scrap everything, then put another and then the sun went out, then voila! I would have no story to tell and you would have no book to read. Why that phrase? It is quite strong, isn¡®t it? No, using it too many times does not lessen its impact. In reverse, I do believe it keeps you at your seat. Does it not? Was I wrong to see you bubbling about it, searching that line at every single page in that amalgamation of words and letters, all crowded about to make the world around? Haah...you do you. I do not care. Alright. Open the book. Wait. Don¡®t peek at the first page yet. Take a deep breath, relax your shoulders. Now let me take that coffee table a little away, we do not want you to have a little accident. Don¡®t worry, I will give you your coffee when you want it. The blanket is heavy? No, you need it to keep warm. Let us add some logs to the fireplace and¡ª ********* You did it again, didn¡®t you? I told you to wait a little. No, I told you. I told you thrice, or the fourth time. You are... Okay, I won¡®t be angry. I promise. Now, can you tell the title for me? No, aloud. Louder, so that we can hear. No? You can''t? Alright...then keep reading. Let¡®s see; the setting is alright... You are in an inn in a desolate town, on the outskirts of the Faraway empire.(Do not mention my naming sense!) After spending the night in the rot-smelling room full of rats, you wake up to a grim morning cloaked in mist. Sunlight does not reach inside, even with the broken wooden window. The ground creaks beneath your feet, and fearing it breaking, you gather your belongings and get out.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. The hallway leading downstairs is a long one. The building itself is old, most likely the manor of a late nobleman who was struck down in the fifties¡® uprising. You do recognize the broken and scratched patterns on the walls as the imitation of the Ancient Language. Their state is horrid, however, to make any sense of it. How, you ask? You are an archeologist. A living historian as well, though an amateur one, trying to make it big. You have your expensive ink pots and raven-feather quills with you at all times, with research books and paper which are not easy to find around these parts. And tons of charcoal. You are here to research the uprising¡®s effects on the region. So you walk down the hallway and descend the round stairs to the first floor. There is not much sound as one would expect from an inn, with few patrons having their breakfast. Most have decent attire, unlike how the place might present itself to the outside, and so does the innkeeper standing beside the clean counter. Bottles of wine and barrels of ale and beer spread behind her, all gleaming under the chandelier¡®s shimmering light. You have not talked to her much yesterday, so finding the chance you approach her for some questions¡ª ...what do you mean you don¡®t want to? Come on, it will be alright. It is easy. Just say hello, ask for a breakfast, and mention a few tiny little bits of what you want without explicitly stating it. Really, it will be okay! ... I understand. No, do not feel guilty over it. This is alright. This is okay. It is in character to some extent, so do not worry about spoiling the story. Just..try a little stronger next time, promise? Okay, I have your promise. Now, you go near her and find a menu open. She, although friendly-looking, does not seem interested in a conversation. You point at the illustration of a scrambled egg and tomatoes. There are also peppers on it(your favorite!) and if you wish a little yellow cheese to go on with it. An extra five coins you pay for the cheese, in total 35 for the meal, and take your seat at a far-away table looking outside the window. Outside is chock full of mist. You can¡®t see anything a few meters beyond you, with the stone pavement alone visible to your eyes. You let down your bag on your feet and take out a piece of charcoal and a yellowed paper. Then you listen. Cling, clang, whooshes. In the time you struggled to make a choice, it seems, more people found their way down. Now there are workers(You did not notice them, truly.) going around the tables and serving meals and drinks and desserts and pastries to those who want. People flock, dressed fine and dandy, with black-buttoned white shirts and slim gray suits, and ladies who have frilled dresses and umbrellas fold and laid on their knees. A chatter starts to rise, then it turns to a loud exchange where most people would find it unpleasant and leave or complain. You, instead, focus your ears and listen. From a young age you had finer ears, able to hear what most could not, and learn what most would not. Though you attract a few gazes, most wondering if you are an artist of some sorts, you ignore them. ¡®¡®Mr. Wellington paid fifty banknotes for the deposit...¡®¡® ¡®¡®...yeah but it was no problem, the commander seemed a good fellow...¡®¡® ¡®¡®...he is a member of the Magnus Intellegentia. He is working for the established government...¡®¡® In a few minutes, that is until one of the waitresses brings you your meal, you write, and write, and write, then the entire paper becomes unreadable from the incomprehensible bits of knowledge squeezed together. You put the charcoal into your bag, wrapped in a towel of course, and fold the paper and hide it in your pocket. Another handkerchief you use to wipe your hand and thank the waitress just as she puts down the silver plates on the table. You dig in. The taste? Hm. How does tomatoes taste...it is juicy? But the meal itself is fried on a pan in an oven, with olive oil. There is a little excess oil used, so the eggs are oilier than usual. The tomato goes well with the green pepper, and since the cook did not use any paprika paste it isn¡®t spicy. The cheese, huh. Hm...It is stretched out and golden in color. Seems like they have good cheese around here. I mean, now that you made me narrate it, I¡®m hungry as well. Are you? Oh, you want to eat the same thing? I suppose that can be done. Hmm, let me get them from the kitchen... ... ... ... Done! Here. Let me lay this towel so the pan does not burn the table. Okay, slide the bread there. Oh, the coffee! Take it. Here. No, no, no, don¡®t take off the blanket. You need to stay warm. Here, break the bread. A fork, too. I prefer a spoon for me. Nom, nom, nom. It is good. You like it? I¡®m glad. Put it between the bread and bite. It tastes better that way. A little salty? No worries, it won''t do you harm. Of course, believe me! Eat tons. Nom, nom... Huh? You have a question? Of course, ask! Anything! About the story? Go on. Uh...a desolate town. Yes, it is a desolate town, but it is an inn. It is bound to have many visitors. The inn¡®s state? No, I know. The estate is rundown...but the rats? Uh. I mean...no, uh yeah the guests are dressed fine but you are as well...how do you say it, um... Okay! Okay! I get it! Stop talking with your mouth full. Now, since you are so impatient, of course I need to write fast. Do you really expect me to make a masterpiece on the first try? Just make it readable...? Sassy child. Alright then! You want a good story? I will give you a good story. I will give you a masterpiece! In fact, while you were waiting for the meal, I was writing! Yes! Writing! While preparing food! You can be grateful to me! Uh...no. Not this story. I know how this one goes, and it is...it won¡®t be suitable for you right now. Because you need to speak, and you do not like to speak to strangers. Don¡®t look down like that. Raise your head, hey. Look at me. Yes, look at you. You have such pretty, Sun-like eyes. Don¡®t let their light snuff out, alright? I know. I have written this story for you. You won¡®t need to speak much, but you still need to say a few lines. You will do it? Perfect! I¡®m so proud of you. The other story, you say? We will visit it again. Don¡®t worry. We still have some time. You still have enough time. Now, let me take that blanket off you for a moment. Stand up, stretch a little. I will take these back to the kitchen, so you move around. Don¡®t approach the fireplace, embers are a little wild tonight. ... ... I¡®m back. You are tired? Alright. Just take that book on the left bookcase. Green cover, yes. Sit down, let me lay the blanket on you. What do you want to drink? Coffee again? How mature! Ah, this time with sugar? Alright. Now, open the book. Take a look. Do you see the title? Read it aloud for me. ¡®¡®N-name of God?¡®¡® 2/4 A girl was born in a village, a flower bloomed in a meadow. Both were given the name of god. I happened to be the flower. I was to be an ox-eye daisy, ivory white in petals and a sunny pollen in the center. My emerald stem was shorter than most around, of those golden daisies and red peas and purple vetches, so I was not the most noticeable one. I do not know how long I have been here, nor for why I bloomed here. Had I bloomed before and lost my memories? Were I a fresh child born out of the wind, carried from the blasted seeds of my parent flowers? Was this meadow always my home? My hearth, who gave my name? I am aware of my name. My name is one so canny, so holy, that I might not be deserving of it. I do think so, for why would god¡¯s name be granted to me? To me, who does nothing but sway with the wind, who idles among all these beautiful gems? I think in vain. But thinking is all I can do for now. For now... ********* You? You are a neighbor girl next door, the girl who has the queerest name anyone has heard in the village. Your cottage, your village, the square and the gravel pavement to the city do not matter. You are, after all, not complete. You are not whole, lacking. No, not in that sense. You have just not found it yet. You will find it. You feel it. You know it in your beating heart and your sweating brow, there is something or someone out there seeking to fill that blank space. Where is it? Look at the next page. Hm...hm, hm. Okay, you can do it slowly. No need to rush. ¡¯¡¯Dad..dy, can I see the meadow?¡¯¡¯ Perfect! Now, your father looks at you across the room that you have disregarded before. He is surprised, of course. He rises, a little trembling in hands, and lifts you up on his broad shoulders. He takes care to not brush your head to the dusty ceiling. Your mother long gone, he is not exactly good at cleaning the place himself. ¡¯¡¯Of course! Of course, my dear! Why would I not allow it! Come on, put on your field dress. Let us go!¡¯¡¯ He helps you put on your dress, since your hands are too chubby to put on the buttons. He brushes your hair as well. He uses little strength. The wooden combs flow down the brown locks of your hair. It tickles your back. ¡¯¡¯Alright now, look at you!¡¯¡¯ He says and takes up his polished hunting dagger. ¡¯¡¯Look, how pretty you are!¡¯¡¯ You have no mirror. Mirrors are for the rich. So you look at the small, violet eyes and the large baby fat on your cheeks. They remind you of your brother? Ah, he is a cutie isn¡¯t he? Did you have pictures of him? Oh, we can bring some here in a while. Just ask. ¡¯¡¯...Mama? Can you...I...¡¯¡¯ It is alright. That is enough. They will do what they need to do. Should we get back to the story? Okay. He puts down the dagger, covering his face for a moment, and carries you up on his shoulders again. You get out and walk down the gravel path to the town square. Your father greets some people and some children wave at you as well. You wave back? How refined. Some talks about new packs in the forest and infestations come by, though you know there is little involving your father about them. He has his own little garden and meadow, and he is the sole hunter, so there is no danger to your livelihood. He assures you of that, again and again. ¡¯¡¯Don¡¯t mind their talks, dear. We are well-off. So long as I stand like a door, we will be fine.¡¯¡¯ You pinch his cheeks. He is unaffected, though groans, and leads you out the watchmen¡¯s huts to the trail of long grass where the farmsteads lay. To the blue horizon from where you stand there is a sea of gold and jade, crops swaying with a single poke of breeze, and within them beds of rainbow flowers stretching to your feet. The river moves not far from them, and you move near the mouth of the river farmers dig to make canals. A man waves his hoe at you two, and your father, oh, sure! You two wave back at him. By now there is a feeling growing in your breast. With each step coming closer to the meadow that you have never seen before, that feeling blooms. A sense of familiarity. Let¡¯s call it that, for there is no other word more suitable. ¡¯¡¯Your mother loved flowers. That is why...I kept them. You¡¯ll love them too, I hope.¡¯¡¯ ... ¡¯¡¯I¡¯ll...try.¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯Silly girl, speak after you¡¯ve seen ¡¯em.¡¯¡¯ After a while he lets you down before a field of rainbow colored flowers standing out from the rest. Most farmsteads are away from you, as well as the village that is but a hazy silhouette except its tall wooden towers. There is only the forest in the horizon, the tall green grass, and these flowers. Your father watches you move, brows tied together out of worry. ¡¯¡¯Ah...what do you think?¡¯¡¯ You take a look around, and take another one. You move around, delve into the bed of flowers coming to your shoulders and run round and round. There is a breath in there that fills you with energy. It gives you strength and breath of your own, with a smell so fresh and full! Run! Run, as much as you want! Haha, you like it? I am glad. ¡¯¡¯I am glad.¡¯¡¯ Your father looks away to someplace, his face out of your vision. That seems to be your chance, as you dip down to the ground and search. You look at the glistening stems, the bugs and small pests going into the earth or climbing the flowers. But there is not what you seek. Your heads bob up the sea of flowers, you take a sniff, and there. Just there, a smell so canny, so holy. Clearly separated from the rest by means unknown to you, yet only to you visible. You cast a look back and see your father tending the meadow. He picks apart some roots, carries bugs away, pulls earth apart and fills it anew. Distracted, yes. Quite. So this is your chance. You sprint to where the smell is and find yourself a cute little daisy with white petals quite shorter than others. It seems hidden, even when on top of it. If you were not it, and if the flower was not you, then no one would be able to find it until all roots and stems belonged to it and it was the single flower in this plains.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. But you found it. The flower? Yes, as you have guessed. Sea of gems doesn¡¯t do justice, does it? Ah, be careful touching...no, go on. Sorry. You caress the flower and stare into its golden seeds. You watch it sway by itself, not by the wind, and you smile. It brings you warmth, to see one like you. To know that you are unique like others, yet also not unique that you are alone. You pet its petals. The flower beams at you. You beam at it. There is a connection there, where you two fill something the other does not have. You two are almost whole, nearly complete. ¡¯¡¯You...are brighter than others. Don¡¯t worry.¡¯¡¯ The flower halts its sway. It stands straight, as if to rise, and the petals shake. Desperately, it is trying to convey something; but nothing comes out, nor anything appears, or anything happens to it. ¡¯¡¯Dear, what are you lookin at?¡¯¡¯ Your father places his chin on your shoulder, crouched beside you, and glances at the frightened shivering Sun. You feel his skin turn cold. ¡¯¡¯No!¡¯¡¯ He clutches the flower, then uproots it in a single motion. Earth sprays around, dirtying your face and dress, while your father inspects the leftover roots. ¡¯¡¯Dear, have you seen any like it? Was there any like it around?¡¯¡¯ He, in a rush, claws at whatever has remained, and like a hawk surveys round until he catches your figure. ¡¯¡¯No...¡¯¡¯ His eyes dim, the sun goes out. ¡¯¡¯Dear?¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯There was nothing like it...nothing! It was the only one! It was unique! IT WAS MINE!¡¯¡¯ You...you... ... Your father, frantic...hugs you. ¡¯¡¯Dear, what is wrong? Why are you crying? Dear? Please, tell me why...¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯...¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯Dear please.¡¯¡¯ You look down? At the empty flowers, you send a glance. He catches it, then gazes back at you. He has tears in his eye as well. He puts you down, cleans the earth from your cheek, and holds both of your shoulders. His grasp is tighter than before. ¡¯¡¯Dear, listen to me. That flower is dangerous. It would have destroyed your mom¡¯s grave, had I not taken it out. Do you understand?¡¯¡¯ ... ¡¯¡¯...am I, too?¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯What? Of course not! Why would you be? Dear, are you alright?¡¯¡¯ He checks upon you and spins you around. He pats off the mud from the frills of her dress. ¡¯¡¯Dear, don¡¯t worry. Don¡¯t cry...it will be alright.¡¯¡¯ Your tears... ¡¯¡¯Look what...I will make another meadow for you. I will, I promise. It will be full of Ox-eye Daisies and will look beautiful. I will do it. I will carve the ground myself and dig them myself. I will plant it and grow them and water them everyday. It will be big, it will be wide. I promise. So...¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯So please don¡¯t cry anymore.¡¯¡¯ Your feelings, I can see them. I feel them. You are more than upset. You are furious. More than that, your heart is broken beyond compare. You¡ª ¡¯¡¯Is it a promise, daddy?¡¯¡¯ What? ¡¯¡¯I promise.¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯Then I¡¯ll forgive you.¡¯¡¯ You...why? ¡¯¡¯...¡¯¡¯ I can feel it, buddy. I will continue the story...if you wish so. But can you tell me why you have forgiven him? You do not really feel what you say, so why? ¡¯¡¯I love my daddy.¡¯¡¯ ... ¡¯¡¯I love him. He loves me. My mama did, and my new mama loves me. I love her too. I hurt them...¡¯¡¯ ... ¡¯¡¯...but I made them upset. They have been upset ever since I was little. But they forgive me. Mister. That is why I forgive daddy.¡¯¡¯ I...understand. I am sorry, buddy. Shall I continue the story? ¡¯¡¯...no. I am complete.¡¯¡¯ You are? But the story is not. ¡¯¡¯It...is...¡¯¡¯ Are you tired again? No, do not force yourself to talk anymore. I get it. Here, drink your coffee. I know the blanket is heavy, but you need to keep it on. ¡¯¡¯Mister...¡¯¡¯ Shh. It is alright. ¡¯¡¯The other story...¡¯¡¯ Previous one? You want to read it? Okay, I got it. I made some adjust¡ª ...no? You want to begin where we left off? But you told me it wasn¡¯t readable. Are you alright with that? If you say so, it is alright. Then stay there for a moment. Let me get some honey milk for myself as well. Ah, the book is with me. You hoped to catch me off-guard, eh? Not this time! Just wait a little okay? ¡¯¡¯...it is lonely here.¡¯¡¯ I know. I promise I will be back in a minute. Sixty seconds. Counting down from...now. ********* He took out the dark-tinted glasses and looked at the room. There was a man standing on top of him, holding a picture book full of two children and two adults. One of them had violet eyes, the other golden-violet. ¡¯¡¯Why that accursed book?¡¯¡¯ He asked. He cast a glance behind the man, hearing the sobs of a woman. ¡¯¡¯The computer analyzed it. That is all.¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯...Got it. Which ones are the most precious?¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯Ah, they said this page¡ª.¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯Scratch that.¡¯¡¯ A rough voice boomed behind. The man retreated and showed the person with the children in the picture book. Almost a giant, muscular as well, with blood-shot eyes about to wet his cheeks. He resembled the hunter. ¡¯¡¯She liked this one the most.¡¯¡¯ He flipped the picture book and showed the photograph of the two children, one of them a baby and the other around six, hugging in their sleep. ¡¯¡¯Got it.¡¯¡¯ He, with a nod, took the picture and stared at it. He absorbed every single aspect of it, then pulled the glasses down on his eyes. ¡¯¡¯Please...take care of her.¡¯¡¯ ¡¯¡¯I will.¡¯¡¯ From the corner of his eyes, he saw the father collapse near the sickbed. ********* Oh, I got it. I got you some as well. Here, I¡¯ll put it on the ottoman. Now, look what I have here! Pictures! Of! Your! Brother! And of course yours as well. How is it? Do you like them? ¡¯¡¯...I love this.¡¯¡¯ That is good. Use them as bookmarks if you like. Oh, you¡¯ll put that one on your chest? Okay. Don¡¯t let them fall. Now...let us return to the story, shall we? ¡¯¡¯...okay!¡¯¡¯ That¡¯s the spi¡ª ********* At least let me finish my words, buddy.