He smiles, then, and stands, and stretches. "One second to close down shop."
He reaches down and takes down the lanterns; one, two, three.
(One, two, three; the Soldier goes off to the barracks.)
He lays them on the workbench, beside metal blanks and small sharp tools, cutters and templates and grinders and carvers. He passes a hand across the surface and they fade into the wood, and the bench itself begins to melt away, becoming stone and leaf and living wood.
He's dressed as he used to for bartending in the old days, in jeans and a crisp white shirt, and he reaches for her hand as the rosebushes start to bloom. "This is a story about a little girl," he says. "Her name was Chloe. She was the sister of Oriza, and Oriza raised her."
Every storyteller knows--telling a story is all about making choices. Making choices and committing.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Green grow the rushes, oh
Date: 2010-05-18 09:34 pm (UTC)He reaches down and takes down the lanterns; one, two, three.
(One, two, three; the Soldier goes off to the barracks.)
He lays them on the workbench, beside metal blanks and small sharp tools, cutters and templates and grinders and carvers. He passes a hand across the surface and they fade into the wood, and the bench itself begins to melt away, becoming stone and leaf and living wood.
He's dressed as he used to for bartending in the old days, in jeans and a crisp white shirt, and he reaches for her hand as the rosebushes start to bloom. "This is a story about a little girl," he says. "Her name was Chloe. She was the sister of Oriza, and Oriza raised her."
Every storyteller knows--telling a story is all about making choices. Making choices and committing.