I've been working on writing in different styles to tell different stories in various ways. Here is one such story. I hope you enjoy it's brevity.
The sky showed a magnificent blue. The kind of sky that faded from a light North Carolina to a deep ocean speckled with cloud wisps reminding of white tips. Looking up could hide the barrenness of the ground where the dull, dusty brown seemed to swallow the horizon. The sun beat down as the man moved forward, dragging his right foot slightly behind his left. His water had long gone dry and the mirage of a friend had given way to a the reality of a cactus. He sat and tried to cry.
His face was a streaked tan, weathered from the years, with his upper lip obscured by the bleached salt and peppered mustache. He sat with his head on his chest. The magnitude of the situation was not lost on this man. He was a magnanimous man, generous to those in need and brave in the face of danger. It was this trait that led him here. He was after all a defender. Imperfect as he was, he was respected even admired.
His face now veiled the fear he had worked so hard to keep at bay. No one would see his shame; he knew this but still felt the guilt of what he held in his soul and which his face still did not show. He was tired and knew that any pusillanimous behavior would lead to his own demise. And so with great effort and tired legs he stood up, looked at the mountains and begin to walk. Hoping with the kind of hope only people in dire situations know.
It was a tired pace, his right leg still dragged slightly behind his left. He was a big man, amply strong, and when in good spirits he had helped many. He looked at his canteen and took an empty swig. He was moving forward, limping, spitting, throwing his very soul into the motion. The brown dust swirled in the wind, whipping away his footsteps and in his mind, the memory of him. He knew this desert well. It was his home, he had spanned it time and time again, this time seemed more foreboding though.
To pass the time, and to be honest ignore the pain, he questioned himself. If this situation were the result of generosity was it worth being generous in the first place? The question echoed in his mind. He reasoned that if the end result of munificence is death, and a lonely death, a unknown death at that, then what was really the point? However if the point of generosity is for the sake of humankind then irregardless of the consequence the action was worthy. If he only were generous when one knew then would he really be generous or would he only be an egomaniacal aberration only similar to those he abhorred?
The thinking was too much. He was tired. He had decided that if he had to do it all over again, he would. For the simple act of kindness, the simplicity of action, he recognized had been a worth his own demise. If no one knew that would be okay because kindness lives a life of it's own and in it's own way tells it's own story. He had lived well and this desert home knew the tale. He told it to the wind, spoke it to the dry dusty trail.
He started at the swallowed horizon where it meet the North Carolina Blue, continued to move his gaze higher to the deepest shade of the ocean. The part of the sky where the white tipped clouds lay like small waves in a peaceful sea. It beckoned him. He felt that peace, it washed over him like a warm blanket of the Gulf of Mexico he had one time felt as a kid. He succumb to the ocean in a sweet deep breath and fell to sleep.
His gravestone read: Here lies Charity. We know little of what he did but only that he lives in the heart of everyman. When the road gets tough and lonely, the brave still stand by their fellow human.
The sky showed a magnificent blue. The kind of sky that faded from a light North Carolina to a deep ocean speckled with cloud wisps reminding of white tips. Looking up could hide the barrenness of the ground where the dull, dusty brown seemed to swallow the horizon. The sun beat down as the man moved forward, dragging his right foot slightly behind his left. His water had long gone dry and the mirage of a friend had given way to a the reality of a cactus. He sat and tried to cry.
His face was a streaked tan, weathered from the years, with his upper lip obscured by the bleached salt and peppered mustache. He sat with his head on his chest. The magnitude of the situation was not lost on this man. He was a magnanimous man, generous to those in need and brave in the face of danger. It was this trait that led him here. He was after all a defender. Imperfect as he was, he was respected even admired.
His face now veiled the fear he had worked so hard to keep at bay. No one would see his shame; he knew this but still felt the guilt of what he held in his soul and which his face still did not show. He was tired and knew that any pusillanimous behavior would lead to his own demise. And so with great effort and tired legs he stood up, looked at the mountains and begin to walk. Hoping with the kind of hope only people in dire situations know.
It was a tired pace, his right leg still dragged slightly behind his left. He was a big man, amply strong, and when in good spirits he had helped many. He looked at his canteen and took an empty swig. He was moving forward, limping, spitting, throwing his very soul into the motion. The brown dust swirled in the wind, whipping away his footsteps and in his mind, the memory of him. He knew this desert well. It was his home, he had spanned it time and time again, this time seemed more foreboding though.
To pass the time, and to be honest ignore the pain, he questioned himself. If this situation were the result of generosity was it worth being generous in the first place? The question echoed in his mind. He reasoned that if the end result of munificence is death, and a lonely death, a unknown death at that, then what was really the point? However if the point of generosity is for the sake of humankind then irregardless of the consequence the action was worthy. If he only were generous when one knew then would he really be generous or would he only be an egomaniacal aberration only similar to those he abhorred?
The thinking was too much. He was tired. He had decided that if he had to do it all over again, he would. For the simple act of kindness, the simplicity of action, he recognized had been a worth his own demise. If no one knew that would be okay because kindness lives a life of it's own and in it's own way tells it's own story. He had lived well and this desert home knew the tale. He told it to the wind, spoke it to the dry dusty trail.
He started at the swallowed horizon where it meet the North Carolina Blue, continued to move his gaze higher to the deepest shade of the ocean. The part of the sky where the white tipped clouds lay like small waves in a peaceful sea. It beckoned him. He felt that peace, it washed over him like a warm blanket of the Gulf of Mexico he had one time felt as a kid. He succumb to the ocean in a sweet deep breath and fell to sleep.
His gravestone read: Here lies Charity. We know little of what he did but only that he lives in the heart of everyman. When the road gets tough and lonely, the brave still stand by their fellow human.
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