Embers

Someone expressed interest in my story for my quote back in november or whatever, I was sadly a combination of being too busy and too tired do any writing for a while there... Well, here it is (or something anyway).

An old man dressed in rags hunches over a long banked fire, his back is to me as I approach. In a voice deep and steeped bitter strong in weariness he asks me “Is it done?”

I give him no answer as is our long tradition.

He pokes the embers with a stick in his left hand, sparks beyond counting dance before his eyes. “Will you be stopped?”

I give him no reply as is our long tradition.

He does not turn, his voice is infinitesimally more bitter, I do not see his face, “Leave me then, until it is done.”

Ages pass, generations rise and fall. Each day we repeat our little ritual.
Epochs pass, continents rise and fall. Each day we repeat our little ritual.
Spans of time that have no name pass, galaxies rise and fall. Each day we repeat our little ritual.

Slowly the embers weaken, fewer and fewer sparks dance before his eyes.

One day, near the end, I break from the tradition and make answer to his second question, “I do not see how, there is almost nothing left to save.” I say this as on this day only one spark answers his gentle nudging.

He gives me no reply, further breaking our long tradition. I departed that day angry.

Ages, epochs and spans of time that have no name pass and his fire, near dead, grows no weaker.
Each day one spark rises, each day I depart angry. On the last day my anger rises in me and cannot be contained.

An old man dressed in rags hunches over a long banked fire, his back is to me as I approach. In a voice deep and steeped bitter strong in weariness he asks me “Is it done?”

I give him no answer as is our long tradition.

He pokes the embers with a stick in his left hand, a lone spark dances before his eyes. “Will you be stopped?”

I step forward now and reach out to crush the last ember. I step forward to say “No”. I step forward and see a smile on his lips and the silver orbs of his eyes, dark emerald glinting in his pupils.

In that moment those last few living, dancing, praying and working around the final ember on a mite of dust in the dark nothing of creation found an answer to my tyranny.

This is the last day that was counted.

After the end of entropy there was no longer any need. There would always be forever.

An old man dressed in rags sits back in silence and enjoys his gentle fire and there are sparks beyond counting dancing in his eyes.