My words are weapons

My words as weapons I see you for who you are.

You clown prince you acrobatic maniac. I never thought I’d have to ask the question: is it worth it?

By saying these things, in this space, we hope to have an effect on you, the dear viewer. What that effect is though isn’t wholly known. A bucket of black tar that pollutes the air and chokes the life from the earth creates the very ground on which you walk.

Something from nothing in a way.

So why is it when we speak or spell or put into arrangement the letters, this spelling, these characters that we cause so much pain and hurt? How are we allowed to plow through life using this and that and the other to create carnage?

It’s best we don’t decide on the fate of all of mankind instead making for ourselves a tomb entrapping us.

The smell forever fire and brimstone the heat burning the brow. Thirst, the only feeling, the only sensation we hold to be real.

The word comes throughout again and again ripping and tearing and cutting. The fear made manifest in the minds of those who would put in us trust and compassion. Slowly we prevail over ourselves and our thoughts become echoes cast out beyond our reach. The pain and scares burn ever and ever till the day they die. My words are weapons, the doubt filled pain of memories, the unknown, the best and the worst. The feeling provoked by the power comes from the arrangement and allows for impact so deeply felt its unrecoverable.

Your words are wise, use them well. The growth and progress gained is untouchable. The power and the peace. The sense of relief brought about to them as you speak your thoughts, written there or here, moves the mountains and floods the rivers. The fault in living with the lies we experience with each other reflects upon ourselves. The trouble and fascination come deep from far reaching thoughts begun at the dawn of time. The catastrophes of you and I have no place in this universe or any other. The blame is made whole the truth for ever laid bare for all to witness.

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No one knows why the preacher would pick the corner of the commercial section every 10th day. It was a habit the old man had been doing for years,longer than most of the people passing him had lived.

It was a crowded gangplank on the 400th level of the S4 building. The crowds were so thick and the throng of noise so great he was barely heard by the people passing in front of him. The man was ancient, pale with a bald head on top of a face that was cragier than mars after the 5th terraform. His bushy white eyebrows coved light blue eyes that still held a shine to them when he spoke. He stooped on a black graphite cane and held in his left hand a book bound with 3 large rings that looked like it was made of wood.

Hold on, no one had seen real wood for 500 years? It must be a copy.

His shambled robes smelled not of rot and garbage but somehow of sandalwood. The masses wading past didn’t care. They are getting on with their lives. Seeing loved ones, going for lunch, hating their bosses and lusting after unobtainable people and things. Today a group of black clad men came across the old preacher. They stopped in front of his spot in front of the bridge. There were 5 of them. One very tall one who must have been 7 feet held a flag on a banner.

The flag was black, with an upside down orange triangle on it. In what normally would be the base of the triangle was an eye.

The other 4 men were large, perhaps 6'2 or 3 they had broad shoulders that could be seen despite the robes. Hoods cover their faces from view.

One grabbed the preacher as he kept announcing his thoughts and told him gruffly “shut up old man.” and hurled him over the side screaming as he went. This brought the crowd to a stand still. This is what they hoped would happen.

The one in front yelled “Basko forever!” and punched the ground.

As he did an explosive crack wrented the bridge edge and it started to slide, buckling under its own weight. The people panicked, those close to the edge tried to jump towards safety but the men in black robes pushed them back. More still tried in vain, falling on those who tried before them. The air filled with hundreds of screams as the bridge became a slide of death as people followed the preacher’s fate. The 30 foot bridge buckled further on the other edge, falling and almost throwing the last hangers on off it before, with a horrific snap, it came loose and tumbled down the superstructure. Crashing, killing and maiming people on its destructive descent.

Turns out people weren’t sure who Basko was or is. When the authorities showed up the men leaped themselves off the edge resigning themselves to the same fate as their victims and leaving so many questions unanswered.

Fin.