Monday May 20th, 2013

The exercise:

Write about: weariness.

Max had a slightly better sleep last night, though he's still, like his parents, struggling with his cold. Very much looking forward to everyone being healthy and sleeping reasonable lengths of time again.

Managed to get our entire potato crop in the ground today, with lots of much appreciated help. Here's hoping this year features weather that is actually conducive to a happy production of spuds.


His movements are slow and heavy, as though the bones within his body are gaining weight with each passing moment. This struggle has demanded a punishing payment but still he pays it. As though he has no choice in the matter... which is only partially true.

A rest would help. The relief of sleep, of allowing his aching, throbbing muscles to pause in their labours, could make all the difference. But he is afraid.

Afraid that stopping would lead to paralysis. That the inertia would be insurmountable. That this battle would be irreversibly lost. And he is unwilling to admit defeat, despite the mounting evidence which suggests that victory is unattainable.

So he continues on. Slowly, slowly, but still he continues on.


Greg said...

Well done with the potatoes! And well done with the writing as well, I think your prose evokes weariness all the way through, with the words sinking heavily into the reader and dragging them down with them. Excellent work!

The giant Weariness sat on a hilltop looking out across the landscape. He was four times taller than any man who lived in the village at the foot of the hill, as broad across the shoulders as a house and as strong with one arm as any ten men the villagers might care to field against him. His eyes were permanently half-lidded with sleep though, and when he stood it felt as though the sky itself pressed down on him, bidding him to sit and rest a while longer.
"Mr. Giant?" A tiny voice, chirping like a bird came from near his feet, and when he parted his knees to look, there was a young man dressed in colourful rags there. "Mr. Giant? There are sails out beyond the harbour... we think we're under attack. We were... we were hoping you might help us?"
Weariness lifted his head and looked out sideways to the shore, and saw the boats. A future moment inserted itself before his eyes, and he saw the village aflame and men with swords fighting, spilling blood and limbs across the sand. He felt angry, and almost came to his feet.
But the weariness settled on his shoulders again and pushed him back down, and he sorrowfully shook his head.

David said...

The rags were soaked in urine. Better than gasoline. They barely covered his emaciated frame. No food since…. If he could only remember. Remember anything really. Last he remembered was a midtown bar. A martini. A crack to his skull. An interrogation. He did not have the answers. He was hit again. Left. Abandoned in a warehouse. So f’n dramatic.

He should have gone left when he exited the building. He went right. Out of sight. Gone. Deeper and deeper. Lost. Fallen. Soiled. For the love of God someone find me. Pathetic. Fattened little city boy. Greed will get you. He pushed through the trees. Then some more. Then sleep. For days. Until he was found. Huddled against a pine. Hikers found the homeless man. They ignored him. He smelled like piss.

g2 (la pianista irlandesa) said...

Mirón Oleán was getting on in years, but he was not an old man. But heavens preserve him, the mountains seemed more youthful than he at times. He was weary especially of late: pressure had been mounting from his Eastern counterpart, Principal Anir Ikava, and Lady Helen---especially Lady Helen, but this was to be expected---for Mirón's daughter to finally be married to Ikava's son, Kalo. The arrangement had been made long ago, but the closer it loomed the more it seemed to weigh on Divana.

And really, Mirón couldn't blame her. A prearranged marriage hardly ever settled with anyone well. But marriage with Kalo made the situation far more daunting. It was clear Divana harbored no good feelings for Kalo, and having seen the boy's hands wander on more than occasion and her thinly veiled revilement at his attempts at muted conversation, Mirón struggled to continue giving the boy the benefit of the doubt.

But now that a solid date had been determined, it weighed heavily on the whole family. For his part, Mirón was not alone in finding the wherewithal to rise in the morning, and that his walks down and around the green felt far more labored than a hike through the southern hills.

And as much as he dreaded to do so, he could not stop thinking about their tree.

The only flowering tree in the whole village sat on the Oleáns' plot, right on the bend in the river. It had been the timekeeper for the marriage: the tree would flower, and the wedding would follow. Mirón could have sworn that the gnarled roots had found their way into his heart and was squeezing tighter as the snow melted and the buds appeared.

They were swollen now, Mirón had noticed that morning; he went so far as to think they were painfully so. Preparations would begin in earnest now, he thought.

As the day wore on he found it more and more difficult to dismiss his gloomy thoughts, though he attributed it to the oncoming rain. But as evening came, something felt strange. Strange, but wonderful, perhaps that release when you finally hear thunder you were straining to hear.

"Medea, have you seen Divana?"

g2 (la pianista irlandesa) said...

My head's been in Mejaran for some time lately, so this got a little long... hopefully nobody minds.

Marc said...

Greg - thanks :)

Yours is utterly fantastic. So many great word choices, and the descriptions are spot on. Really great stuff.

David - really enjoyed that, though I feel like there's even more story to be told here. But I'm probably just being greedy again :P

g2 - not anywhere near minding. Loving how much you've gotten into this place :)