Ten Sights of Koyaanis

I'm a bit stuck lately. Creativity runs short, as does time, but I don't want to stop writing. I am crushed by the need to produce something useful, a sentiment I should shed altogether. So, no new mechanics or metaphysical regurgitations today. Just some bits and pieces of lost intimacy and silent suffering of the poor souls stuck in Koyaanis.

Besa Art

I

The light of the late hours reflected on a sea of gold. The cornstalks swaying to a silent breeze. They are watched, but not seen, by the lame old man manning the gates of the loading docks. His shift is ended now, the cigar discarded. A long way home.

II

Two blue cloaks march in sullen motion, corroded cuirasses singing the song of rust. Tin men, they call them. If only the rats knew what they've left behind. The sun sets now, your duties are over. Go drink yourselves away. There is nothing else for you. Not here.

III

The old sculptor whispers to a chunk of ivory. Orphaned and naked, ripped from the Argosian womb, the rough-edged block shivers.  I will free you from your prison. There is nothing to worry about now. 

IV

Infant laughter invades the Iudex's chamber through a gap in the marble. His thoughts, so rudely interrupted, wander off to a better time. A time of flowers and blood. The City always prevails. And so do I.

V

After a sudden burst, a cloud of smothering white swallows the sun again.  Sixteen wretches gasp for air as chalk-thin particles clog their lungs. In the dreary drone of the factory, a small silence is made, and soon forgotten. There is work to do. Always.

VI

Peace hides among the whispering leaves. A veil of green shrouds the noises of humanity, so distant and so close, in this tamed domain. Many trails have been blazed by this old hunter, and many more shall be. But not today. 

VII

The obelisk towers over the colony like a ruthless gnomon pushing the hours. Crowds gather and pass by under its inevitable shade. A crack on the surface, felt by the filthy hands of careless child. From the marble, the lion's roar heralds the end, but no one listens.

VIII

Abandoned suites yawn in the dying twilight. Four figures gather around the hearth bound by the secrecy of flames. The halls are empty, the day is done.  Forgotten by their masters, the servants bid their time.  Yet, they are far from alone.

IX

Tinkerers and rust dwellers from all over the iron waste assemble in tight crowds. Dirt and warmth abound. So does concern. No birds have graced the greying skies ever since the hum stopped. But the tin men never listen.

X

Deep in the entrails of the earth, a bone wall is broken. Waves of dread pour into the land as the hammer boy stares in awe. Soon, terror follows, and his limp body is hurried to the surface. Below, the unblinking eye abides. 

And so begins the end.