http://mannybianco.livejournal.com/ (
mannybianco.livejournal.com) wrote in
fandomtownies2005-09-21 06:10 pm
On the hill outside the town, evening.
The shop had just closed, and Manny had watched
the4thsister walk down the street and disappear.
He picked up a small box of books, a small bottle of paraffin, and a box of matches. He walked down the road in the opposite direction, across the grassy lower slopes of Clonrichert Fell, and up into the higher, rockier ground overlooking the town.
In due course he attained the summit, where a wide flat stone stood in the centre of an ancient henge.
He arranged the books on the stone, a sorry little heap of late fourteenth century English poetry. He sprinkled the fuel. He dropped the match.
He watched it burn.
And, when the flames had done their work, when the winds had claimed the last of their ashes, he picked up the empty box, the bottle and the matches, and he returned to the shop, locking the door behind him.
When some things die, they call for sacrifice.
When some things die, they call for commemoration.
When some things die, they call for revenge.
Manny didn't know which it was, or whether it would suffice. Whether the work he'd done would prove complete. Time would tell.
As sleep approached, and he rehearsed the events of the evening, he couldn't work out whether he'd put twelve books in the box, or eleven. Whether he'd burnt eleven, or twelve.
It probably didn't matter.
He picked up a small box of books, a small bottle of paraffin, and a box of matches. He walked down the road in the opposite direction, across the grassy lower slopes of Clonrichert Fell, and up into the higher, rockier ground overlooking the town.
In due course he attained the summit, where a wide flat stone stood in the centre of an ancient henge.
He arranged the books on the stone, a sorry little heap of late fourteenth century English poetry. He sprinkled the fuel. He dropped the match.
He watched it burn.
And, when the flames had done their work, when the winds had claimed the last of their ashes, he picked up the empty box, the bottle and the matches, and he returned to the shop, locking the door behind him.
When some things die, they call for commemoration.
When some things die, they call for revenge.
Manny didn't know which it was, or whether it would suffice. Whether the work he'd done would prove complete. Time would tell.
As sleep approached, and he rehearsed the events of the evening, he couldn't work out whether he'd put twelve books in the box, or eleven. Whether he'd burnt eleven, or twelve.
It probably didn't matter.

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