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THE STONEMASON

ORIGINAL

RE-WRITE

Through the obscurance of shadow and the somber appearance of the moonlit night, above a hilltop did a tower stand. Overlooking the world within it's cylinder of shape. Creating the perfect vantage point of an immaculate mind's gaze.

A blighty layered cobblestone tower stood tall. Weathered and warned by time as it was, its structure was still intact, blooming and blossoming from the land's fertility. Born from its countless scattered seeds that were fed upon the meat of the dead; no more than a shallow inch below this here muddy and blood stained soil, that once whispered lies in exchange of their bravery and false preaches of their progress that contempt them in such fate. A fate that was shared with the inhabitant within,  bringing the same scars and remorse even in life. Time is of no friend to anyone, let alone when meddled and tempered with by power hungry individuals. But through time did they once see the very joy that now both long and yearn for.

Formerly this tower sheltered and welcomed much joy and painted many smiles like beautifully golden framed portraits on its walls. Creating the perfect antithesis of the grey cobblestones with the painterly touch of this resplendent golden hue. For each year it passed, the voices and laughter would fill with warmth this blick cold cobblestones of it. For within this very walls it housed a stonemason, which day in and day out would accompany and shelter him and his many creations, forming its artificial lungs in breathing the life that the stones couldn't. Filling its rooms with masterful craftsmanship, that many came to wonder and adore. Many would gaze on those stone statues in hope of finding their missing pieces of humanity that were snatch away by the passage of time. For in those statues beyond the artistry and unfound beauty, layed a beckoning question of self actualization. He was a skilled master, that stone would bend and shape by command in his very hands. Opening its doors to the world's curious minds in experiencing such wonder that the outside did not house. For it was said that each statue held a piece of the stonemason's heart. Every memory and feeling of love would take shape in his statues that resonated through the expressive gestures and elaborated in its immaculate poses and delicate expressions. All created with an eros for the arts, outpored and illustrated through the visage of time and acting as his teacher were his past actions. All defying the withering effect of time, forever preserved in their beautiful glazed grey appearance, enacting their eternal beauty. Resonating such beauty and love that was outpoured by the stonemason's sensitive heart. A love so rare and scares, that many would look upon the stonemason's creations for his soft and malleable touch. A heart that now housed many of his greatest pains, along with an ample amount of regrets of his actions and a plethora of tainted memories; neatly tacked and scattered away transformed to triumphant statements of magnificents.

Decades would pass since the stonemason was visited last, barricaded  doors sealed shut would be faced to any and every visitor. Alone now with the memories of old to accompany him in his last voyageur on this earth's living grasp. Spawning shadows of the past of the things he so dearly fell in love with, all gone now, manifesting in front of him, beckoning and alluring him in skewing his very own sanity. A fine thread that would shimmer in every thought that he would bring of the past, dangling in-front of him preventing him from ever leaving it out of his sight. Enacting like a cocoon that would gracefully wrap around him, sheltering and isolating him from the reality of his actions. The world changed after the long war, but he hardly could change with it for his now withered and weaken stoney grasp of his deeds, prevented him to ever follow such change. Much like him, so did the tower suffer the unrelenting might of time that withered and made them fibble at each of time's tick, that tock. Now both in humbled rugs that crowed their humility in reembrace of the ones who were taken long before their work was done.

Laying in ruin echoing in sorrow the past memories of the buzzing crowds that would revel once excitedly in its warm lighted halls. Filled with wonders and artistry; animating the statues in a beautiful ethereal embrace through the lights shimmer, mirroring each and every person's gaze that was exchanged. How magnificent it was, the arrival of the stonemason in this here village long ago. An outsider that became an ally to this land, helping and aiding it, when it was most needed. An abundance of emotions that filled everyone's heart, raising difficult bridges between art and a mans soul. But alus, time shifted this too, the war dethatched and dilapidated any form of foundation this may have ever formed. Now replaced and dwindled down to dim-lit halls, abandoned and fenced off from any signs of life. Conversations and interactions that once sparked excitement and life into the stonemason's heart, now replaced as visions of mouths stopped up by mud underneath this blood fertilized soil that  even this unbearable constant rain couldn't all the rain couldn't wash away.

All quite now, nullified sounds by the creaking floorboards and the wind that would blow caressing the weathered damaged cobblestones of the tower. Penetrating through its cracks creating a tonal howling sound, that floated accompanying the irry silence of the hilltop.  Along with the tapping of the rain on wooden windows and doors that created a symphony of ambience to drown one's sorrow. On occasion, silence would break through on this hilltop from the songs that were sung to uphold humility by the towns chample on a Sunday. Repenting and praying for the countless souls that were taken in this here victory. Time seemed remarkably still in the tower now, nothing but thoughts would accompany and perplex the stonemason.


 

Stars, celestial churning light scattered around the galaxy, bright, immaculate and oh-so majestic. Dotting and patterning our night's sky; a glimpse of vast incoprehentable beauty and endless energy. Under their guidance, below its luminated glow and aid of moonlight, up on a hilltop, did a tower stand. Overlooking the world within it's cylinder of shape. Creating the perfect vantage point of an immaculate mind's gaze.

A  cobblestone layered tower stood tall. Weathered and warned by time as it was, its structure was still intact, blooming and blossoming from the land's fertility. A fertility born from countless scattered seeds that fed upon the meat of the dead, no more than a shallow inch below its ground. Sacrifices made by whispered lies in exchange of bravery, preaching aspiring progress tainted in blood. A fate that was shared with the inhabitant within,  baring identical scars and remorse even in life. For time is of no friend to anyone, let alone when meddled and tempered with by human hands. But through time did they once see the very joy that now both yearn for.

Formerly this tower sheltered and welcomed much joy, and painted many smiles like beautifully golden framed portraits on its walls. Creating the perfect antithesis of the grey cobblestones with its painterly touches of the resplendent golden hue. For each year it passed, the voices and laughter filled with warmth this blick cold cobblestones of it. For within this very walls it housed a stonemason, a country gentleman no longer young, which day in and day out, would accompany and shelter him and his many creations, forming its artificial lungs in breathing life, that stones couldn't. Opening its doors to the world's curious minds in experiencing wonder that the outside world lacked. Many would gaze on those stone statues, hoping to find missing pieces of their humanity that time robbed away. For in those statues beyond the artistry and unfound beauty, layed a beckoning question of self actualization. He was a skilled master, that stone would bend and shape by command in his very hands. Every memory would take shape through stone; expressive gestures and elaborated in immaculate poses and delicate expressions. All created with an eros for the arts, outpored and illustrated through the visage of time. His teacher, the past. All defying the withering effect of time, forever preserved in glazed grey stone. Each statue held a piece of the stonemason's heart. Resonating life and love, outpoured by a sensitive heart. A heart that now housed many of his greatest pains, along with an ample amount of regrets of his actions and a plethora of tainted memories; neatly tacked and scattered away, transformed to triumphant statements of magnificents.

Decades would pass since the stonemason was visited last, barricaded  doors sealed shut would be faced to any and every visitor  Alone now, with memories of old, faced with his last voyage on this here earth's living grasp. Spawning shadows of the past, of things he dearly loved, beckoning and tantalizing him, skewing sanity beyond recognition. A fine thread that shimmered sumptuously through every memory, dangling seductively, preventing from ever leaving it out of sight. Ensnared like a cocoon, gracefully wrapped around, shielding in isolation's familiar padded warmth, that sheltered his frailed bones in the countless threads of misery. Inviting endless questions of morality; soiling evermore the victory that was won from the war.

The world changed, but change hardly came to him, for his aged and weakened stoney grasp, stained by his deeds, refused it. Alike, did the tower suffer the unrelenting might of time that withered and left both fibble at each of time's tick, that tock. Haunted by whispers of the past that allowed a self-loathing poison to seep through old ageenacting a side effect of humility in reembrace of the ones who were taken long before their work was done. Echoing in sorrow, the memories of the buzzing crowds that would revel once ever so excitedly in its warm lit halls. Filled with wonders and artistry; animating statues in light's blissful embrace,
 mirroring each and every person's gaze. How magnificent it was, the arrival of the stonemason in this here village long ago. An outsider, voyaged across sea, that became an ally to this land, helping and aiding it when it was most needed. Introducing an abundance of emotions that filled everyone's heart, raising difficult bridges between art and a mans soul. A soul born from savagery that needed taming and care, that art's sensitivity could only remedy. But alus, time shifted this too, the war dethatched and dilapidated any form of foundation that such action ever formed. Now replaced and dwindled down to dim-lit halls, abandoned and fenced off from any signs of life. Conversations and interactions that once sparked excitement and life into the stonemason's heart, now replaced as visions of mouths stopped up by mud.

All quite now, nullified sounds, replaced with creaking floorboards and the wind that would gently caress the weathered cobblestones of it. Penetrating through its cracks creating a tonal howling sound, that would accompany the irry silence of the hilltop. Along with the tapping of rain on the wooden roof, windows and doors. A symphony of ambience to drown one's sorrow. On occasion, silence would break through on this hilltop from the songs that were sung to uphold humility by the towns chample on a Sunday.

Time seemed remarkably still in the tower now, nothing but thoughts would accompany and perplex the stonemason.


 

ORIGINAL

RE-WRITE


ACT 1 - 

In the top section of the tower, in a high-ceilinged room, dimly lit candle lights flickered, wroughting its shadows on the walls, animating life in their dreary spectral forms. Swinging and dancing in radical manners, from each flame's flicker, occupying the walls like hungered beasts. The stonemason sat still, across his arched stone brick window. Like a cyclop's eye did the tower's window appeared, showcasing to the stonemason his last grasp of the outside world. A world that now looked awfully grey, bereft of its beguiling colours and once rich life. Transformed in endless fields of body tolls, that human savagery would lead an endless march of land conquering. Allowing for pride to be the beat that many would march on, greed the rhythm that would be followed, and fear the tunnel visioning that let none of its children away from its gasly grasp. Brewing fraud, deceit and malice where virtue brings none at all. There, he sat, filled with indignation of mans murderous ways, ever so still, brooding and fiddling a letter between his boney hands. Completely lost in thoughts, he stared away at that letter, absorbed and fixated in its contents. Drifting his mind in the endless waters of the past, dulling and numbing his senses evermore.

Light peeped through the window, unveiling in a glistening veil a half finished statue that stood tall amidst the room. Rubble of stone scattered around like those nuisance breadcrumbs that would trail behind bread. Ever so gently piling together reminiscing the passage of time with each strike of the hammer that strack, cheaping away stone to sheer beauty. Outlined by wooden scaffoldings; dust covered planks held together by a worn overstretched rope for the stonemason to reach its scale. It appears to be a female's frame. Beckoning in a sorrowing gesture towards our gaze. Her hands would be perfectly rounded, life like, almost angelic, emphasising the stonemason's attention on how soft and sensitive this here figure were to be. The sheer immaculate detail he gave to her rounded and perfectly anatomically shaped finger tips, begged the question of who was this figure to the stonemason's life and why was it left unfinished. Her face radiated a subtle longing and need of comfort, fixated gaze towards the viewer. Suffocating any thoughts and worries one would had prior to laying eyes to such beauty. Emanating a cry of help, perhaps a need of comfort. A melancholic burden of sadness stained in her beauty.

Below the statue sat the stonemason, puzzled and weak postured. His body completly arched emphasizing his defined malnourished bones, sticking out like sharp needles ready to pierce the absent minded. Punishing away, anyone who might even care or approach him. Uninterrupted did he stare at what he was holding in his hands. A fixed mind-numbing gaze reading hungrily the words on that paper, famished for its contents inside, motionless with a half opened mouth, so still, that one could mistake him as one of his statues. A sense of pain outpoured from his body, reflected in his room filled with torn pages and half used tools scattered and thrown away like a toddler's unwarranted tantrum, distracting itself from pain. A room in utter disarray, half emptied shelves of books, pulled away, some laid open on torn pages and chapters left carelessly in a pile. Paintings that once used to hang on the walls now smashed and faced flat onto the wooden floor, gathering dust and moisture to eat its way through the canvas. Cabinets wide open, emptied out completly of their contents below, stained with wax from the candle's flame, that glistened the delicate spider- webs that hovered lifelessly on top. Mirrors all smashed to a thousand pieces, reflecting light like pearls shimmering in the blackent depths of the sea. Scattered amongst the stones and ropes that once tightly wrapped around the heavy boulders used for his statutes, now cut and torn apart smashing anything that may have been caught underneath. Broken statue pieces enveloped by shadow's long cloak, wrapped tightly in rugged torn sheets, away from plain sight. Perfectly horrid, but it wasn't the state of the stonemason that made it thus, but the utter disregard of everything he ever used, now layed carelessly around him. Beckoning a faint questioning of what more may lay in those corners of the room that eyes cannot distinguish. Everything in ruin, echoing sorrow, beguiling something fowl and rotten in its core. Such mess that one would question its reasoning; was the aftermath of such distressed what he was reading?

Starved and frail did the stonemason appeared in his old age. An animated corpse, neglected of its rotting physical state through the years. Marked with a long dusty beard, like a tossed hay stack scattered around, with untamed long locks, topped of with two long curtains that obscured his vision. Hiding his pain that was so apparently drawn on his face, matching one of his statues, ever so still and prominently etched and chiseled. The stonemason was unrecognizable to anyone that knew him, the years after his isolation weren't kind to him, nor him to himself. After he served in the long war he was changed, no longer a quiet gentle soul curiously listening to people's chatter in their wants and needs awaiting depiction and questioning. But transformed to a withered vessel walking this here tower's empty halls, bereft of life, but filled with stone, and pestilent insects, haunted by his past. Hovering over him like two black stained hands, halting him firmly fastened in place, shackled and imprisoned by the countless thoughts that plagued his tormented mind.

Amidst this disarray, gossemier-like webs, dust filled shelves and the obscuring shadows, traces of the memorabilia of the past stonemason could be found. His long forgotten passion of life would show in his vast collection gathered through the years, that now laid carelessly around him. With every object, a memory frozen in time would accompany its presence. Intensity and virtuosity would enrich this town's perception of life, a feeling of euphoria and wonder would grow within him, flowering his many statutes in quenching his thirsts of the antithesis of beauty and sorrow of this world. For a time, the outside world seemed vast; filled with endless new discoveries and adventures to be had in the unending facets of life and its many questions. Love could be felt, and passion could be depicted. Springing like a flower, that offers delicious nectar at its top and bitter poison underneath that whoever sits too long, and drinks too deep, is doomed to die. A melancholic and macabre analogy that he loved entertaining and bringing forth in his art. Now all forgotten, facing death, dressed up in rugs covering his withering bones, shut off and isolated from any human interaction.

Besides him, among the rubble and the hips of parchment, a brown coated chest laid there, coated in a thick layer of dust. Around it, dispersed torn paper would create a sporatical trail, mimicking a meadow of withering flowers, that wind blew its once lush pedals away - hastily closed as bits of paper were caught sticking out. A large metallic lock with a key hole in the middle sealed this chest together, with a mechanical contraption keeping it firmly shut. What could this chest here hold, for him to be so hasty with? In the silence of the night amongst the starry night that clouds would shroud effortlessly in their wake, did the stonemason spend it amongst rubble and utter dissery fixated eyes on the contents of the paper he was holding between his hands.

 


ACT 1 - 

In the top section of the tower, in a high-ceilinged room, dimly lit candle lights flickered, wroughting its shadows on the walls, animating life in their dreary spectral forms. Swinging and dancing in radical manners, from each flame's flicker, occupying walls like malevolent fiends. The stonemason sat still, across his arched stone brick window. Like a cyclop's eye did the tower's window appeared, showcasing to the stonemason his last grasp of the outside world. A world that now looked awfully grey, bereft of its beguiling colours and once rich life. Transformed in endless fields of body counts, that human savagery would lead an endless march of land conquering. Allowing for pride to be the beat that many would march on, greed the rhythm that would be followed, and fear; the tunnel visioning that let none of its children away from its gasly grasp. Brewing fraud, deceit and malice where virtue brings none at all. There, he sat, filled with indignation of mans murderous ways, ever so still, brooding and fiddling a letter between his boney hands. Completely lost in thoughts, he stared away, absorbed and fixated in its contents. Drifting his mind in the endless waters of the past, dulling and numbing his senses evermore.

Light peeped through the window, unveiling in a glistening veil a half finished statue that stood tall amidst the room. Rubble of stone scattered around like those nuisance breadcrumbs that would trail behind bread. Carelessly piling together, reminiscing the passage of time with each strike of the hammer that strack, cheaping away stone to sheer beauty. Outlined by wooden scaffoldings; dust covered planks held together by a worn overstretched rope for the stonemason to reach its scale. It appears to be of a female's frame. Beckoning in a sorrowing gesture towards our gaze. Her hands would be perfectly rounded, life like, almost angelic, emphasising the stonemason's attention on how soft and sensitive this here figure were to be. Her face radiated a subtle longing and need of comfort, fixated gaze towards the viewer. Suffocating any thoughts and worries one would had prior to laying eyes to such beauty. Emanating a cry of help, perhaps a need of comfort. The sheer immaculate detail he gave to her, begged the question of who was this figure to the stonemason's life and why was it left unfinished. A melancholic burden of sadness stained in beauty.

Below the statue sat the stonemason, puzzled and weak postured. His body completly arched emphasizing his defined malnourished bones, sticking out like sharp needles ready to pierce the absent minded. Punishing away, anyone who might even care or approach him. Starved and frail did the stonemason appeared in his old age. An animated corpse, neglected of its rotting physical state through the years. Marked with a long dusty beard, like tossed haystack scattered around, with untamed long locks, topped of with two long curtains that obscured his vision. Hiding his pain that was so apparently drawn on his face, petrified in time. The stonemason was unrecognizable to anyone that knew him, the years after his isolation weren't kind to him, nor him to himself. After he served in the long war he was changed, no longer a quiet gentle soul curiously listening to people's chatter in their wants and needs, awaiting depiction and questioning. But transformed to a withered vessel walking this here tower's empty halls, bereft of life, filled with stones, and pestilent insects, haunted by his past. Hovering over him like two black stained hands, clenching him firmly in place, shackled by his tormented mind.

Uninterrupted did he stare at what he was holding in his hands. A fixed mind-numbing gaze reading hungrily the words on that paper, famished for its contents inside, motionless, half opened mouthed, so still, that one could mistake him as one of his statues. A sense of pain outpoured from his body, reflected in his room filled with torn pages and half used tools scattered and thrown away like a toddler's unwarranted tantrum, distracting itself from pain. A room in utter disarray, half emptied shelves of books, pulled away, some laid open on torn pages and chapters, left carelessly in a pile. Paintings that once used to hang on the walls now smashed off their frame, faced flat onto the wooden floor, gathering dust and moisture to eat away the canvas. Cabinets wide open, emptied out completly of their contents below, stained with wax from the candle's flame, that glistened the delicate spider-webs that hovered lifelessly on top. Mirrors all smashed to a thousand pieces, reflecting light like shimmering pearls in the blackent depths of the sea. Scattered amongst the stones and ropes that once tightly wrapped around the heavy boulders used for his statutes, now cut and torn apart smashing anything that may have been caught underneath. Broken statue pieces enveloped by shadow's long cloak, wrapped tightly in rugged torn sheets, away from plain sight. Perfectly horrid, but it wasn't the state of the stonemason that made it thus, but the utter disregard of everything he ever used, now layed carelessly around him. Beckoning a faint questioning of what more may lay in those corners of the room shrouded in darkness that eyes cannot distinguish. Everything in ruin, echoing sorrow, reeking something fowl and rotten at its core. Such mess that one would question its reasoning; was the aftermath of such distressed what he was reading?

Besides him, among the rubble and the hips of parchment, a brown tinted chest laid there, coated in a thick layer of dust. Around it, dispersed torn paper would create a sporatical trail, mimicking a meadow of withering flowers, that wind blew its once lush pedals away. Hastily closed as bits of paper were caught sticking out. A large metallic lock with a key hole in the middle sealed this chest together, with a mechanical contraption keeping it firmly shut. What could this chest here hold, for him to be so hasty with? 

Amidst this disarray, gossemier-like webs, dust filled shelves and the obscuring shadows, traces of the memorabilia of the old stonemason could be found. His long forgotten passion of life would show in his vast collection gathered through the years, that now laid carelessly around him. With every object, a memory frozen in time would accompany its presence. Intensity and virtuosity would enrich this town's perception of life, a feeling of euphoria and wonder would grow within him, flowering his many statutes in quenching his thirsts of the antithesis of beauty and sorrow. For a time, the outside world seemed vast; filled with endless new discoveries and adventures to be had in the unending facets of life and its many questions. Love could be felt, and passion could be depicted. Springing like a
flower, that offers delicious nectar at its top and bitter poison underneath, that whoever sits too long, and drinks too deep, is doomed to die. A melancholic yet macabre analogy that he loved entertaining and bringing forth in his art. Now all forgotten, facing death, covered in rugs that hid his frail and withered self below. Shut off. Isolated from any human interaction.

 

In the silence of night, amongst the star stained sky that clouds would shroud effortlessly in their wake, did the stonemason spend it amongst rubble and utter disarray - eyes glued, expressioned petrified and pose still, on the contents of the paper he was holding between his hands. Time, remarkably still, frozen endlessly in a melancholic remembrance of the past...


ACT 1 -  XMAS

Days would follow, one after the other, the stonemason locked inside at the top of his tower, spend barricaded in that room, fixated on ink written words long ago, with his tantalized mind as company, that wrought utter chaos to the room. Heavy snowfall dressed the hilltop in white. Transforming the brown, mudded streets of this remote provincial town, into a pale sheet of pearl white. Covering any signs of land, along with its stones and foliage, enveloped in winter's cold embrace. The sun rose in a subtle, yet eerie hue of unsaturated mudded yellow, peeping its rays amongst the darkened grey stained clouds, shedding its white crystalized snowflakes that would glint mesmerizingly as they glided through the air. Making their way towards roofs, hills, branches, trees alike, and anything that was caught in-between. Monotonous silence would break by chants and bells from the town's chapel. Faded melodies of carols and cheers could be heard, replacing bird's chirping and any wildlife
 that a day anew may have brought. Followed with a roaring monotonous sound of congratulatory remarks. The birth of christ; echoed throughout the valley. Cheers and joy would spark, like wildfire, on a barren land, ablazing an inexplicable chain reaction of cheering 'Merry Christmas' uncontrollably through it. Another year about to pass, signifying its dully departure, standing at gate's close, awaiting its long overdue retirement -  how long has it been since the war do you reckon? 

The snowfall would slowly make its way through the stonemason's arched window, ever so gently, softly, pilling itself on the wooden floor below, adding a soft smudged line of white, animating calmly through wind's embrace.

How much this day meant for this tower long ago, where many would come and see the wonders and artistry of the stonemason's work. As the birth of their saviour gave hope and guidance to its subjects; equivalently this here day, breathed the oxygen that the tower longed for in its cobblestoned lungs. Young and old, would burst into its doors marveling the artistry that was held inside. An array of statues and stonework would greet everyone's gaze, each so distinct, serenating a melodic song - enticing for one's undivided attention. Mimicking sirens, to those unfortunate sailors that were caught in their song, charmed into their untimely deaths, below those emerald crystal waters.

An exhibition hosted on the bottom floor of the tower at christmas day, where everyone would come and spend hours upon hours studying art. A rather intricate layed out room, filled with an array of details. The way drapes fell elegantly from the ceiling, framing the stone plaques that hanged on the walls. Paintings connected each art piece to one and other like fine literature on paper. Carpets brought the necessary colours and patters into the space, that ressusastated life through the pale grayish stone. Mirrors that refracted light sparingly, transferring it like bolts of lighting around the room, illuminating every facet and shadow-kissed spot. The chandelier that hanged from above, with its many candles and embroidered details, shimmering in its boastful glow. All worked together harmonically in transforming the room, into the stonemason's fathomless mind. Perhaps the best part of this room laid in its center, where six statues proudly stood, divided into two parallel lines of three. Each so distinct from one and other, with a small marble plague that contained their title, all created from different parts of the stonemasons life.

The first of the three statues, on the right lane, would radiate a soft indispensable feeling of humility, plucking away at people's hardened hearts. Cheaping one crack at a time of the stiffen shell that surrounded it. Slowly giving way to empathy and humility to take root in its restrictive mold. Attributed to the statue's young feminine beauty, that was chiseled and molded through the cold lifeless stone. She was on her knees, humbled before life's embrace, with her hands raised together that rested in-front of her youthful shaped lips, praying. Her eyes gazed towards nothingness, a sense of humility dissipating ever so slowly the viewers ego and pride. Such sight that left many ensnared, longing to embrace and comfort her.

Followed along into the middle of that lane, a smaller statue could be seen. A childish boy's figure extending its two frail arms. Two birds rested in its palms, the one on his right, was laid flat, with its feet clenched and raised through the air, wings extended and eyes closed. With a small hole in its chest, followed with a ruffled trail of its feathers surrounding the boys palm. On the left palm, the other bird seemed lively and joyful, with its small pointy beak, all raised up and ready to take flight. Eyes shining and wings fully formed, carved with distinct blotchy stripes that reminded of a sparrow. The boy's head rested tilted, eyes fixated on the contents of his right palm, though his left eye was missing, left empty with remorse outpouring from his gaze. Trailing his boyish figure, a small rope wrapped around his waist, holding fast a slingshot, with its elastic rubber holding like a nest, the boy's left eye as bait to be thrown. How peculiar many would find that statue, taken aback by the boy's immaturity, many would empathise with his pain that he felt. Troubled by his missing eye, none commented or shown interest for either of the birds. A fascinated discovery

The last statue of the three, where of a female's figure; bereft of any coverings, naked, emphasizing her smooth greyish pale skin. Sat with her legs extended on her side, followed by her arms that rested powerlessly next to them. Her neck arched, as if it was fixed to the ground, averting her gaze away to everything and everyone that might look upon her. Allowing for her locks to obscure her face completely. A thin rope trailed around her neck, with a slap of wood plank that threaded its ends. On it, etched the phrase " Condemned by God" a bold remark to make amongst such a religious crowed. But it didn't stop them from engaging with it. Trying to figure out in what shape or form that was meant. Many believed she lacked of her virtue, unable to be called a lady, scoffing at the thought of coins crossing her palm for debauchery. "Even if shown the sky, what is the sky to a creature who can never do better than crawl" - many would utter mindlessly without second thought. Robbing one's life struggles, for a fill of shallow assumptions.

Parallel from it, the first statue of the other three, had the widest stone base out of all six. Two figures rested on it. One laying prone to the ground, lifeless - while the other held him close in its arms, embracing and comforting each other. Both seemed in shock, desperate in their despair, wailing in agony, as tears rolled down their cheeks. They appeared quite youtful in age, in their early adulthood, wearing a uniform, with a particular budge on their left arm. The young figure who was prone on the floor, seemed fatally wounded, a liquid was sculpted around its mouth. Blood. Held together at life's last grasp, a sudden realization would hit many; the price of war. All who looked upon that statue would quickly glance over it, unoticingly, as if a force prevented them in spending more than a full minute on it. Arising a handful of question to why such reaction.

Next to it, in the middle, a peculiar statue could be seen; a
 torso raised from the base of the statue, extending its long arms while holding a humanoid figure that seemed to be melting. No gender could be distinguished by the figure being held, but a peculiar faint smile could be observed on it. The torso was of a mans, his face was covered, not by stone but of a hick satin fabric fabric. Ruby in colour, with a peculiar family crest on its edge that was quite unfamiliar to all. Which raised some intrigue that quickly faded away, shrugged off as part of its finishing touches. Everyone mainly would see this statue for its technicality, to sculpt such motion on an inanimate statue was challenging feed at the time. Few would question its intent or go beyond what was being shown.

The last remaining statues of the collective six, was hardly understood by people. Upon recollection, a strong feeling of contempt could be felt from it. A fathomless emotion that eats up any signs of life that can be felt, tearing hope from ever reaching the warm rays of tomorrow, replaced with cold and bitter stagnation. A starved fiend that hungered and fed upon any aspiration or desire one could feel or think. This statue changed drastically with each of its display, always quite unfinished, till each year's new exhibition that marked a substantial progress, that seemingly didn't allow for clarity to be had. On his last exhibition, soon after the war ended, this statue became something that one wished to forget when recalled upon rather than remember. All his statues felt quite different, changed somehow-even tho many stayed exactly the same
. Many confusingly left the tower that day, without the joy that was normally felt from his exhibitions. Shocked and utterly confused by his final display. 

Wasn't long before the tower's heavy doors would close behind them. Signaling the end of his exhibitions, commencing his long and painful isolation for decades to come. A gesture that left bitterness to sprout into the townsfolk's mouth, spouting horrid rumors against the stonemason. Allowing for time to erase his sacrifice and artistry he offered in their life. Ungratefully blissful, his existence in their minds replaced with hate and half emptied assumptions.

How long has it been since that happened, how many years tantalized him, leaving him buttered and broken in such state. Isolated, frail and old, in a ruined tower up on that 
hill. What could he possibly be thinking on such a festive day that many spend cuddled up amongst family, awaiting for new years hopeful embrace.

ACT 1 LETTERS

                                                      Monday, 15th of June 1945                                                              Lawson, CA, U.S.A

  Since your last correspondence we have made arrangements for lady Mary's belongings, to be shipped to The United kingdom as per requested.

Your request was met with a lot of backlash from the family, as per why you aren't returning back home since the war is over. But it is not my place to question that sir. ......I wanted to express once more my condolences and my outmost sincerity in apologizing that things came down this way....


[the rest of the letter expresses some of the chargers that such arrangement took to make and a heartful goodbye]
 

                                                  Monday, 2nd of May 1945                                            Lawson' Administration. department, CA, U.S.A


Dear Henry T. Williams,

    I hope this letter finds you in good health, I regret to inform you that, during your service in fighting the war overseas, your lady Mary had passed away. Succumbed to her lifelong illness, she went peacefully during the night of the 2nd of May while in the care of her family.  She fought valiantly for her life hoping to see you come back from overseas, but alas, life did not permit that. Her family arranged of her burying in their family plot next to her grandparents. Her funeral will take place tomorrow at noon followed with a parting service. As per her request she instructed us to pass onto you a brown tinted chest that contains her belongings that she wanted to pass on to you. At your earliest convenience instruct us on how to arrange and fulfill her request.

I am sorry we don't have any better news as of this time, From behalf of your country and nation, we thank you for your ongoing service of fighting the good war.

 

Kind regards,
D. Laurence - Administrator 
 

duke's death letter
 

Birthday letter
 


                                                      Monday, 2 of March 1945
                                                      Lawson, CA, U.S.A


My sweet mason -
                  I hope this letter reaches you sooner than later. Having to see time pass without you next to me, has been hard to say the least. Although spring has blessed us with its wonderful flowers and colours back here in our village, your absence yet another year signifies another dagger in my heart. I know it wasn't your choice to be so far from me, but in truth my fear of not seeing you again has me paranoid of your return. My health has been gradually getting worse with every year and I pray this war that took you away from me, gets you safely back to live our remaining years together. I am still hopeful that I will once again be in your arms before my time is up.

 
I cannot help but feel you near me when I look upon your statues that you made for our town. I still stay for hours in your workshop in our shed to feel you close to me. Seeing your tools as you left them and especially your statue of me. I know you keep saying its not finished yet and to be patient, but I can't help stare at it, I love seeing how you view me in your mind.
 A childish remark of mine I know, but one that brings a smile like a warm sunray in this sometimes hopeless time. But don't worry, I wasn't alone in there, Duke joined me, after an extensive sniffing around, he sat with me by my feet. I know he misses you as much as I miss you, whenever I keep saying your name to him, you can see his little ears perk up just to the sound of it. Even in his old age, he seems quite energetic and lively to the sound of  your name. Also, by stroke of luck I found something amongst your workstation, I know I was incredibly lucky given your organization skills are one of the worst I have ever met in a person in my life. I have attached this to this here letter, I hope it brings a smile to you as it did to me, transferring you to that time that it was created, and dont forget to read what I have left you on its back! I hope you get back to us soon,

Your loves, Mary and Duke 




 

[The top and bottom part of the letter is unreadable, as its obscured by the stonemason's hand and parts of it being half-folded. Only parts of it can be read at this time]

 


 


{An incomplete letter due to the top and bottom part of it being ron }

I know
 you asked about my health on your last letter, but I don't wish to bring that up right now, but I wanted to share with you something much more cheerful!

Today I met with my uncle for sapper, I wanted to
inquire to him in making a brown tinted chest. I had this idea yesterday night, while in my many regular sleepless nights. See, at least something good came out of this one!  I will be storing all the things you missed since your deployment and all the letters you send me. A memorabilia box of your absence, that's a pretty name for it, don't you think?  Regardless I -

{the remaining letter seems torn apart}

 



 

If you're reading this it means I am already gone and you are holding my last letter that I wrote for you.  Oh my sweet Henry, my beloved stonemason, I love you with all my heart. You gave me so much joy in the limited time I was given on this earth - you made me so happy to have lived. I treasure our every memory we ever had together and forever will be. You opened up my eyes, told me how to see, to notice every tree, and how the light shines and enhances every living thing on this earth. The brilliant symphony of colours that would follow, life's emotions, as you would say. All through you, and your immaculate heart that transformed stone into life. Even the distance that parted us at my end, didn't keep your spirit and love away from me. 

Cruel and beautiful life - but even in death do I fondly remember our beginning. How quickly pity leads to love, that we ever should have met was a miracle, but to confess, it was the look, the sadness in your eyes that day when we glanced at each other. We were both so unhappy, letting life pass us by. Introducing  happiness from merely a glance at each other. I thought I knew how much I could feel, what love was, another name for yearning and to what kindness became the act of learning - but now I do. Its what I feel for you, the happiness I feel with you. So much happiness, that extended rapturously through our lives connecting two lost souls to each other. Blossoming a life that many dream and never get. Yes, I do consider my self lucky, lucky to have ever met you, felt you, touched you, loved you. Loving you is who I am, it gave me purpose and a voice to say to the world this is why I endured all this suffering and cruelty fate passed to me since birth. All those years, all that vain and bitter self-concern, the tears and all that pride. Now vanished into air, along with that pain that I nursed inside. But loving you gave me a goal in my life, that I would live and die for you. The wicked illness that crippled us for ever growing old with each other, faced to my dying breath with the knowledge that you were with me.

As the flowers of spring blossom to morn for the ones that didn't survive winter - bringing their saturation in harmony with the vast bright blue sky. So do I wish you become my flower that will blossom in my wake and radiate love, the unending love I have for you, to live in you for as long as you live.  I want you to promise me that you won't get lost in the past. You must keep moving forward, just keep following your heart as you always do. I know its hard to cling to regret over being unable to save the ones you loved. Spending days mourning their deaths by recreating them around you. But you have to live for us, through you do we breath eternity that we couldn't get in our lives.
But in truth I don't want to leave now that I am loved. I am someone to be loved, and that I learned from you.
I wish I could have told you all of this in person, but it seems I couldn't hold out anymore. I know it must be hard for you, but 
I sorted all the letters that you send me along with this one in the brown tinted chest, the most important things to me, now bestowed to my love, to you.
Yours forever Mary.

Dear Mom, Received another letter from you today and was happy to hear that everything is okay As for myself, I’m fine and getting along okay. But as for the food, it’s pretty lousy most all the time.”
 


                                                      Monday, 2 of December 1944
                                                      Lawson, CA, U.S.A


My sweet mason -
  Christmas came all to early this year it seems, its cold embrace created a haunting display of white, that covered the whole town. The lake that you love fishing in, its all frozen up. I've been seeing kids play on it, making circles upon circles around it. Duke in his old age quite became fond of snow, before he couldn't even touch it with his bare paws, now he lays there, following every bit of sunlight till noon comes. Its said that its the most amount of snow we had for years - I wonder if mother earth took into consideration the great turmoil everyone is experiencing now with the war. At least this makes sense to me and fills me with a peculiar comfort; I suppose your influence on me is beginning to show, melancholy and all its bittersweetness.
I received your letter and read you've been given a tower all to yourself as recognition of your abilities. You know, I am happy your soulful heart can be appreciated on other parts of this world, your malleable touch of stone outstanding to me. You always seemed to be able to compliment the complicated with the straightforward, to always describe things that are difficult to describe, in expressing what is difficult to be expressed. To add beauty and love to things that are unlovable and bitter around us and make everything appear natural. Perhaps it can buy your ticket back to me, if you keep them happy and entertained. I await your safe return.

Your Love, Mary

....Even the distance that parted us at my end, didn't keep your spirit and love away from me. 

Cruel and beautiful life - but even in death do I fondly remember our beginning. How quickly pity leads to love, that we ever should have met was a miracle, but to confess, it was the look, the sadness in your eyes that day when we glanced at each other. We were both so unhappy, letting life pass us by. So much happiness from merely a glance at each other. I thought I knew how much I could feel, what love was; another name for yearning and to what kindness became the act of learning. But now I do. Its what I feel for you, the happiness I feel with you. Connecting two lost souls to each other, blossoming a life that many dream, and never get. Yes, I do consider my self lucky, lucky to have ever met you, felt you, touched you, loved you. Loving you is who I am, it gave me purpose and a voice to say to the world this is why I endured all this suffering and cruelty fate passed to me since birth. All those years, all that vain and bitter self-concern, the tears and all that pride. Now vanished into air, along with that pain that I nursed inside. But loving you gave me a goal in my life, that I would live and die for you. The wicked illness that crippled us for ever growing old with each other, faced to my dying breath with the knowledge that you were with me, that I was loved, in exchanged for love.

As the flowers of spring blossom to morn for the ones...

ACT 1 books

OATBREAKER


[it appears parts of the book are incomplete and most are torn or destroyed beyond recognition. nothing seems readable, except this monologue ]
......So did my oath layed broken, as did my shuttered soul in the endless night's dwindling flame. Who did  I became, who was I. A knight no longer, riddle to no more than a filthy scum awaiting for life's punishment to contempted me with its final blow. Alone and deserted from everything I ever loved, awaiting scorn and ridicule. Words, the unbeatable foe that one is faced in life that scrapes and wounds one with unbearable sorrow. Latching on you, ever so tight, taking ahold any reason or logic a brain could come up with. A lost quest, followed in its hopelessness, without question nor pause. An endless march forward to a so called noble cause - my years do not permit me for such luxuries, for in my confusion I am face with her face, her gentle, kind face that I would have given everything to see another smile from. My beloved, my joy, my reason...how did I lose you so -.[unreadable passage that continues as follow]........I wanted to be with you, around you, I never cared for my oath, I await death to even utter such words. But even if saying it buys me a moment quicker to see you in the promised afterlife, so be it! I'd gladly swing open such door, for its contents of promise riches, my chosen riches. You. For a moment with you is but paradise to a believer, and life the living hell one is contempt in a suffocating chamber, berrefed of oxygen, circulating a noxious air that fills one with regret. Should I fling myself outside, would such promise of seeing you hold? I d.........


I am tired;
of writing, drawing, sculpting
breathing, moarning, living,
breathing,......



In my old age, I found no joy.
Bitter of the life that I have lived
In the actions that I did and the love that I couldn't keep.
 

OATBREAKER


Death, my sweet nemesis, what did I find?

You taken away coundless innocence;
in those vast fields of nature's magnificence.
Soaking its soil, from blood of our kind,
to praise a young man's sacrifice in each of our minds.


Blinded I was to your treachery's grasp;
I've been covering my eyes with nothing but the past.
Presenting its way in the corners of my eyes.
How I wish to scratch it all from the horrors I've seen inside.

How am I to live, now that I've seen such sight?
To forget is impossible, to move forward I forfeit.
Awaiting your grasp to pounce on me at last,
alone and afraid of the things I've done that no longer can I grasp.


Innocence, behold what you have wrought;
You paved us a troubled road filled with rot.
Do you gloat from people's mindless odes?
For lyrical praises and their cherning nodes...

I had enough of you and am sure you of I,

In the sky I see how pitiful have I been, but I dont not mind.
To think that I would ever keep you pure,
In this here's life savagery that has no cure.
Pity is as pitiful as you can make it due;
Through a person's life, have I seen it come true.
Taking away its breath, impure.
For victory to be claimed, like dog haunts do we spoor.


As the sun gently caressed her face, she woke up - beautiful, ethereal rays, dispersing effortlessly above the horizon line. Drowning the sky with their beautifully golden hue, everything it touched, now gloriously illuminated.  A day anew. Rin began opening her eyes, familiarizing herself with her new surrounding, her hair slowly animating, gently hovering through air. Playfully caressing her face through its gentle breeze. While the sun rays greeted her with their warm and loving hug. It was time, time for her to leave her makeshift fire and camp, and explore and venture forth in this uncharted new land. She carried with her the desire of her parents and the wishes of her friends, to explore the world anew, as they could not. With a heartful glee did her eyes shine to the wonders of the world. Flickering like fire sparks in its ember flames. A world she recorded through ink-written words; her endless canvas of love.
"Beauty, innociouse mesmerizing nymph of life" she began writing "beguiling your children in your fine rhythmic tune. Breathing forth the joy for one to explore, washing away their sorrow kept locked indoors." Rin, gently shaken off the dirt that collected on her silk weaved cape, with her book and writing quill on hand, ready to record the magnificents of the land, she ventured forth.
 Ever so often stopping, capturing, recording her surroundings. Words, transformed to phrases, phrases to paragraphs and paragraphs in effortlessly painted stories. She was a lone explorer, witnessing life's mood swings and many colours. Imagination blurred with reality, transformed into written words - elegancy, tempting eagerness - mimicking the sea. She was inspiring in nature, retaining her childish glee that many lost through the troubles of life. Avoiding life's melancholic beckonings and endless cycles of brooding, she was able to escape her small town back home where everyone had to fall in line. A peculiar sensation she first thought, how unnatural loneliness can be. Rin had trouble navigating loneliness, but quickly did she feel the unfound freedom that it got her that outweighed the inevitable lows that it caused. "A much too happy person for her own good" many would describe her as, but she seemed not to mind, venturing forth, faced with unknown - the closest description of home to her.
 Faced with the endless possibilities of life's explorations, she was now making way to the ruined castle that was on sight on top of a hill. The castle overlooked the glistening sea, shimmering like thousand plotted diamonds on its emerald blue. She thought she could take rest on top of it, in one of its towers, where an arched window could overlook the vastness of it. Between her and the ruined castle a long windy road stood in the way. Riddled with pebbles and fields of golden swaying wheats. Rocking back and forth, outlining the wind's direction as it caress them. A magnificent sight that filled her with joy of being alive, to witness hues unfathomable to her townsfolks comprehensions as their priority was work and gold accusation.
How can someone want more in life she thought, when witnessing such sight, a feeling of content washed over her. Sparking a smile from her youthful face while she clenched her writing quill ever so tightly, signalling a spark of creativity ready to be recorded on paper..." Colorful, oh so colorful the world can be, I have witnessed it all in this here spring. Brightened and transformed to resplendent golden hues, in summer's warmth, and its troublesome brews - only for time to shift into its cold and bitter blues. Blowing away its splendid glee, for life to take its rest do I beg thee- spare our sanity for its been taken away by your galore, do I humbly and gently implore. I have nothing more to ask, but the gentle chance of allowing me to witness this at last. "  ....






'Sea's welcoming embrace, our mother, our caretaker, with every winds embrace you come and 


RIN'S imaginarium 


what more is to life if not the stigma of death. The endless pursuit of wanting to live. Where for one to survive, one has to ruin and fester in it - creating rot in someonelsess life. Feeding upon their flesh, their essens, sucking the life out of them, in adding to their own. A parasite. This is what we are, to all living things; insects, fruits, trees and any of god's so called creations. Some god, making every living thing feed from each other for their existence - and still praise love and harmony, where balance can only be restored with death. I cannot take this life anymore, this endless and insatiable smothering pursuit of being alive. This isn't surviving but some kind of obsession of endless consumption. This is not living but reverse, like a curse, something out of control, breeding an unclenching thirst of bloodshed. I have lived for over 80 years and I had my fair share of that, misery, cruelty beyond belief. I rue the day I was ever there. I have heard all voices from god's noblest creatures, moans like implacable scars to my heart. I've been a soldier, a slave, a husband and a son. I've seen my comrades fall in battle or die more slowly to time's embrace. I've seen god's bestowed "gifts" of illnesses to the most kind hearted dying despairing and to the most savage hearted, a prosperous long life. I held men dying in my arms at death's cold embrace, no honor, no promised glory, no bray of last words, nothing. Only their eyes, questioning why - I do not think they were question why they are dying but why they have ever lived. 


illed with confusion  lost everything that ever meant anything to me. Now haunted by their faitness memory as my mind loses its grasp with reality.


Years are passing me, like seasons exchange;
I, like a boulder do I stay.
Silent, awaiting death's embrace.
For I made a promise in shackling my self from meeting her sooner
Decades have past and I feel my body's withering grasp.
Has my time, finally come?


rin was sick and in hospital, she was escaping into this imaginary world, where she would explore and live the life she couldnt. Robbed of her own, did this life seemed appealing to her, a dream well dreamed, one that she wished never to wake up from. But alas she did, joyful tears rolled down her eyes of what was within 

She was a unique case, since birth she was born with a life
debilitating illness, which cut her life expectancy quite significantly. Death loomed over her as health to others, she never really complained about it but decided she wanted to see the world as much as she could before the inevitable

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