I huddle over the embers, wishing for it to grow even just a little.
But the embers remain the same.
It first began as a spark and I fed it with whatever I had. It took a while but the spark finally caught fire and grew to a small flame.
Tending to fires is a tricky and tiring job — there are too many factors to consider. The cold wind blows erratically and infrequently, threatening to snuff out the flame. And it rains at times too, sometimes a downpour, other times a shower.
keep the flames roaring within the plains of your heart — it never dies out
My fire diminished to embers but I have managed to keep it burning. The worst part is, across this featureless vast plain, I must keep the fire burning alone. No one can help me. And it does not help when I can see roaring flames of other firekeepers.
My embers are pitiable next to the majesty of their flames.
But they have nothing to do with me. Of course, my flames are mine alone. Such is the mentality of a firekeeper, gazing at the success of other firekeepers.
Should I give up?
My embers are not dead — they are barely alive though. Embers is a curious phenomenon. Fan it too hard and it extinguishes; too light and it only glows brighter. So for a while, I did nothing as I regarded it.
I even left it alone.
In the end, I return — the hypnotic allure of the embers ensnares me again. I poke at it and the embers crack.
even a spark can create gigantic flames when it’s given a chance
For the moment, I will continue to tend to my embers.
He rests the rebec on his knee. It is that moment — the moment when the crowd has thinned and the next group of tourists has not arrived yet. The brief window of break when his time belongs to him and his thoughts begin to wander.
He had a dream. Once.
It is difficult to believe but once upon a time, he was young. I am young, he tells himself. But once upon a time, when he was younger, he had a dream. He wanted to bring the music of his village into the world. The gentle song of the river, of the grassland and of the trees; the world is more interested in the harsh sounds of the metal, of the rock and of the electric.
“He rests the rebec on his knee.”
He had a dream. And once upon a time, he naively thought the world owed it to him to listen to his music. The simple songs of his village’s river, of his village’s grassland and of his village’s trees. He felt he was entitled to the success. But the baffling sounds of the metal, of the rock and of the electric prevail.
He prevailed too — not in a manner he is proud of, but he prevailed. Forty years, he has been singing the meaningful songs of his village to tourists who listen. Forty years, he has been singing the meaningful songs of his village to tourists who do not listen. And forty years, he has been singing the meaningful songs of his village meaninglessly.
“The gentle song of the river, of the grassland and of the trees; the world is more interested in the harsh sounds of the metal, of the rock and of the electric.”
As his rebec techniques improve, his rebec playing becomes hollow.
“Look Ma!” a child points excitedly. “What a funny violin!”
“Shh, don’t point. That’s rude,” the mother pulls her child away and they hurry off to rejoin their tour group.
I am still young, he reminds himself. Both the village and the world are far away, with him straddling in between. He is the last musician of his village to the world, the only one who still remembers the songs of his village.
“Forty years, he has been singing the meaningful songs of his village meaninglessly.”
Welcome to Week #63 of the Saturday Six Word Story Prompt. Click here to read the guidelines for the Saturday Six Word Story Prompt series. Prompt for Week #63 (Nov 7, 2020 – Nov 13, 2020) Stars Click here for the 6WSP image. I will do a roundup post each Friday. So please be sure […]