LISTEN, CHILDREN, TO MY STORY | PG | Thomas Jefferson/Alexander Hamilton
~*~
Ahhh, I see it now. Your problem. Oh, no, don’t pretend it isn’t there! You think the story starts with you (humans always do). Of course, there’s the odd one here and there that believes in reincarnation, but it’s always so structured. The reality is not nearly so … hierarchic.
All right, then, I’ll tell you a story. I know you want one!
And here we are, then, in a world where the trees grow as tall as mountains and the leaves as wide as cars (oh, a car is a – it’s a sort of carriage, only – never you mind, just listen to the story).
There – and there, through the rustle of the leaves, yes, there he is. He stands erect, if angled a bit, his muscles with the lean and active look of a predator. Because he is a predator, you know. It is his nature to rend and kill and to take joy in it.
But this one – well, perhaps he denies his nature a bit too vehemently. Perhaps it makes him unhappy.
Perhaps he would be unhappier if he pursued it fully.
Oh! – A scuffle, up ahead, and his eyes perk to watch it. A scuffle means blood, and though his senses strain against it, his instincts strain towards it…
Somehow, ahead, a fellow of his own species has managed to catch a winged creature, the sort he has seen wheeling overhead. The sort that does not need blood for life, the sort that this predator, our predator, is jealous of.
The sort he has no trouble killing. For revenge or for food.
He SHRIEKS at his rival; it is smaller, quieter. No match for him, and it runs, leaving its prey injured, helpless this far under the canopy.
It trills, something similar to the sound of rapping wood, and our predator stills. He turns his head, favoring the right as he watches the flying creature, watches him closely.
Again it trills! What strength, what caustic strength it is behind those not-words. He has accepted his death, and he faces it bravely.
And perhaps that is what gives our predator hesitation.
And that hesitation, yes, perhaps that is why he leaves it behind.
Do you know of whom I have spoken? – No? I have not been clear enough! No, but the story speaks for itself, does it not? And if our predator sometimes sees a shadow, from a figure circling far overhead, well, perhaps that is the only sort of friendship that they could know, in that form.
You do not understand, I see. Very well. I will tell it again another time.
WHAT AMMMMMM I
~*~
Ahhh, I see it now. Your problem. Oh, no, don’t pretend it isn’t there! You think the story starts with you (humans always do). Of course, there’s the odd one here and there that believes in reincarnation, but it’s always so structured. The reality is not nearly so … hierarchic.
All right, then, I’ll tell you a story. I know you want one!
And here we are, then, in a world where the trees grow as tall as mountains and the leaves as wide as cars (oh, a car is a – it’s a sort of carriage, only – never you mind, just listen to the story).
There – and there, through the rustle of the leaves, yes, there he is. He stands erect, if angled a bit, his muscles with the lean and active look of a predator. Because he is a predator, you know. It is his nature to rend and kill and to take joy in it.
But this one – well, perhaps he denies his nature a bit too vehemently. Perhaps it makes him unhappy.
Perhaps he would be unhappier if he pursued it fully.
Oh! – A scuffle, up ahead, and his eyes perk to watch it. A scuffle means blood, and though his senses strain against it, his instincts strain towards it…
Somehow, ahead, a fellow of his own species has managed to catch a winged creature, the sort he has seen wheeling overhead. The sort that does not need blood for life, the sort that this predator, our predator, is jealous of.
The sort he has no trouble killing. For revenge or for food.
He SHRIEKS at his rival; it is smaller, quieter. No match for him, and it runs, leaving its prey injured, helpless this far under the canopy.
It trills, something similar to the sound of rapping wood, and our predator stills. He turns his head, favoring the right as he watches the flying creature, watches him closely.
Again it trills! What strength, what caustic strength it is behind those not-words. He has accepted his death, and he faces it bravely.
And perhaps that is what gives our predator hesitation.
And that hesitation, yes, perhaps that is why he leaves it behind.
Do you know of whom I have spoken? – No? I have not been clear enough! No, but the story speaks for itself, does it not? And if our predator sometimes sees a shadow, from a figure circling far overhead, well, perhaps that is the only sort of friendship that they could know, in that form.
You do not understand, I see. Very well. I will tell it again another time.