Note: Not actually happy with this one. Inserted some ideas/thoughts of what the heck I'm doing, but chances are this'll be a very different beast come week 2's self-edits. In any case, here is my first draft. It's fairly polished, but that's how I roll--although everything is in danger of heavy revisions. Also how I roll.
TRIGGER AND CONTENT WARNING for the non-graphic mention of babies born out of wedlock being killed, to such an extent their spirits became an entire subsection of ghostly beings in Swedish folklore.
MELIORISM - not entirely a ghost story, for now.They say the best place to stumble upon the supernatural is at a crossroads, which is why one should always take extra precautions in case one happens upon such a place. The best time, they say--and by 'they', I mean mortals--to make one's acquaintance with the other side, or indeed any kind of un-mortal kin, is on a Thursday, late at night.
They say so many things, mortals.
You're far more likely to find me sitting by the fire, a pipe in my hand, telling you all about the lights that shone across the fields the other day--right before Farmer Andreas' old man up and died. An omen, that was, I'll tell you, and you'll eat up every word, hungry as you are. Ravenous for stories of the bad old days, when trolls walked the woods and gnomes guarded your homestead; those old, olden times when you'd better think well of Wolf and Bear, or bad things would befall you.
You listen on, as I smack my lips around the mouthpiece, and tell you another story--all on good authority, of course. My old auntie never told a lie, and her cousin, let me tell you, lived to tell this tale. So on, so forth. All laughs and cheering, and the knowing nudges between friends.
Until I tell them about the time the devil came to my hometown, and danced all the young, vibrant, pretty things to death. No one laughs, then. It cuts too close to home, see. Even if they're neither young, nor pretty, it cuts them deep. Even if it was a long, long time ago, and no one believes in the devil. He's a symbol for all the other creatures that roam our lands, that come back from the dead to safeguard their dignity or wreak havoc on irresponsible descendants; or vengeful spirits of the woods set on righting an injustice perpetrated against them.
The story is simple: the devil lures the youths of the village to the top of the nearby mountain, where he plays the fiddle. Thereby casting a spell on everyone, enchanting them to dance and dance, until they ache, until their skin scrapes away, and the flesh tears and tatters beneath the bones of their feet, until there's nothing left of them but death and decay. The devil played the fiddle so expertly, with such charm and allure, that even when they noticed his hoofed feet, or the tail peeking out from under his long cloak, the spell could not be broken. The beautiful young things kept dancing in frenzied bliss, until it was all too late, and they could never go back home.
Simple. Easy.
But what the story doesn't tell you, is how the devil wasn't a devil at all, and the wickedness wasn't a mere case of the devil being? well, 'the devil'. Boys will be boys, and so on. Whatever that means.
No. What the story doesn't tell you, is why.
It doesn't tell you about the hundreds, thousands, of illegitimate babies dead in the woods, killed by their own mothers out of fear of repercussions. It doesn't tell you of the darkness, or the helplessness, or the blood spilt over the generations. Nor, indeed, of the ties that bind us--all of us--together. Ties that break, and demand justice. Such as an entire generation forfeited as a boon to all those lost children.
It
should say:
Once upon a time there was a crossroads, and three figures stood before it, given corporeal form. At the center stood Justice, and to its left was Revenge; to its right, Forgiveness.- And here is where I get stumped - what is this story really about? Where is it going?
- If this is a ghost story, is the narrator a ghost? Not getting that feeling thus far.
- When in doubt, type "SOMETHING HAPPENS HERE".
- Maybe a bit of dialogue between the concepts? It's all symbolic, anyway.
- Will possibly ditch the three figures in Week 2, but eh, fudge it.
Justice asked, "What is Forgiveness, if mortals never forget?"
Forgiveness had no answer.
Justice asked, "What is Revenge, if it comes ten years too late?"
Revenge had no answer.
Justice said, "I shall tell you. Forgiveness is nothing unless its root cause is then forgotten; Revenge is nothing if no one is around to remember where it stems from."
"And what of you, then?" asked Revenge, dissatisfied with the judgment.
"Yes, what of Justice?" asked Forgiveness.
Justice stood tall, and tilted its chin up. "I am the balancing scales. I am blind to the mortal measures of origin, creed and status. I care not for mortal constructs. When I mete out my verdict, both of you are satisfied."
"Utter tosh!" cried Revenge, "We are never truly satisfied!"
"Hogwash," Forgiveness agreed.
But Justice was not yet finished. "Which is why my work is never done, and my reach knows no bounds."
"You sanction genocide, and call it Justice," said Revenge.
"I never!" Justice stood firm. "Mortals do."
"And what about all the moneyed mortals who do more harm than good?" asked Forgiveness. "You think them Just, as well?"
"Not at all," said Justice. "They
think themselves just."
And so it was, that they agreed to disagree: not a single one of them were more than what mortals made of them, and while Revenge often came too late to serve its purpose, and Forgiveness meant very little without its cousin, but Justice was worst of them all.
Justice wasn't just blind, but changed its ways to please each individual mortal: all who spoke of it had their own idea of what it meant.That's where I come in. I smoke my pipe. I play my fiddle. And you pretty little things dance to my tune whether you like it or not. I am tenebrous. I am aeonian.
When I tell stories, people listen, that they may do
better. Not just that.
Be better. For all of us, dead and buried, or lost and waiting, wandering this world long after our passing.
I am the belief that the world gets better; that mortals can improve the world they live in.
So if you find yourself sat by the fireplace, listening to a white-haired old traveler with a pipe that never runs out, take heed. Listen with every fibre of your body, and
be better.
The sun rises, I take my leave. Until next time.
Topic: First draft of Meliorism (Read 1845 times)