The Story of Life

THE STORY OF LIFE

An old man sits behind a dust old table. The table is old and rotting, splinters stick up from its peeling varnished surface. Long rivers run the length of the table where the table is cracking from rot and neglect. Upon the table sits an empty chipped glass ink well, the bottom of the inkwell is stained black from where the ink once escaped and now sits in a pool of dried dust that had originally clung to the escaped ink which is now embedded like sand to it’s misty surface. A crumbling parchment rest below the inkwell its frayed edges crumble as the man writes upon its almost brown with age surface. Illuminating the surface of the table is a tarnished candlestick with a tallow candle burning gray smog upwards only to eventually settle as more dust upon the surface of the table.

The man like the table is old beyond counting; the man’s wrinkles could almost be a reflection of the table’s surface. His hands stick out from his robes and seem almost to crack as bad as the parchments. His robes that drape his bent shoulders appear to look like cast off rags, torn from many years of wear and stained with the dust of ages and crumble at the edges just as the parchment on the table as the man shifts his position as he writes upon the parchment.

A black raven’s feather skates the surface of the parchment like the finger of death, barely touching and leaving no signs of it’s passing, but it sends ghosts to the page to imbed themselves in the parchment. The raven flies over the page only halting to dive into the dry inkwell in its thirst for unattainable sustenance and continues to fly over the barren desert where the parchment lies. The raven’s call sends an echoing call to the outskirts of the parchment drawing deaths ghosts to itself in unformed words.

The man sits, but not alone. Many come to visit the old man and ask him to impart his wisdom, his knowledge to them. He is mostly asked questions of self gain and knowledge of the material world to which he simply points to the parchment and says “read.”

However all who look upon the parchment see only a blank sheet and a black raven’s feather gliding over the surface of the page. Most think he’s just a senile old man, others call him a miser for not sharing his knowledge, but a few who think they are being made jokes of question his right to live when so many younger and supposedly more worthy people have died at younger stages of their lives. All comments fall on deaf ears as the man continues to write sending ghosts to the page.

As it happens a child came to see the old man one day, filled with curiosity of the young he came up to the old man jumping up onto his toes to peer onto the parchment. Seeing a blank page he turned to look at the old man with questioning eyes he asked, “What are you doing?”

In the longest time remembered the raven’s feather stopped its flight and landed on the outskirts of the parchment and the old man turned and spoke to the boy answering, “Writing a story lad.”

“Bout what?” Questioned the youth
With a sad and haunted expression on his face the old man answered, “Life lad, the longest story of them all.”

looking again at the parchment the boy again saw an empty page and although he was too young to read he knew what a story was supposed to look like so in his curiosity he couldn’t help but ask, “But where are the words the writing?”

The old man simply said, “The words lad are already there they always have been just the telling changes.” With those words the man picked up the ravens feather and continued his writing on the parchment. The ghosts started to run again to the page leaving the echo of the passage.

Although not understanding what the old man was saying the boy looked again to stare at the parchment and funny enough he could see markings on the page. He could see the depth of each word going deeper and deeper into the parchment entire histories lay within the confines of this one page. Although the boy could not read the words, words language and understanding didn’t matter the ghost’s formed the images of lost landscapes and peoples as he fell through the ages of the parchment to the very table below each mark either be it parchment, wood or empty space told a story that was life.

Shaking his head as from a dream the boy came to, as if from a dream. Seeing as the sun setting in the distance the boy turned and ran home. He came back however each day henceforth sometimes for an entire day sometimes for entire hours sometimes for just a few moments. Each time he learnt a bit more of the story, the echoing ghost would perform long forgotten deeds, lovely tragedy and misplaced love.

Was it seasons, was it years or merely seconds the boys family moved away and the boy no longer came to read the story. The old man died. The desk, parchment and raven’s ghosts went silent. No one came to remove them, no one even touched them. It was as if this little spot of the world had ceased to exist. People passing the table would know it was there but it was if their thoughts became clouded and they would pass without thought.


……….


Years passed

……….

The old man returned to his desk, or should it be said a young lad returned wearing similar robes he had seen before to sit behind the table that was rotting with age. He picked up the ravens feather once again dipping it into a cracked ink well he let the ghosts run loose to the waiting desert. That same story he saw all those moons ago but now with a greater understanding in his heart, he began writing the story over again leaving nothing on the page but shadows.

By Ivan Ovchinnikov