'Clastic' Chapter 1

Elongated shadows of a mahogany-like narrow windowpane stretched across a rectangular workshop. Besides the strikingly worn down brick kiln, it was completely barren; multiple cobwebs littered the dark corners and dust balls inhabited their respected places where life hadn't been given. The old and ancient door that led to the room creaked to an open position, letting in a faint glow. A man of medium stature and ratted cloth clothing entered. His hair, a dull black, stole away the remaining sunlight as he stepped in front of the small, opaque window. Slowly, he reached down to open the dusty drawer of a rusted bureau. Inside lay a small dagger that owned a sharp, jagged edge. He was to go hunting today.

After gathering the day's worth of firewood and stacking it up against the kiln, the man set off to the forested woodland that surrounded his small, cozy home.
It was early in the day, and dawn was reborn over the curved hilltops, the refraction made a beautiful outline that gave shape to a mountain range on the horizon.

Brisk wisps of cold wind lifted the spirits of the man as he strolled willingly within the trees. The movements of birds in the canopies and sounds of dew dropping from the tips of flower petals gave a distinguished rhythm to the area, though it was difficult to hear to the untrained ear.

Silently, the man etched his way to a large glistening pond within the forest, where he often decided to wait for the creatures of the forest to come and take a refreshing drink. That would be his chance. Perching himself in the branches of a tree, he hid patiently and ever so quietly. Hours passed, and the sun drifted to the middle of its daily journey, baking the top of the watery dew off of its place.

Deciding to focus on a small lotus that remained stationary in the center of the pond, the man remained still and almost ceased to breathe. Why was it so silent?
Not a blade of grass quivered; not an animal nor man had been encountered that entire day. How much longer would the starving man have to wait before he would embark upon his next meal?

Depending on the time taken between each meal, the man would take precaution to what he ate and how much of it he took. Also, the lack of sleep during the long hours of the night due to the fear of thieves kept him up. The fear that his food would be stolen. The fear that without it he would die, and die a slow death of starvation.

Relying on his dulled senses, the man closed his eyes to listen to any sound that would give away the preys position. Any sign of disturbance in the evident silence that could save the man.

Suddenly, as he was about to retreat in defeat to his home, he heard something.
Finally, 'meal', he thought; his stomach roared for the sustenance that he had deprived it of for so long. Swiftly, he grasped his dagger, a glint of satisfaction flashed across his face. Leaping from his base, he sprinted in a manner similar to that of a madman who had finally dug his way out and around Alcatraz, and had managed to swim his way off the isle. Many times, his blind fury led him straight headfirst into the ground, which still didn't stop him. He could no longer ignore this hunger, never again could he let himself get so frail, thin, and weak.

The lavender lotus spun as the wind savagely swirled in all directions. The man, falling to his knees, curled down to protect his face from the flying projectiles such as  pebbles. For a split second, he covered his eyes, only to immediately snap them back open. His jaw descended as he gawked stupidly at the woman who stood before him.

A woman of long silken hair that glimmered a spectacular platinum blond; it flowed in the breeze and revealed her soft, pale face. With cheekbones that shimmered a slight rosy color that complemented her white linens that draped endlessly around her. With a gentile pace, she bent down to gracefully scoop the lotus into her palms.

Gliding over to the man with her eyes shut, she kneed to his level; no longer could he move, and his murderous intent had died away for the moment. With the numb sensation stalling even his blinking, he stared ahead like an old hand-painted china doll that never left the shelves of its youthful owner.

The woman reached into a silk sack that was lined with expensively white pearls and chains of 14 karat gold. Out of it came a slightly smaller bag that jingled as she placed it in the hands of the man. She then opened her eyes.

With a gasp, the man was sent aback, dropping the light bag as he gazed upon her black pupils that contrasted her marble shaded irises. Then, she spoke in an elfin tone that rang like the carillons of a four hundred year old cathedral, and that entranced the man further.

"Man of hunger. Man of the poor, I ask of you, a favor." She dipped to return the bag to the man's hands in a fluid movement; he could only see her face and hear her spell. The rest of his surroundings did not exist to him anymore. She spoke once more,

"Take this child, and engrave him with the sign of the melted sands. On his 10th year from this day, engross him with the glazed glass of his own creation."
She leaned in toward him, and her scent of lavender and gold wavered to the man.

"Follow as I request, and I shall forever be yours, and for eternity, you shall have my never-ending wealth and riches." She sang, opening the small purse, and unveiling many small gold coins that reflected within the greedy man's eyes.

As he glared into her view, he leaned in toward her. He knew it, he knew that he loved her. Not only that, but he had then witnessed her wealth, and he would do anything to grasp it.

Yearning to kiss her, he grabbed her velvet face, and with a contented grin, he closed his eyes. Yet, with that blink, the only blink of that whole time from which he could not fully recall, she was gone.

For what seemed like hours upon hours, he sat staring at his empty, blistered hands. He thought that surely, and most definitely, he had been hallucinating, considering his recent unwanted fast. With a murmured groan of pain, he stood to his feet and began to stumble home in a drunken confusion. Placing his hands against the bark of the trees, he guided himself home. Could he really have imagined such perfection?

Eventually, as the sun began to die beneath the towering mountains, and the stars poked out from their blackened domain, he caught view of his cottage.
With a rushed stride, he fell to the doorstep and pulled on the curved handle, opening the door. He hustled to search beneath all of his possessions, for the fear of the thieves returned. Moving every piece of wooden furniture and piece of battered cloth, he was satisfied with what he saw. Nothing had been taken, nor moved.

As the man turned to fall to his bed, a glimmer of something shining a golden color caught his eye. Beside his kiln lay his dagger, a rolled piece of parchment, and a pile of golden coins, all scattered around a light purple lotus. He jumped to the floor, and greedily weighed the coins in his hand. Smiling with glee, he stood and cheered, only to be stopped by a sound, a cry if you will. The cry of a small baby.