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The scar spreads, vast and old, redone with common necessities. Modern-style condominium complexes rise from the cracked ashy main street. Decorated shops hide amongst industrial factories. There is a rocky beach where the town’s children play hopscotch and catch little sea creatures in the freshwater tide pools.
As like any old scar, it is hidden beneath years of desire and cyanide. The people who now inhibit the scar are blissfully unaware of it. Now, the scar is a common small town. The people thrive off of the scar in many ways. Businesses keep the town standing. Cream-colored birch trees give the people oxygen. Summer fairs and art shows keep the people content. These are obvious illustrations.
However, the people do not realize the truly significant force of the town in which they feed on. It is the elder years. Time and effort and blood and emotions pulled and twisted to shape that is now the town. These generations before are unknown and unappreciated. It is an unjust to the world, and shall forever stay that way. The people do not understand, even though they claim to. Human feats are considered great – by their own. Yet, only deities have the wisdom to comprehend true greatness, which is measured in time.
Father time keeps the records in stone. He knows that he is the only one suited for the job.
The old man stands still atop an equally old hill. He calls it ‘King’s Rock:’ it is a solemn, tall hill, distant enough from the town that when stood upon allows the view of the scar. It is from here that he watches time. He is the only one who hears time tick by. He is the only one who truly understands.
Above the city is a dark sky. A few stars spin celestial light, and so does Mars. Mars; the god of war; representing all red as blood, like that of soldiers that once filled the city years and years ago.
The old man was young then. Young and strong and ignorant like the people.
He had a soldier in the city. A handsome boy with blue eyes and a crooked smile and a strong build, just like the man.
For the first time in hours the man shuffled his feet.
He thought of the boy and the way he looked like his mother. They both had the same nose and curly blond hair that would coil and uncoil in a slight ocean breeze.
He misses them so much and feels enormous regret towards the boy. If father time had only been older and more understanding, he would have been able to save the boy.
As a youth, the boy wanted to fight. He was fighting for the people. The boy understood the past affects the future.
But father time did not. Now the boy has no future.