It was a quiet day in Islas, the sun was about to go down, scattering golden rays of warming sunlight on the already half-melted piles of particles of ice, when nothing happened. Nobody was there to watch it. Nobody was there to create a climax, and nobody was there to resolve the climax that never got to exist. Instead, a lot of people randomly milled around the square in a way that would suggest we had greatly underestimated the threat of zombies...they're not going to kill you; they're going to bore you to death.
Our several reporters were left to mill around with the crowd, only showing slightly more life than the rest of the populous. Things weren't happening, people weren't doing things, and, above all, suddenly, nothing happened.
The Islas Triumverate has received a lot of love. Some people have died and passed on to another world. But, in general, Islas is what it always has been. People are doing nothing, then doing something, and then worrying that they didn't do what they were supposed to. Eventually, they'll learn. Eventually.
Mr. Bertilson seemed to be the only one active...the only one with an idea...a dream.
"People just need to DO something! It doesn't matter what! It doesn't matter if you start sniping everyone from Calculus class every Monday on the Purple Lawn...it doesn't matter! Just do something!"
The wisdom and depth of these ideas and suggestions were nigh too much for us. A few of us keeled over straightaway, and a few more waited until they were in private, but, without a doubt, Mr. Bertilson had well outdone himself this time.
!Noah!
1 comment:
Blockhead.
!Noah!
Post a Comment