Urn Track
{"It is better to conquer our grief than to deceive it. For if it has withdrawn, being merely beguiled by pleasures and preoccupations, it starts up again and from its very respite gains force to savage us. But the grief that has been conquered by reason is calmed for ever. I am not therefore going to prescribe for you those remedies which I know many people have used, that you divert or cheer yourself by a long or pleasant journey abroad, or spend a lot of time carefully going through your accounts and administering your estate, or constantly be involved in some new activity. All those things help only for a short time; they do not cure grief but hinder it. But I would rather end it than distract it." — Seneca... Today's post is an entry to @bananafish's "Finish the Story" in its 50th edition hosted by @f3nix!!!!~ Consider coming along and posting an entry there, just follow the rules and actually write an ending to the prompt!... Today's music-aide: Waltz of the Underground [1.] from the Deltarune and Undertale OST.}
Banners by @f3nix
- Urn Track -
- Prompt by @f3nix -
The awareness of the box's contents dripped slowly in Joelle's mind, coagulating like a graceless Rorschach's blot. Bones. Tiny tapered bones, standing out against the mahogany bottom.
The unusual item jolted on the worn chair, reacting to the vibrations of the old diesel-powered train. The convoy, the last of his lineage, still fulfilled its duty along the Brașov-Sighișoara route allowing students to return to their homes every weekend. To the rhythm of joints and sleepers, the whiteness of the remains continued to dance tremulously before the eyes of the young woman as the frames of her glasses slipped slowly from her nose.
In a tinkling clink of bracelets, the student closed the lid of the box and moved away as far as possible from it, crushing herself against the seat's padding. The lazy air of the air conditioner stuck to the bottom of her dry throat an acrid plastic taste.
And then she saw him. The old passenger had returned and was staring at her through the windows that led from the corridor of the car to the cabin. She listened to her own scream erupting and fill the cramped cab.
"I didn't want to scare you, young lady."
"N-not scared, don't worry". Somehow, Joelle managed to gather the few polite words her manners demanded. She could not have said how long he had been watching and if he had seen where curiosity had taken her. The glasses, temples up in the air, laid on the seat beside her.
The old man was tall and lanky, his burnished skin resembled the ancient scales of a dragon. Dressed in work trousers and a raw cotton shirt, he gave the impression of being one of those peasants whose families had inhabited the Carpathians for centuries.
Joelle's gaze passed involuntarily from the man to the funeral urn disguised as a biscuit tin: the representation of a merry-go-round in a lacquered colored wood and graceful workmanship. The children were swirling with their bent busts, perhaps because of the speed of the carousel. Their mouths were wide open and their hands clung to the poles skewering the horses. With a lump in her throat, she remembered the fleeting memory of just a few hours before, when a train was huffing at the central station and a gentle old man asked her help because he couldn't open the cabin door. She felt like something ruined down from her lungs to her guts.
"I see that you like my craft" In the silence, she could detect the old man's fingers caressing the box inlays.
"It's delicious. A gift for a grandchild?" Joelle realized only now that the object was his only baggage. In the warm twilight, the colors of lacquered wood seemed even more lively. The conifers thickened on the sides of the train, sliding quickly to the edges of her field of vision.
"Oh. A gift, says the young lady. Like a toy, perhaps?" The old man's eyes were two black bottomless pits. His gaze had slowly become vitreous like that of a deep-water fish, yet at the same time penetrating.
"Yes, a toy. I like how you see it, miss." The passenger continued, his voice getting thinner.
Only then, Joelle realized where they were heading: the train had just passed the old mill and would soon pass through the tunnels beneath the mountain.
"You may have noticed how I depicted all these children. Observe, miss, between a horse and the other: they are not alone." By pronouncing the last vowel, which he abnormally prolonged, his voice tone had become a slow and drawling rattle.
It was still too early for the wagons' lights to turn on and the tunnels were preparing to swallow the convoy.
A sound of nails carving into the wood tore the thoughts of the young student.
- Ending by @theironfelix -
A bump forces the train to jump; a suspension of nails terrorizing the wood. So thanked her mind as her head cocked towards the old man, thinking the oddity of not even asking her name nor her his.
Still rattling off like he rolled his rs, her lips couldn't but give a sly smile to his gushing determination. Her memory theatre kicking into action, mere days ago oh was she in town center to present her programme. How the Carpathian townspeople sang their "ooos" and gushed their "awws" into the air. She rattled off, like the old man but in gay excitement, the versatility of a new programme and its great advancements. Claps penetrating the air, so an ethereal pink glaze coated her cheeks.
A forum of questions came her way and the Sun done it's low-crawl to disappear under the horizon. Joelle's voice-box strained, her mind pushed the limits, her arms gesticulated the plan and the crowd's passion carried the programme forth. All four years as a graduate student of a university spent here and her fellow soon-to-be-alumni sending her an array of hugs and Brezhnov-kisses - mostly done by the group's fellow skirts.
The memory film burning up, so life flew straight into her eyes. Ears focused in on the ending rattles, her mind thought it impossible but she managed to retain what his lips smacked on about. Giving thanks to the old man, her mind ordered the voice-box to blurt out one question:
"That's a lot of effort, especially for a toy. There has to be more to this than a mere gift. No?"
"Well Miss, you aren't wrong and I curse myself-"
"Something wrong?"
"N-no, I m-mean yes... No-"
"I-It's okay, take it slowly. No need to lie now, not like there's a spirit haunting us. Is there?"
Her left hand placed over her chest, his tear-stained face recovered a bit. Shoulders loosened, his hands lifted the tin-can that disguised the urn. His eyes peering left-then-right, his mouth let out a cough; body leaning a bit forth, his voice-box decided to let it out.
"Igen! Your eyes and mind are foolproof; guess every item being skewered and the play-offs of children and horses were the worst offenders. But can I really forgive myself for doing this?-"
"Well, I dunno. But is that something you're doing now sincere?"
"... Nem. I should be honoring but I shriek like a shadow. I dishonor the black rose I carry."
"Oh!-"
"Nem, nem. Your infliction lead my eyes to seeing my self-deception. It's time to conquer it, thank you young Miss... Say, I attended your oration - I was in awe... Glad the future is being filled up with more of you, we'll have a better Carpathia. Rest well, Miss."
His hands taking the urn out of the tin-can as his legs strode away, her heart softened as her eyes stared at her box. Maybe not an urn, but definitely a lived experience she can't revel in any more now.
Two things: First blood fo' sho' this time (no?) and also a good exercise in practicing some good ole Stoicism!~
[Do you mean emotionlessness?-]
Stop right there, anon! No, root out that evil thought in your mind! Root it out, spit it out, tear it apart, burn it in a fireplace or barrel of fire, throw into a river, whatever! Now, with my passions stirred, let's talk about some good ole Stoicism!
Stoicism is not stoicism. That is to say, lowercase s stoicism is mainly an ideological and aristocratic one at that is focused on male-subjects. Of which was merely a mean in order to exercise one's masculinity, a thing that exists within societal constrictions and not stemmed from Nature, and "avoid femininity" - whatever the hell the two mean. While Uppercase S Stoicism is the practice and theory conducted by Stoics from the Antiquity up to the Contemporary era that seeks out how to live one's life best in the most rational way possible while also being virtuous and just. This Stoicism seeks to not only tackle the World head on to make sure people can live a good life (probably not the Good Life) while also seeking to correct wrongs whenever possible or when it is within our control.
There's a whole series of videos and authors I can pull up from Antiquity who talked about Stoicism: Epictetus, Seneca, Cicero, Marcus Aurelius, Zeno, Chrysippus and Gaius Musonius Rufus for authors, and for videos I like to direct your attention to ReasonIO and Gregory B. Sadler on YouTube. These are, except the last two cases, great Antiquity Stoics; the last two items brought up really are great services and people, respectively, to look into - even if you aren't interested in Stoicism! So blamo: gave yah a free link to something that's practically free on the Internet. Double blamo!~ Ha hargh!~
Also, can the re-reading principle stand up?!?! Re-reading is a GOOD THING! In fact, most works, even the ones produced today, requires a bit of re-reading to catch those subtleties you missed the first time. From philosophy to fiction-crafting, re-reading is the best thing to reading period. So you don't understand Plato, slog through, document your issues, start again and revise your misunderstandings with the text. If you learnt more, good now you developed. If you didn't, well maybe something like ReasonIO can help clarify and help you to the right direction of struggling. But re-read people, nobody judges you for re-reading!
You turned a situation of incoming havoc (the tunnels approaching and the old man mutating in front of the student's eyes) into a sort of conversion with a social message. In the meantime, you also managed to somehow scold the author for maintaining the two characters unknown to each other. This is Vic!
UWUWUWUWUWUWUWU ~ Not only one but two @f3nix comments, can we get one more for that forgotten post?~ :p Nie, nie. Thanks for reading and thanks for the compliments!~
I knew this prompt had a great thread for havoc, so I wanted to stand out and take it at the material plane. That being I could care less for horror from a death-like figure and decided to focus on the urn qua death marker. For really the story had only a tiny buildup for some good horror scenarios, or the plunge to the unknown. Yet, the obscenities lay down with dialogue surrounding the master-signifier of the urn - the one that contextualizes and gives meaning to all the scenarios no matter where they stray even if that thing is entirely "meaningless objectively."
So taking upon your dialogue development of the disguised urn (and the obscenity of another box) and how the scene ended on them two despite the setting not caring about that development, I took off! And as you noted there above, you are entirely correct. The plunge was already accepted and never remarked upon, for I needn't touch it and trust the readers enough to think the train entered there. The Social Message derived from the Stoics implanted as you seen (especially developing betwixt two people of vastly different experiences coming to realize and actualize that social message between them). And of course the scolding, all done within the first paragraph as a tease towards authors that tend to think they can easily skirt around them not sharing names - or not at least presenting an awkward scenario of sharing names. And of course: THIS! IS! VIC! 300 Leonidas Kick gif
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You completely sidestep the obvious and take us on an ordinary tale of two people crossing paths in a train carriage. I can just picture her, clapping her hands with exuberance as she explains her program to the old man.
Going to have to give up on google and ask you what Igen is?
The way she casually remarks about a spirit, and the conversation it leads to, very intriguing. Two people who at the end, feel as though they have gained for their paths crossing, from very different walks of life, but still able to respect and understand each other.
You take this seeming bone train rattling along the tracks of implied horror, and instead use that to show something about the people riding it. Another great ending!
UwU ~ Thanks for reading and thanks for the compliments!
As you highlighted and as I said to your DMs: I really wanted to just sidestep the horror bullet and instead take a nice time for social messages. Why? Well if I had been reading most entries right, they’ve involved horror so far and mines will be a sore thumb to the horror hand. So basically, I wonder if I will get bonus ducks [points] for that.
Well I shall say it here again, but for the reader-commentator's sake: igen is yes in Hungarian.
This is Stoicism... Okay on a less serious note: you got some particularly sharp eyes to see that, I bet... oh wait I sound like the old men there for a second... Anyways, good eyes and good analysis.
<<<<3333 Dziekuje, mój Ukochany!!!!~ Couldn't make these posts without yah and the whole of the Internet~ <<<<3333
so wait....this...did I just read a wholesome story?
UwU ~ Thanks for reading and thanks for commenting! If you read all my stories, you will find the most wholesome arc of events for any character I care to spare. But yes, it was a wholesome Stoic story.
Your unique style and the directions you take with an ending are always fun, Felix!
To your first cheeky paragraph I have to say, what's a name but a label? 😉 Personally, I've a hard time remembering the name of a person but can hold a recollection of our conversation and their character for years. I like that this is within your story, for I believe that the interaction between Joelle and the older man will travel with them in the years to come.
You begin well, using the bump in the track to signify a skip in the commonly laid path, these will be moments to remember. He continues on with his rattling (with rolling "r's") which gives her a moment of recollection as well as readers a bit of exposition to her schooling, her ambitious program and future aspirations, and the camaraderie from her classmates. (Enjoyed the bit regarding Brezhnov kisses, btw.)
We're given the reveal that the man was in the crowd, able to hear of her ideas and conviction and to be touched by them. Though black roses have a common symbolism of despair and dishonor (that which he felt he was displaying) they are also known to be given in honor of a rebirth. Just as the old ways in the world turns over for the new with progress, he has found new conviction to carry on with sincerity thanks to the fortune of their meeting. From an inspired audience member to polite stranger, then came the listening, followed by the sharing and finally to a connection that leads to a difference. A well told, story. 😁
~Bris
UwU ~ Thanks for readin’ and thanks for the compliments!!!!~
Always fun stuff when it comes to me, even when blood goes a spillin’!~
As to quote myself: “I can remember the face, not the name. I can pick out a criminal even from a mile away, but forget who’s big birthday was today because I forgot their name.” Otherwise, dzięki for spotting this trend in my story~
Spot on with how things are addressed here in my story, starting with the bump to remind the reader of a very material World and that these characters exist in their own places in the World. And good eye on spotting the active application of student knowledge to the actions of the townspeople and the student body with her.
Good eye on seeing that as well with the dialectical progression of the old man and noticing the throwaway detail of the black rose as well that’s tied heavily with him in this story~