- Author
- 07/04/2016
- 506 Words
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Caesura - Prologue. Prologue
Prologue
The black Mercedes looked alien in a place where usually only hikers parked their SUVs. It stood there for long minutes, until finally a liveried chauffeur got out. He walked around the limousine, opened the back door, and talked briefly to someone hidden behind the tinted glass. When he stepped back, he held a blue, lidded jar in his hands. Then a tall man emerged from the inside, supporting himself heavily on a sculptured cane. The wind blew strands of his longish, white hair into his face, and he pushed it back behind his ear impatiently. Then he took the blue jar from the driver and walked towards a path leading into the dense forest. A third man joined the driver and together they followed some distance behind.
Even as the path got steeper, the old man still walked a steady pace. Nobody talked; the constant crunching of gravel underneath their shoes and the occasional scraping of the cane were the only things that disrupted the silence.
Half an hour later they’d reached a small glade opening up to the breathtaking vista of a large river valley. The old man purposefully made his way over to an old wooden bench, meant for tired hikers to rest or a loving couple to enjoy the great view.
He set down the blue jar carefully, and then searched the back of the bench with his eyes, until he found what he was looking for: a heart carved into the weathered wood, enclosing two letters entwined with each other. He followed its faded lines with his index finger, lingering a little longer on the second letter, while the other two men pretended not to notice the tears running down his face.
Eventually a smile appeared on the old man’s face, and he rummaged around in his coat pocket until he held a bleached out little rainbow flag in his hand. He stepped up to the brink and let it flutter in the wind. “I thought we’d need something to determine the wind direction. He would have loved this.”
The driver snorted. “He sure would have.”
Finally, the old man turned around, picked up the jar, and placed it on the palm of his outstretched hand. The third man took a professional camera out of the bag he’d been carrying over his shoulder and took several pictures. When he nodded, the jar slowly started to levitate, floating in the direction of the open valley. With a flick of his wrist it stopped several yards ahead, the lid was lifted, and the jar tipped over to release a cloud of ash.
“Goodbye, my darling. Thank you for everything.” They stared at the hovering urn for several minutes, before the white-haired man hurled it away with a resolute motion, and the noise of shattering earthenware could be heard in the distance.
Without looking at his companions he asked, “Who said ‘Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end’?
“Seneca. He also said ‘If you wished to be loved, love.’”
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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