With the passing of the tides, the aging of time, following countless sunrises and accompanying moonlights under shifting skies the horror, now a cautionary tale, became enshrined like an epitaph on a tombstone: a prophetic foreboding laid bare for all to witness but obscured by none.
Eons later buried deep in a treacherously long silent hall, the memories lay petrified. A group of grad students stood before the adorned relics which had now been enshrined. This was no mere showroom but an altar built on the blood of martyrs.
The docent stood poised in quiet elegance, his voice steady as he recounted horrors once real. What was once a test of fire and brimstone now recounted and told as folklore. The eerie ghosts still lingered on-never truly moving towards the light.
Five distinct relics commanded the room.
A pair of dice frozen mid-air; suspended in animation, as if defying gravity. One face up- five dots- the others obscured by waning light, shadowed and unknowable. A game paused mid sequence, the rules bent, a puppet master dangles the pieces- the illusion of choice visible.
A lone sole, once elegant, now charred and twisted- burned at the heel. A testament of test by fire and a reckoning of brimstone. A dark and twisted emblem of horror and embodiment of souls that once walked.
A mannequin donned in a black-and-white, hollowed out eyes and perfect pose. A robe of injustice and untimely eternal exile. A display of power so revered yet so repelled and vile.
A single golden thread that began bright, fraying and fading out mid sequence. Ending prematurely in deep crimson red. The fates looking down upon; no escape, no retreat – just surrender
At the center, stood a glass casing. A single beam of light shone above it – a spotlight of reverence. The voice that dared to speak up. A testament of prophesy; the remaining embers of the fatefully fallen.
One of the students walked briskly with a slight hint of indignation, slid in the key and turned it. It flew open with ease; the room holding its breath, the relics waiting impatiently not making a sound or an echo.
Behold, the ancient scroll! Unearthed years ago, foretold of an ill-fated nation—one predestined to walk a path of doom and desolation. Laid waste and left bare, its downfall was long foretold. A prophecy of doom, cursed like Cassandra to see, to hear and, to warn and then in horror witness the premonition unfold, falling on deaf ears.
“Before the conveying, before the fitting, and before the unfortunate casting of the dice—there was first the march to the crowning.”
A brown cloud swoons over the land
Husks and thorns, dust-laden plates
A valley of tears wets up the bareness
Desolate and downtrodden, carnage relished
Ravaged by disease, impoverished by poverty
Wounds and scars of all too fresh and too real
Painted in new colors yet carved from the same stone
Cassandra’s echoes drowned by the eerie cheers of a clarion call
The ghosts of the tombstones watching and waiting for the 5
Standing at the crossroads
The cards stacked against them
A battle lost before its inception
Rose-colored petals leading to dystopia
Brightly colored fruit carrying their infirmity
Damned if they do and damned if they don’t
Men of tales and fables
Grandiose and grandeur
A promise of fleeting bliss
A dime here, a silver coin there, paid in full
In blindfolds they swing and hope to hit the target
A dreary march, a grim procession – the final nail on the coffin
And so they marched forth
None the wiser all the older
Embracing their death march!
With soft and delicate arms, not wanting to shatter the casing, he slowly returned the scroll and once again it remained shut. No applause, no cheers, just silence and bated breath. One by one, they made their utterances:
001#- “They say if you roll the dice you pay the price. Unfortunately the dice was rolled by them but he took the fall. ”
An anti-climactic ending, if ever there was.
His eyes transfixed at the dice.
The game rigged from the get-go;
They never stood a chance.
002#- “It is believed flames reinforce steel and forges the finest weapons but they might as well be weapons of doom”
A legacy built on tragedy of epic proportions
Looking down then up, the image of the shoe
Would never hold the same meaning again.
The echoes of the 5 reverberated in the room.
003#- “The literal personification of a wolf in sheep’s clothing if there ever was. Tyranny as it core seeks to lay all to waste.”
Glancing at the menacing mannequin,
With clad so refined yet men so unrefined.
Demeanors so petrifying- villainy refined
004#- “Once the dominos began to fall, nothing could stop its inevitable end. Is history meant to warn or avert”
Or a foreshadowing of a repeated cycle?
The thread of fate whispered and murmured
As it read and bled to its ill-fated end.
In somber moods and heavy hearts, they bowed and left- notes in hand, hearts and minds forever changed. Yet, Tag #005 lingered on.
He peered closer- reflecting, meditating, and pondering. The scroll, silent and still, screaming and shouting: beckoning
– What was this feeling being stirred from within? What was this presence that surrounded his soul? What unction had come over him? What relentless and endless restlessness bothered him? What still remained unsaid?
As the calm permeated and reverberated in the room, as the storm took over Tag #005, somewhere out there, beyond the great hall and the silent shrine, a foreboding of a storm lay in wait …
A NEW MARCH WAS JUST ABOUT TO BEGIN!
