Article 173623 of talk.bizarre:
Path: chaph.usc.edu!usc!phakt.usc.edu!not-for-mail
From: pechever@phakt.usc.edu (Heckler)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: Arcanum 27 (Contentment)
Date: 23 Oct 1993 14:48:39 -0700
Organization: X Industries Center for Thaumaturgical Research
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Sender: pechever@phakt.usc.edu
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Summary: i don't know where this is going, but bear with me
Keywords: *shrug*

*swissh*

*swissh*

The mindless rhythm of the harvest sang in my arms.  Wheat fell all around me
under the afternoon sun.  Earlier, the scythe had felt like a bar of lead in
my hands; now, i was on the other side of what Per Horil calls the 
fatigue-hill, and the blade sang in my arms as it shuttled back and forth.

At the end of the day, I knew, I would pay for this burst of energy, but for
now it seemed the easiest thing in the world.

"Son!  Son!"

It was Mother, walking across the field with a pitcher of cider in her hand.
Smiling, I put down the scythe (how light it felt!) and hugged her close.

Surprisingly, she winced.  "Not so hard, Son.  You'll snap my brittle old bones
one of these days."  But I hadn't hugged her nearly as hard as all that.

We sat for a time and shared the cider.  It was a cold, sweet blessing, and I
reveled in the moment's pleasure it afforded me.

"I'd best get back to the harvest, Mother.  Thank you for the cider."

"Go on, Son.  But don't tax yourself; you don't want to make Per Horil come
out here to treat you."

"I don't think the Per will have any reason to see me today, Mother.  I'll be
careful."

The scythe seemed to leap into my hand after she left.

*swissh*

*swissh*

The strokes began to get wider.

*swissh* 

*swissh*

And wider still; I was striding along, now, keeping up with the swath I was
cutting.

*swissh*

*swissh*

Grain falls about me in waves; the world is a field of wheat and I can cut it
all in one day.  My legs reach to the horizon; my scythe harvests stars.

*swissh*

*swissh*

All around me, grain falls.

heckler
 


-- 
"...the ceaseless stroking of my ego is something that all creatures, living
and dead, should obviously devote their existences to."
		-- Scowling Jim Cowling, the Merchant of Menace