#0 — The Fool

Day Two of Thirty Days of Writing

Field and wood scenes hasten through the cars open doors; the rider gave themselves a view while they sit propped up on the floor of the car. Back to the wall, left leg stretched out, right knee upbound to their chest. Motion of the train sways the Rider’s head, body, to and fro, for moments at a time the two separate structures merge and become whole. Synchronized by momentum.

Photo by Levi Saunders | Unsplash

Deafening beastly roars reverberate in the wood as the twelve cars and their engine push down the line — North West to no discernible location.

“Any where but here” the Rider said to no one of any particularity or existence while they climbed up and into the empty freight “Any where but here.” It hadn’t picked up any considerable inertia then, movement with a walker’s pace. The Rider’s staff rocks back and forth next to his left leg, jumping in and out of the grooves between planks to the beat of the train’s ebb. The Rider’s sack propped adjacent; a big eye sewn into its fabric staring out at the open doors with its owner. Watching the unseen parts of the greater unknown. Most take comfort with knowing it all exists, but venture out and into it with rarity. Fleeing shackles that keep the Divine Spark — the Life-Breath, that exists in all human kind from emanating righteous yellow hue that binds each of us together — takes a courage too many leave and let lay dormant.

The Rider dressed, in what we would call uncouth, in their best pants. Best to the Rider because they fit, they’re comfortable and rugged, beaten and worn in all the right places and the olive green wears dirt with ancient regal. Their shirt is adorn with a crescent moon encased in fire; eight flames engulf the cresent shape; and from the back points from the sun across their back reach up and across the Rider’s shoulders. An old shirt from an even older time, consummate for the road and rails.

There’s a dog with the Rider in the car. Wasn’t their dog when the Rider set out, but the canine watches, head on the Rider’s right foot; tracing the blur of the world outside the car; eyes reading the world. The pup, like most of us, is felicitous not to be alone anymore. Sparks of light break through the gaps the Rider has their back against. Brief glimpse of an emblem on the open door reflect a giant scorpion; some logo of the freight car’s owner. In its claws is a wheel with eight spokes; the eight lines of a better path, the right path.

White rose petals dot the floor of the car, strewn in a storm, dancing to the wind that comes in from the pure world outside the car. Something this old car must have carried in days past. Maybe for a wedding, maybe for a florist’s shop at the other end of the line. They’re reactant to the sparks of light breaking through from the back side of the train car wall. Dancing petal feathers; dancing in the wind and light that graces all of us, but it favors the Rider now.

To be so lucky! To start again on a road to nowhere. To find a private heaven in the leap; even if only briefly.


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