Your people speak a language unlike any other. There is no alphabet, there are no words, no grammar, no structure, no rules except for this: every story has a purpose. Your novles are written in smoke spewed from smirking lips in circles lit by the soft glow of dying fires. Your poetry is late-night mumbles, tree shadows hiding the moon, the rumble of a brook like thunder over stones. Your biographies are legends, and your legends are wide-eyed children half your already-halved size, gaping upwards. Every story has a purpose, but no one remembers what-- and all those who think they know can never agree. When you tell your mother you're leaving, she looks at you with slitted eyes, looks you up and down, and continues her stirring-- hands always moving, eyes never leaving yours. It's a big world, she says, letting out a hum from behind her teeth somewhere. Too big for some people. But she doesn't tell you not to go. You're breathin sun dust and closing your eyes tight, listening for the river, when your little sister stops to tug on your sleeve. Bring back stories, she asks, begs, makes you promise. Of course, you say, bend to kiss her cheeck. Your dagger sheath is pressing down your thigh; your fingers have lately become like your mother's: picking, pulling, plucking, always moving, never stopping. Of course, you're telling her while you commit her face to memory. You breathe in dust, breathe out gas. Needles crunch beneath your boots. A breeze ruffles dark hair-- not just yours, but /all/ of yours; you've always been part of a windswept, homogenous mess. Mostly. You find the noise you were searching for-- somewhere close, water crashes, tumbles over smooth stones, seeks a destination it won't find. Always moving, never stopping. Your eyes settle again on your sister's face. Where you're going-- /wherever/ you're going-- there will be no old men gathered around dying flames to tell you the kind of stories you will seek-- your mother, your father, your sister, your few friends. The white-haired one who disappeared before you yourself could work up the nerve. Your people speak a language unlike any other, but no one has found a perfect tongue. The stories are history, are poetry, are identity-- but they, alone, are not reality. They are glory days wrapped in love and periphery warfare and, especially, survival. No one can tell you why they exist, but what you do know is this: the writers are the subjects, and the world is their audience.
