Sweeping

by ALC Punk!

*sweep* *sort* "...and the world... *swish* *sweep*

The broom swished through the debris and I sorted it. Piles of rocks there, bits of grass there, stacks of wood there..

"..there's no war..." Some of them were gone--'swhy I was crying, really. Truly, I hadn't known them all that well--the ones who perished, sacrificed themselves. It still made me feel sad, melancholy. Uatu's words had struck very deeply, pulled heart strings I'd thought already attatched to others. "...living in a world..."

And so I was sweeping, cleaning up, trying to regain some balance. Be whole. In with the old, out with the new--or was that in with the new, out with the old? It always confuses me. Makes me worry about things I shouldn't. No matter, I always have work to do. Things to clean up. Places to be.

"You may say, I'm a dreamer--But, I'm not the only one..." It had seemed such a little job at the time--clean up after really large battles. A little sweeping, a little sorting, maybe a few bodies. Most likely not.

But this. This had been different, I'd been told the story by the Boss's Boss. His name was Uatu and he was a Watcher. I don't know much more than that--other than that he likes to tell stories. Over time, I'd heard so many from him, some accompanied by visuals and sound--as the last one had been. Sometimes as bits of parchment, with pictures and words.

"Imagine all the people, living in a world of love.." I smiled suddenly, feeling happy again. Remembering the day I met that dazzling young man. He was so extraordinary, weaving words and music into pictures. Songs that told stories or pled with you to care. Pity he died a few days later.

No matter. Uatu wasn't the only one who told me stories. Sometimes the Sandcarving one would talk to me, describing what he was chiseling into the stone, why he was setting it in. About the man, the one who will bring the Boss's downfall. Supposedly it's all already planned and mapped out--the way the cards will fall.

I guess this explains partly why I do not know of them, these "Heroes of a Golden Age". I was not told of them--save once or twice as they crossed the paths of those I tidied up after. Someone else had that job--cleaning after them. Not me.

I stopped for a moment and frowned. I was beginning to depress myself with these thoughts. Time for a change of music! Politics. That might be good, they're always something to laugh at. Now, music... Ah! "Why do my seconds always choose to believe third-rate propaganda?" Perfect. Propaganda. Another wonderful device, used in controlling the masses. I began sweeping again and sighed as I continued with Molokov's response to the Russian. Propaganda rules. People listen to it, follow what it dictates and hate unconditionally.

"Who needs a dream?" I started, then stopped. No, 'Where Will I be?' was NOT something I needed to sing right now. Hrmm...

Ah! "It's the US vs USSR--yet we more or less are.." Yes, the Opening Ceremony had possibilities. I glanced at my work, so far the piles of sorted things were getting larger, and the debris just lying about like flotsam and jetsam was getting smaller. Logical, yes? And so I sang. And swept.

*Swish* *Sweep* "..From square one, he'll be watching all 64!.." *Swish* And I fell into a trance.

*Swish* *Gleam* "...Make him want to change his ways..." I stopped. Gleam? What? Where? Curiosity has been my besetting sin since childhood--even after all the centuries, it still has the power to make me stop and look into things. Find things out, Yeah.

And so I knelt, broom forgotten, the song forgotten. It lay in a pile of cinders--the one I'd just been sweeping--gleaming gold against the charcoal. A round, thin band of gold. I picked it up, and it warmed to my flesh almost instantly.

I say almost, because for the instant it was still cold, the images--memories, emotions--flashed through me. Blonde hair, blue eyes and love--intense love, although an undertone of sadness pervaded. I lurched to my feet, hand closing in a fist, ring inside it.

"It really doesn't matter who comes out on top--who gets the chop.." I sang, grabbing for the obscure comfort of the silly, overly dramatic musical. Reality. I needed a grip on reality.

They had been real. All my joking, silly, melancholy posturing aside. They had been real. I had never really wanted to believe--after all, if they were real, then why was the world so messed up?

"Whether you are pro or anti...we're here to tell you, we are here to sell you chess!" I was still singing. Of course. Propaganda. People believe what they want to believe. In that moment I felt terribly naive, nine-hundred odd years and I still believed people would rather think for themselves. I still believed you could make a difference if you tried. You just had to care, to try.

Right?

-_Finis_-

I think so, anyway..

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© 1999 ALC Punk!.