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The sky was clear and shone with the beauty of a million stars and it was on this night that the darkest evil befell a small village.
There were a few people in this village; most knew each other like family and in the market place that trouble started. The words of one, reached ears of another, but the meaning of the words did not. So stories spread like wild fire, the words of the first twisted by the ears and mouths of others. The words changed, growing darker, their meaning lost, the subject changed, soon they become spoken by others about others and the tension grew.
It was in the inn of this village that the fire became a inferno, when the words fuelled by ale became actions, punches thrown, wounds opened that would never heal and then silence. The sun rose and fell and rose again before any words were spoken, but what once spoken from the heart, of joy and fun was now spoken of the mind, each thing thought out and if repercussions or misunderstandings might be made from them, the words were not spoken.
Soon the village grew quiet, no words were spoken, even between spouses and friends, and the people vanished leaving for fear of saying the wrong thing. The magic of the village was gone, it stands now barren but I didn't see its death, for I was one of the few that left but not in fear of words, but in anger at the silence
[This message has been edited by Gabriel (edited 03-21-2001).]
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