What the Poet Passed On (collaborative flash fiction)

Recently, the writing community that I am part of held a co-authoring challenge and competition. Emma Runyan (a fellow student, writer and friend) and I decided to create a piece together. I so loved co-authoring What the Poet Passed On and hope that you enjoy it too!

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Creak! Creak!

Back and forth, back and forth, an old rocking chair moved. In the chair sat a man, and in his lap sat a journal. His hazy blue eyes were fixed in the distance, and he was tapping a pencil against his chin. He started to write something, then quickly stopped and erased it.

“No, no, that doesn’t rhyme at all,” he muttered, clearly annoyed.

After some time (and much writing and erasing), the man stood, satisfied at last. He took one final look at the stanzas he had written, then closed the journal and made his way down his porch’s rickety stairs.

If you haven’t already guessed, the man is a poet, and an important one at that.

Looking down at his watch, the elderly man nodded and began to walk towards the dusty road that ran near his house. It was the same walk that he took every day. One would assume that he would eventually grow bored of the traveling, but he did not.

Before long, the poet had reached a bustling town full of people. Most of the people in the town seemed angry. They shouted at each other and argued over prices, each man thinking only of himself. The poet stopped for a moment, looking around at the unhappy faces. Then, taking a deep breath he hobbled to the center of the square, opened his journal, and began to read.

Listen, townspeople, and look above!

Someone soon will come from the clouds

Beware, townspeople, and look above!

You are deaf, but soon will hear the sounds

Stop, townspeople, and look above!

I want to share the truth I have found

Wait, townspeople, and look above!

The coming sight will fall to the ground

The man did not receive so much as a glance from any of the passersby. No one seemed to hear the man, or, more likely, no one seemed to care. No one, that is, except for a little boy.

The boy was a small thing, skinny with a dirty face and torn clothes. Upon hearing the poet’s words, he stopped and turned to face him, his eyes full of worry and fear. Slowly, he crept towards the elderly man, listening intently as the poet continued speaking.

Eventually, the man looked up from his journal to see the boy standing there. When their eyes met, both nodded, knowingly showing their understanding of something that many did not pay attention to.

“Is it true?” the boy whispered.

The poet nodded.

“What can I do?” The boy asked, his eyes solemn with fear.

“Come with me, and I will tell you and teach you,” the poet said. “Will you come?”

The boy sat in silence for a few moments, thinking over the poet’s words.

“I will,” he said.

The elderly man and the boy walked the long way back to the poet’s home.

~~~~~~~~~~

Once again, the old man was rocking back and forth in his chair; in the warm sunshine of the afternoon, one could see two shadows coming from the rickety porch. And, in the cool breeze, one could hear two voices laughing, for, even being so that the boy and the poet had never met before, they were connected in a way deeper than can be explained.

As time passed and the boy grew older, the poet grew older as well until one day the time came for the poet to go to his forever home. The boy, now a man, was heartbroken at the loss of his friend, but after mourning for a time he resolutely took up his pen and began, every day, to write.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Listen, townspeople, and look above!”

The man was standing in the same spot that his poet had been reading the first day that he had heard the truth. For, though the poet had gone, he left something behind him: an example.

Yes, the work was tedious. Yes, the man was scorned at times. Yes, not many listened. But some did. And if he could only lead one person to the truth just like his poet had led him, then the work could be carried on.

As the man continued reading, he suddenly heard footsteps coming closer.

He looked up.

“Is it true?” asked an approaching boy.