Date: Mon, 22 Dec 1997 16:56:12 EST From: Memories and Joys Subject: FILLER: And Once There Was A Firestorm... At the edge of forever, teetering precariously between this world and all those other glimmering baubles, a figure sits. Crossed legs seem a bit long and awkward, unsuited to the low edge of the sandbox, but the figure squirms and settles solidly (perhaps a touch too solidly?) into a well-worn spot. A hand reaches out, aching slightly from years at a keyboard, and scoops up a handful of the sand. He lets it sift down, slowly, watching the play of light on the white crystals, the feathering of the gentle breeze. He glances around, enjoying the silhouettes of weeping willows, the hint of a creek gurgling, and other shadows of a gentler era slowly sliding into the sunset. A tear rolls down his cheek as he notes seats around the sandbox now empty. A ball sits on the playground, casting a long thin shadow. He takes a deep breath, and smooths out a space in the sand. For long moments, he smooths the sand, enjoying the scratching on his palm, the faint intonation of sand scratching sand, the darkness of shadow under his hand. He begins to mound up the sand, His finger catches on a sharp edge, and he grimaces, then lifts a burnt glassy shape out of the sand. He lifts it to the sun, blesses it with a glimpse of a rainbow, and watches it dissolve and cascade back down, fine white sand ready for... He builds, slowly, a castle. A castle, with towers dark and courtyard brightly decorated, waiting for the dancing couples, the princes and princesses, the dukes and duchesses, and all the other finery of ages past (slightly romanticized, for the occasion is to be festive, and the grimmer side of feudal history does tend to be pretty grim). He molds and scrapes, drawing out the castle, the moat, and all the rest... while nearby, a writer ponders what tale to tell, what poetry to grace, what fine ornament of well-worked word will take that castle as mere scenery... He grins, as the other takes over work on the castle. He never would have expected... He laughs at the ring playing dodgeball. He looks around, at the dreams and schemes rising (and some, slumping!) in the sandbox. And with a smile, he raises his hands and waves... As you join him, Raising your own land into suspended disbelief In the sandbox of the writers welcome tink ------- End of Forwarded Message