A parable of internal debate and resolve.
There were scars visible on his hands and forearms. It was obvious he had tried it before, and the scars were proof of both past failures and current resolve.
It was not science, since no one seemed quite sure how it worked. Nor was it precisely art, since there was no particular standard among men to judge the aesthetic merits. Rather, it was the simple matter the blocks either stood or fell. Somewhere in the structure of the chalky material was something which recognized when things were done right and the stacks turned solid, as if the whole thing had been cut from a single mountain of the hardest stone on the planet. The standing work of only a few men still stood. Some were so ancient no one knew how long they stood, but legend had it at least one stack had been there before the first home was built in the area. There had always been a stack of blocks waiting for someone to try.
The stuff was popular enough, used as ephemeral art carvings, toys, or kids simply drew on the pavement with it. But every now and then someone came along with some inner flame of inspiration, and would stack blocks of it in some strange pattern in the center of the square. It was popularly believed the stones would speak, but the artists themselves insisted the inspiration was not in the stones. Where it did come from, no one knew how to say.
Of course, the fellows who failed could talk all day, but no one would listen to them. After all, they obviously didn’t understand what they were doing. And it was sure someone would try almost every day, sometimes several in a day. There were always plenty of blocks and plenty of room.
A few admitted they weren’t serious about it, just wanted to feel the blocks and experiment. Once or twice, and it got boring. Most who tried it insisted they really had been inspired, then ended up injured when the structure they were building fell. Again, inexplicably, the blocks would cut when they fell, but at no other time. Under any other circumstance, they would simply crumble and at most leave bruises when handled poorly. In the stacking, though, it was always different.
Today’s aspirant was one of the oldest anyone remembered seeing. His face was familiar by now, since he had been there so often. Once or twice his building fell before he really got very far. The last time, it had gotten well over his head, but still fell in the end. Was that a rather fresh scar on his left hand?
He stood for a moment looking at the blocks. He was muttering, looking about, taking stock of the various sizes and shapes. For a moment, he gazed skyward, then looking back down, he spoke aloud.
“This is the last time. If this fails, I’ll find something else to do. But I’ll never come back again.”
Slowly, he selected a few blocks and cleared some space. This one was going to be quite large. Indeed, if he got it very high and they fell, he might well be killed this time.
Another month or two. If what I’ve built falls this time, I’ll stop forever. I won’t be back any more.
I liked this a lot.