Loading


A faint breeze drifted through the partially opened window carrying in the smells and sounds of the not-so-distant port. The over-sized brass hinges held the weight of the heavy stained-glass pane of abstract design. The sunlight, finished with its game of chase with the clouds, fell upon the window and a cornucopia of color burst through breaking the dusty haze of the workshop, and caused the man inside to lift his head.

Perhaps this was the first time since his day began that he found his mind no longer focused on his never-ending work, only the man himself knew. His concentration broken, he gazed around allowing his eyes to fleetingly acknowledge each of his creations then move on to another. Some were finished, many others in various stages of completeness. All crafted with genuine passion for his trade and a tender touch that comes only from one who’s work becomes so much more to them than a mere means to earn a daily copper.

His eyes focused on the open window just as a breeze picked up and ruffled his mussed dark hair. He sighed softly as the same breeze cooled his skin. Then he heard it, the faint clack-clack whir, clack-clack whir. A  repetitive sound, rhythmic, faint but seemed to be slowly intensifying in volume. Somewhere beyond he could hear the earthy cry of the gulls to the men on the wharf for a bit of food. He could hear the sharp snap of sails being pulled quickly to attention from a gust of wind. And even could hear the deeper sounds that were more thump than clack that the large corkscrew airships made as they hovered above the docks.

But there rising above all the din and bustle of the port was the clack-clack whir, clack-clack whir, and yes it was indeed getting louder. The man removed his half-moon, brass-rimmed glasses then pinched his soft wool shirt around the glass in an attempt to wipe away the dusty splotches that accumulated while he worked. When he placed them back on the bridge of his nose he gave a resigned smirk that for all his efforts, they were still dirty, however the splotches had become smudges. Tonight he’d have to wash them in the basin.

The clack-clack whir, was quite distinct and audible now, and seemed to be approaching the half-opened window. The man maneuvered around various desks and piles of work and stepped to the window to see if he could locate the source of this noisy interruption. Just as he fully opened the second pane of glass a gust of wind blew itself in ruffling his hair more and he heard several sheets of parchment take flight landing against a wall or floor behind him. Then he saw it. The little brass flyer as it mightily flapped its wings and made a bee-line for the window.

He stepped back in wonder and surprise at the flyer with its brass wings ablaze in warm colors from the late-afternoon sun. Clack-clack whir, clack-clack whir, he heard again and again until the little flyer was hovering, rather noisily, above the windowsill. There was a longer whir as the wings retracted and a slight clatter when the minuet flyer landed on the sill with its little brass feet. Much to the man’s amazement its movements were more delicate than normally seen by mechanical contraption, and such the clackity bird placed on the sill a glass-blown yellow rose with intricately crafted brass leaves.

The tiny, wondrous flyer then began a bell-clear chirping as it shook one of its legs at the man. There was a miniature scroll attached with coarse hemp binding to the little flyer's leg and he wanted it off. A single tug unraveled the bow, and the scroll rolled to the window where the man scooped it up before the wind could catch it. Opening the scroll, the man read with a smile.

Dear Maxwell Sir,

As you labor away through your various works and projects, remember to take a moment to catch a breeze, hear the birds sing, appreciate the small things, and smile at the beauty of the day. Today is your day, a mile-marker to be celebrated (or not) as you see fit. Peace and prosperity be with you my friend, as well as happiness beyond measure.

The little bird sang with its bell-like chirps once more then leapt from the sill taking flight back towards the way it had traveled. The man stood quietly, watched and listened as the clack-clack whir faded into the silence of the approaching night and smiled.  
                                                                                                       (c) sierra sugar 10/09/2011

[Just a fun post to wish Maxwell Graf, the creator of Rustica, a happy 5th Rez Day in Second Life.  His works to improve sculpt maps as well as pushing towards a better, more usable Mesh are appreciated by many throughout SL.   Thank you, Max, and very happy rez day!]