The Arrow.

Image: kloxklox_com (Pixabay)

This is the silence. Yet in the silence, hope. A man stumbled against a chair in the dark – or was it a boulder – it completely failed to inform him where his was, and just cast him down on one knee, screaming inside and nursing his bruised kneecap.

The deafening silence was about him, one he had not always known, he knew what sound was, and yet, there it was, an oppressive quality as immutable and omnipresent as air. No amount of waving could remove it.

He tried screaming. The sound came out like a keening wail, a quality alien to the mute space of shadows…

Out of the darkness, an arrow shot, and pierced his shoulder, striking the bone.

The reverberating pain shut him up, and he collapsed in a heap, shocks to his centre utterly wasting his breath.

He tried to gasp, to scream, but that would take infinitely more strength and courage to muster.

In the blackness, the hidden archer readied his second shot, eyes on the man’s mouth. And others still stared blankly in rows, watching.



And yet, in the face of enforced silence, voices that must speak will, letting truth break out.

The sound of truth

In tyranny’s face

Is the sweetest song

of the human race.

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