Seventeen words. The hard hat and the shovel. The hose.

Words that lay before you on a page of fiberous material or on the flicker and flare of the screen.

We stare. Transfixed. Silent. Aware of the imagery. The little words that describe. Like. Fidget. Line upon line of of characters. The blur of less definition if fatigued.

Man. Woman. Children working their bodies and brains. A system of motion.
Downwards. Pulling up. Reaching.
There in the soot, the shale. Hot. Molten. The core of a fallen apple. It's seed black.

Which mythical world will spring from the page and screen? Which letter and numeral will wipe away the burnished dust that covers the color of our stone.

This is no new story. No new vision of peace. Thrown to soon from the fire, the earth in water will shatter. Left cooling to long... a mar on the softer solid.

The woman shaved her head carefully, the blemish disappeared. Man scooping up the remains with his hand turned to the children who had left.
In the clutter of the filling page, more characters. More words. More observations. More coins in the coin box.

He turned to her as she set the blade down in the basin of water.

The less said the better.