Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 1 - The Cave (R13)

WINTER REVOLUTION - 1

It began the day Reuben saw a man take his own life.

Curious, it was, to wonder what exactly it was that sent people grappling for the scissors to snip away their ties to what existed. Maybe the heat of the moment did it - surely, if they'd taken a minute to cool and think, truly think, they would've changed their minds. He didn't quite understand why people made those decisions concerning that special equilibrium between the Here and the Not-Here. Then again, he didn't quite understand a lot of things, and he was okay with that.

So why was he not okay with this thing?

It was the crowd that did it. Definitely the crowd. He'd gone out for the sole purpose of replenishing those already limited supplies in the apothecary, assisted last minute by his grandson, who'd gone ahead and said, "I need out of this house. Let me grab my jacket." They'd taken turns avoiding stepping on the cracks that weaved through the streets, Lowell flaunting it in his silence, and Reuben half-heartedly playing along. Somewhere along the way, he'd seen a small collection in his path.

Collecting just wasn't something people did. Not in public.

And he could've kept on walking, could've kept on playing his little game with that boy in tow, but the intrigue was always there, and he'd given in with little hesitation. "What's going on?" he'd asked. "Why're you just standing here?"

Someone had pointed. Three stories up, a man, standing precariously at the edge of the roof, stuck his hand to his forehead to shield the sun from his eyes. It was an incredible height, as it was one of the tallest buildings residing in the toxum, one of three that managed to scrape three floors.

And so, Reuben had waited, not checking to see if Lowell had followed in his footsteps or continued on down that predestined path. Now he stood in the midst of the crowd, not in the front, not in the back - just the middle, where he didn't mind the heat of proximity. It was the heat of being the one to call out that made him mind. The fronters had to take initiative, not the middlers. Never the middlers.

So long as he was stuck in the middle (because his mind made sure of it, that he stayed put), he took to a means of squinting at the figure teetering along that edge. He could feel the wrinkles tightening at the corners of his eyes, but at the same time he figured the man, or perhaps the boy, had none of those, no creases of age. His hair lacked greying. Either he was quite young with his full head of hair, or quite at ease. No, wait, that couldn't have been right. If he were at ease Reuben wouldn't be watching him sling one leg over the edge.

He tried hard to find a reason for youth to turn to such measures. Grief, maybe, but Reuben just couldn't see how one passing meant another should follow. He could've been completely wrong, though. Maybe the kid was just fed up with taunts or work or constraints on him in general. Maybe he was just tired. Reuben was tired too. But that was what sleeping was for, and he didn't so much appreciate the stiff pillow and stuck spine if he couldn't wake up to it.

Once again, Reuben had gone off on those tangents where he related another's misfortunes to his own misunderstandings, and he tuned back into society again, a society in which people, fronters, backers, and middlers, called out to the boy frantically as a means to get him to retract both of his legs from the edge and come down, to just come down, honey, because there's still something here for you, something...that we can't identify, but something nonetheless.

Reuben, of course, matched their frantic cries, but only to see if one more cent made the pocket lighter or heavier. If asked to recall what he said, he'd come up blank-faced and empty handed. A few freckles upon his index finger might've counted for something. Doubtful, though.