The Man Who Sold Sunsets
In a town that lay somewhere between the world of waking and the realm of forgotten dreams, there was a man who sold sunsets. His shop perched on the edge of a jagged cliff, where the sea sighed against the rocks far below, and the sky burned with the fading hues of day. The shop had no sign, no lights, and yet every evening, just as the first stars dared to shimmer in the twilight, people would arrive, drawn by a longing they couldn’t quite name.
Aurelius, the shopkeeper, moved like a whisper through his dimly lit shop, his silver hair glowing faintly in the dusk. He was not just a merchant but a craftsman of moments, an alchemist of light and shadow. Each bottle on his shelves held a piece of the sky—amber glass shimmering with the fire of a desert sunset, midnight-blue vials deep as the endless ocean, and rose-gold flasks that captured the tender blush of dawn just as it kissed the night away. To gaze into one of his bottles was to lose oneself in a beauty that felt almost familiar, like a half-remembered dream.
But those who came did not merely seek pretty things. They were drawn by a deeper need—an ache to capture a moment that had slipped through their fingers, a hope to relive something beautiful that had once seemed eternal. For a price, Aurelius would take the dying light of the day and weave it into something tangible. But the cost was not measured in gold or silver. His sunsets came at a price more precious than money—a memory, an emotion, a piece of the soul.
The exchange was always the same: a fading recollection in return for a fragment of the sky. An old woman surrendered the memory of her first kiss, long forgotten but still sweet; a young man traded the laughter of a friend lost to time. They would hold the bottles in trembling hands, a light that flickered just out of reach, and walk away with a glimmer in their eyes, never quite aware of what had been taken from them.
For Aurelius knew that nothing was truly free, and the heart’s deepest desires always came with a cost. He himself had once paid dearly, though he no longer remembered what it was he had given away.
One evening, as the sky bled into shades of crimson and violet, a woman entered his shop. Her steps were hesitant, and her gaze wandered, as though she was not entirely sure where she was. She wore sorrow like a second skin, and her eyes held the weight of untold stories and dreams that had slipped through her fingers. She approached the counter with a slow, quiet grace, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
“I’d like to buy a sunset,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the evening breeze. “But I have nothing left to give.”
Aurelius looked at her, truly looked, as though for the first time in ages he was seeing beyond the surface of the world. Her eyes, though weary, still flickered with the faintest ember of hope—a light so fragile it could have been mistaken for a shadow. His hand faltered as he reached for a bottle, and he felt a pang of something he had long since forgotten—compassion, or perhaps it was recognition.
“You have already given more than enough,” he replied, his voice trembling like the last notes of a lullaby. Without another word, he selected a bottle of the clearest crystal, a vessel that held not a hint of color. He carried it to the edge of the cliff, where the sky seemed to dissolve into the sea, and uncorked the bottle with a reverence reserved for lost things.
The sunset spilled forth, not as light but as something more—an indescribable warmth that seeped into the very fabric of her being. It filled the hollows within her, the spaces carved out by grief and longing, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she breathed. The air tasted like stardust and saltwater, like a lullaby sung in a language she almost remembered.
As the light faded from the sky, leaving only the indigo embrace of night, the woman turned to Aurelius with tears glistening like dew. “Thank you,” she whispered, though the words seemed impossibly small for the enormity of the gift she had received.
Aurelius only nodded, his gaze lingering on the horizon as though searching for something beyond it. He watched as she walked away, her silhouette melting into the night, and felt a quiet emptiness where the light had once been. For as long as he could remember, he had traded beauty for memories, moments for the pieces of people's lives they could not bear to keep. But this time, he had given away more than a sunset; he had given a part of himself.
That night, Aurelius closed the shop earlier than usual. As the stars began to glow above the darkened sea, he took down a bottle that had gathered dust on the highest shelf—a bottle that held a sunset long forgotten, wrapped in a memory he could not name. He uncorked it slowly, letting the light fill the shop one last time.
And as he watched the sunset dance within the glass, Aurelius wondered if, perhaps, there was a way to mend what was lost—to find again the beauty in simply watching the day slip into night, without needing to hold on to it.
In the end, what would you trade for a piece of the sky?
© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.
The Price of Revolution
The rain fell in heavy sheets, pounding the cobblestone streets with a relentless fury. I stood at the edge of the city square, hidden in the shadows cast by the towering buildings. My eyes locked onto the figure standing in the centre—the so-called hero of this tale, bathed in the soft glow of a streetlight. His armour gleamed with the promise of justice, and his sword hung at his side, waiting for the moment he would draw it against me. He didn’t know it yet, but this was the endgame.
For both of us.
People always speak of heroes and villains as if they are roles assigned at birth, as if some are born with the light inside them while others are forever consumed by the dark. But that’s not the truth. It never has been. You see, I was once the hero of this story, too. I fought for what was right, stood for justice, saved lives. But somewhere along the way, I made a choice. I chose to become the villain.
And I did so willingly.
I stepped forward into the light, my boots splashing in the puddles below, each step echoing in the silence of the night. The hero's gaze snapped toward me, his hand hovering near his sword, but he didn’t move. Not yet.
“Why?” His voice was steady, but I could hear the confusion, the disbelief. He still couldn’t understand why I had turned my back on everything we once stood for.
I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Because I had to.”
He frowned, taking a step toward me. “Had to? You didn’t have to do anything! You chose this! You betrayed us!”
Ah, betrayal. It always comes down to betrayal in stories like this, doesn’t it? But there was no betrayal. Not really.
“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I did choose this. But not for the reasons you think.”
His hand gripped the hilt of his sword now, but still he hesitated, as if waiting for an explanation that would make sense of it all. I suppose I owed him that much.
“I was once like you,” I began, my voice low and measured. “I believed in justice, in fighting for the greater good. I believed that we were saving the world. But then I saw it—what we were really doing. We weren’t saving anyone. We were keeping the balance, yes, but only by making sure the cycle of suffering never ended.”
The hero’s brow furrowed, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about?”
I let out a soft laugh, but it was filled with bitterness. “Don’t you see? Every time we saved the day, we only prolonged the suffering of the people we were trying to protect. The enemies we defeated—new ones would always rise in their place. The people we saved—they would suffer again, whether from famine, war, or sickness. And we, the so-called heroes, were nothing but tools to maintain this broken world. We kept the system alive.”
His sword was out now, gleaming in the pale light. “So what? You think you’re better than the system? You think you can change it by becoming a monster?”
“I think I can end it,” I said coldly.
That was the truth of it. I had realized that the only way to truly break the cycle was to destroy everything. To burn it all down and let something new rise from the ashes. Yes, I had made myself the villain—because only a villain could destroy the world. Only a villain could do what needed to be done.
“I didn’t want this,” I continued, taking another step forward. “But you and I both know that heroes can’t change the world. They can only preserve it.”
His face was pale now, the weight of my words sinking in. He didn’t want to believe it. Of course, he didn’t. That was the curse of heroes—they always believed there was a better way, even when the world showed them over and over again that there wasn’t.
“You’re wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “There’s always another way.”
“No,” I said softly, “there isn’t.”
I moved faster than he expected. My blade was in my hand before he could react, and it was over in seconds. His sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees, blood pooling around him. His eyes were wide with shock, staring up at me as if he still couldn’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and for a moment, I meant it. “But this is the only way.”
As he collapsed, the rain washing away the blood, I stood there, alone in the dark, my heart heavy but resolute.
I was the villain.
Because I had made myself one.
And I would end the world, even if it meant damning myself in the process.
Hey thank you all for reading! I want to apologies for not posting more of my writing but I assure you I have a lot more I intend to release, just going to measure it out so I don't run out if my motivation hits a dry spell. But as always, any feedback is more then welcome!
Five (and a half) Tips, but Who’s Counting? It’s Hot!
When you're at home
if you're alone,
don't put stuff on;
'specially nylon.
_______________
Don't be a rube.
Tie an ice cube
under each arm.
What could it harm?
Plant one or two
into each shoe.
Freeze your nethers!
(even better.)
_______________
Or better yet,
don't break a sweat!
Avoid workouts!
(Was there a doubt?)
_______________
Eat something chill.
Gazpacho kills.
'Mater aspic
might do the trick.
A vichyssoise
will cool you off.
Or try a bisque.
What could you risk?
_______________
You really ought
to think cool thoughts.
Just settle down.
Hot flashes drown ...
with an iced tea ...
and daiquiri!
Raise up a flask ...
(Do you need ask?)
of ale or wine.
Fill up that stein!
Cool from within.
Vodka (or gin?)
martinis' neat!
Then plunge your feet
in cool grape skins.
Begin again!
_______________
When you're at home
if you're alone,
don't put stuff on ...
Il Eskrimci of Constantinople
The morning had been exceedingly fine, up until now. People of all descriptions hurried past my sidewalk breakfast table; beautiful women heading to market, merchants to the docks, sailors to the brothels, in a never ending cycle. And the wine was doing it’s work, clearing my head of it’s memories.
His tankard lay at my feet, it’s contents soaking my shirt. He was dressed roughly, wearing the rag-tag costume of a gypsy scoundrel, his movements those of a drunkard, yet I noticed that his eyes were bright, and knowing. Had the spill been an accident? Fool the man might be, but not a drunken fool... or so I surmised.
“You must answer for the shirt,” I scowled at the knave. “It is silk. You do not have the look of one who can afford silk.”
“I have no money, Sire. Only those spent coins which bought the spilt wine.” His English was good enough, the accent familiar. A Pole perhaps, or a Slovak?
“Well, you must answer for it, anyways. How do you propose to?”
“I’ve naught but this sword, Sire.” He drew it from a dangling scabbard as he spoke. It was a fine blade, a blade made for a king or prince, certainly not for one such as this man. The blade itself was layered Damascus, the cross-guard polished silver, the handle leather, and the pommel inlayed with sapphires. It was easily the equal to the one in my own scabbard, if not it’s better. It was obvious that this man could not afford such a sword, so it stood to reason that he had taken it, but from whose dead hand?
But his intent confused me. “Here now!” I exclaimed. “That sword is too high a price for this shirt.”
“Ah, Sire. You misunderstand. It is not a trade I propose, but a contest.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I do. And I’ve come many miles looking for you, too. Yours is a long reaching, if surly reputation. I’ve come to take it from you.”
I stood then, pulling the wine-stained blouse over my head as I did so. My upper arms and forearms bulged from years of rigorous practice and training. A breeze from the sea tickled the sweat on my naked torso. There was an audible ring from my blade as it was unsheathed, sending those nearby scurrying from the sidewalk. But they ventured none too far, for here was their chance to see the one whom the Turks called Il Eskrimci, or, “The Swordsman” at work. It would be a story those gathered around could tell their grandchildren someday, that they were here to witness greatness. I carved the air with my blade’s tip, the steel singing as it expertly swept and sliced, a show before the show for the benefit of those lucky enough to see, and to hear.
I took a long pull at my own tankard before turning to face my adversary. I was a head taller, standing. “You’ve a powerful Jen,” I commented to him. “He has granted your wish to die. En guarde, my foolish friend. Why waste more time?”
“I am not your friend, but I can also be courteous, on occasion. “En garde.”
The gypsy - if that is what he was - while smaller moved exceedingly well, displaying speed and balance. He held his sword strangely, in a different style. Wary, but confident, I assumed the offensive slowly, purposefully testing his skill, my attack deliberate, yet always pressing.
He parried easily, and again. There was strength in his grip, and in his wrist. I pressed harder while still maintaining a safe defensive posture, wary of a trick, but he also seemed satisfied to wait, so I pressed harder yet, wanting a feel for his reposte. I advanced with a quick succession of jabs and slices that took him aback. Surprise sprung into his eyes, but not yet fear, although that would come soon enough. His parry was successful, almost. As my attack relented he relaxed. In that anticipated moment I allowed my blade’s tip to drop down where it ever-so gently touched the inside of his sword wrist; a light touch only, feathery, probably not even felt, yet the trickle of bright red blood it left behind was unmistakable. There was an audible gasp from those looking on. Feeling the bite, he stole a glance and was visibly shaken by the red spots that were already accumulating on the grimy granite beneath his feet.
His face held a new caste now. Gone was his braggadocio. In came the fear, and the fury. He lunged. I was pressed to hold him off, our nearly invisible blades clattering like ceramic china in a bustling kitchen as the crowd fell silent around us, everyone sensing the end of the drama, and impatient for it.
I suddenly felt very good. The exercise was awakening sleeping muscles, while the nearness of death awakened intoxicated senses. The late-morning sun was warm on my skin, the breeze soft with the fresh odors of the sea and the stink of mankind mixing nicely together upon it. It was a good day to be alive! As the gypsy’s attack ebbed, it’s strength dispersing laterally like a wave on a beach, my riposte sliced into the nipple over his heart; not deep mind you, but deep enough. Through his torn shirt the crowd saw it, and sensed that I was toying with him. A great cheer for my skill and aim rent the air. I smiled at the adoration, despite myself. “You have come a long way to die. What is your name? I do not like to kill a man I do not know.”
“My name is Korlov.”
Well, worry not, Korlov. It is a beautiful day to die.” A distant memory surfaced, the memory of a peasant girl named Korlov. Maria Korlov. The riddle was solved. “You came here to avenge your sister? So easy to seduce, that one. She must keep you very busy, if that is your duty?”
“She has a bastard child because of you, and no man wants her because of it. You ruined her, and I will ruin you.”
“Come then. I am bored with talking.”
Blood saturated his shirt front, and oozed from his wrist. Soon he would weaken. I could already feel a looseness in his blade from the injured wrist. It would not be long now. The moment called for patience, but I had little. After all, I was a showman!
So I sprung. My lunge caught Korlov by surprise. His parry was slow. My jab intended for his cheek was knocked upward, glancing along his forehead and scalp, opening a great slit at his hairline. The blood flowed into Korlov’s eyes, blinding him. He swept up his arm, wiping them clear with his sleeve. When they reopened my blade was at his throat, waiting. “Checkmate. Go home, Korlov. Here is your chance. Go take care of your sister, and your nephew. Your heart is good. Too good to die like this, bleeding in the street.”
But one last time he came, and with a yell of fury this time. His left sleeve raised to clear his sight he attacked furiously, his desperation driving me back to my table where I stepped on Korlov’s dropped tankard, which rolled beneath my boot. Down I went, the marble walkway catching my head and stunning me, but not so much that I couldn’t feel the blade slip easily between my ribs as if lubricated. And not so much that I couldn’t feel it removed, or hear the gurgle of air that escaped behind it. And not so much that I couldn’t feel the slowing of my pulse, or realize that the career of Il Eskrimci, the world’s greatest swordsman, had prematurely ended, for had I not bested my man?
And the final thought as I lay dying was not of a far away Mother, or of a peasant girl named Korlov. No, my final thought as I drifted away was that those gathered to watch had gotten their show, they had a story for their grandchildren...
... and that was enough for me.
March Feather Project Winners
We sincerely thank you all for joining the challenge. There were some great stories that made their way in and there were some with great potential. but, there were stories that stood above the rest, and here they are in no particular order
WINNERS
Snowed In by QueenRhea (prose name) You'll gain access to the psyche of the main character as they process the happenings around them
{We made it to the cabin with no trouble and luckily with little of the perma-snow getting into our boots. Sitting on a tree stump that I’m using as a make-shift seat-- while pine needles try to find their way into every crevice of my clothes-- I can see what Jed meant when he said that everything is clearer when you’re up here. The sun pierces through the clouds and illuminates everything around us, enhancing the changing color of the leaves, the branches on the ground and even turns the greyness of rocks into a happier hue. The air is colder up here, but that just seems to make it more bracing.}
The Cost of Freedom by BristerXD (Prose name) In this, we are told the tale of one Tyler Bindweed as he navigates through life with the hand he'd been dealt
{At what point do you know what fear truly is? And what I mean is, fear in all of its means and iterations. Terror, horror, dread, creep, anxiety, and all possible ways of describing one of living nature’s most primal senses. Most attempts at understanding fear only go so far as to cheaply replicate its effects by cheaply imitating its triggers. Drawn up pictures of grotesque beings, fiction written from the point of view of corrupted minds, numerical statistics of cancer likelihoods and death tolls. Even as these come close to the true root of fear, many choose to walk free of them, the societal machination in which they are born in offering many avenues to turn away from their natural calls to the void.}
Half of Me by WritesSy (Prose Name) This story deals with the struggle of acceptance from the side of the Main Character that has been stricken with a unique dilemma.
{It was a brisk winter morning by the lake the last time I met the demon.
He appeared as he always did: unexpected but with the subtle, foreboding twinge of cold twisting my stomach. Shivering, I pulled the heavy uwagi coat tighter over my kimono--the demon offered his Montbell down jacket. I declined.
Following the creaking bamboo grove on my left and keeping the demon between myself and the reflections of the orange sunrise over the lake to my right, we shuffled along the marked trail, our breath misting the air and mingling between us. With falling snow coating our tracks behind us, we walked a good hour in silence before his graveled voice carved through it.}
The Nature of Heroes by sflydon (Prose name) This read has you follow Jack Owinsson, a farmer with dreams of glory and fame.
{Jak Owinsson stood upon the edge of the forest looking down on the military encampment below. He had finally made it. After two days of travel, he had found the camp of the Battlehawks; the most respected mercenary company in all of Kendar. He would finally be able to join the war and leave his boring farm life behind.
In his sixteen years of life, he had always dreamed of becoming a hero like the ones from the stories. So far, it had been an uninspiring beginning. On his two days of walking from Harnan Vale, he had encountered no bandits, no damsels in distress, not even so much as a wagon stuck in the road to start Jak on his way to herodom. But, then again, he supposed not every story had to begin with epic action and auspicious signs.}
We hope to see more participants in the next challenge
