Good morning all and welcome to Thursday. That is more of a reminder for me as I my days this week have become a bit jumbled. Today is actually Thursday, regardless of how it feels. I know, theoretically you’d expect that as I took Tuesday down that I’d just be missing a day, but I ended up sleeping most of Tuesday and since I really only sleep in on the weekends, somehow my brain convinced me that yesterday was Monday and today is Tuesday. And that some how a week passed and it is now the 13th. I had to go through and deliberately cross out calendar days to visually remind me that it is the 8th. I’m sure I’ll reset over the weekend though. and hey, Friday will come as a pleasant surprise as I’ll still feel like it’s Wednesday. Whatever day it is called, let’s get to the writing prompt.
I’m not certain what the statues are but I’m guessing they get more seditious as events unfold. This might be something to play around with, as a short story if nothing else.
Thursday, April 8th: They were searching for the source.
They were searching for the source. Word spread throughout the community. It didn’t come as a surprise. Such a flagrant act of defiance could not go unremarked upon by those in power. They knew that to ignore this small act of defiance was to invite a rebellion.
Everyone knew it was coming from the moment the statue appeared. They braced for it with practiced resignation. They understood there was going to be a hunt, that their lives would be turned inside out until whoever it was that placed the statue in the town square was identified, caught and punished.
They also knew that many of them would be punished as well, merely on suspicion.
It was not going to be pleasant.
Yet, there were whispers, stirrings as they tried to figure out who among them had in fact perpetrated the deed. No one knew. There was no whisper of truth, even among themselves. The instigator was as big a mystery to them as it was to those the statue mocked.
Some considered this a very smart approach. After all if none of them knew, none of them could tell. It would not help anyone once the accusations started and there was the suspicion that if caught there were many who would name someone to keep their own torment to a minimum. While some of the whispers were excited, even the excitement was cautious as others hunted for clues to the artist’s identity.
Some wished to see him safely away, free of their oppressors grasp should he be identified. Others wanted to keep the name against the possibility that they were taken for questioning. A few others wanted the name in case there was hope of profit.
Whatever the motive, no one found answers. The artist was a ghost.
When the authorities were as incapable of finding answers as the rest, the questions began. Amid the grinding of stone masons and machinery as the statue was removed and broken up for rubble, the questions began. They were polite at first, or as polite as such things could be. Questions only, asked by those sent to gather information.
A few days later another statue took the place of the first. It was, if anything , more directly insulting to the regime. The questions became harder as the machinery of destruction was once again set in motion.
The answers were still the same. No one knew anything.
For a week everyone waited. Eyes studied the square, guards patrolled. People wondered. As the week rolled to a close another statue appeared. The guards set to watch the square were found gagged and blindfolded, their hands tied behind their backs and placed at the feet of the third statue a though in offering. They were otherwise uninjured. When the rest of the guard took them in for questioning, everyone expected their unharmed status to soon change.