Subtle As Artillery

The roar of mortars shakes the ground, seeming to cause the walls of this sunless cell to quiver. Stacks of pens fall in a rollercoaster ride over charts and maps before hitting the cold stone floor. Clocks rattle as the walls behind them quiver in increasing intensity. In the quiet pauses before mortar strikes the hum of a radio can be heard as the static bounces off the walls to the room. The room itself is covered in chaos. The mess of clocks on the walls, to the mess of maps and books that cover every shelf and every inch of the floor, to the pens that bounce around freely seeking for a place to rest, and to the desk shaped shroud of maps and notes which only abate around the base of a machine which jolts with each strike.

In the center of all this disorder, a man sits writing. Above him the world shudders as if drawing its final breath, yet he scribbles on a yellow pad of paper as he listens to the groaning static. His pen jumps with every strike and his curses follow as it yet another line is marred. His cloths are a wrinkled, his loose shirt is blotched with black stains and his pants are ragged blotched with brown splotches. His hair lies on his head haphazardly, each strand going where it wants. And his hands are strained with black smudges. Yet his pen never stops flowing, even as the barrage seems to reach an intensity so great that the light bulb above the desk swings with ferocity. Until at last, as he fills the final page of his yellow notebook, with letter and numbers, and an unearthly quiet fills the air above him. His room itself seems to grow even more quiet in the silence that follows.

Closing his notebook before him, he reaches out and grasps the strip of paper which flows out of the seismograph. He scribbles out a series of dots and lines, strikes and rests on a shred of paper before him. With that he drops the long strip onto the mess at his feet. His hands shake as he scans the code. His eyes dart over them again, before looking down at the abandoned script at his feet with dismay. At last he sets the mote of paper down on his desk, and picks up his notebook. His bare feet shuffle the notes on the floor and his hands shake as he trudges out of his hidden cell. The door closes and the light dims. The world is about to awaken to a new day.