The Scribe

He’s been a scribe for quite a few years now, having followed in his father’s and grandfather’s and even great-grandfather’s footsteps. They’ve even nicknamed it with affection, calling it “handsteps” because their great-grandfather had turned his weakness into his strength. (His great-grandfather had been crippled by an unfortunate accident, and absolutely refused to beg for money.)

He’s recorded everything from speeches to grand philosophies and delusions to histories, from whole truths to half-truths to outright lies (although he could never really differentiate between the truth and the really clever lies).

But today, for the first time as he’s writing down the burning words from his latest client, he knows that what he’s writing is the absolute Truth. He’s not quite sure why he sees it in that way; it’s not a hunch or a feeling, nor is it something so obvious and logical that even his sleep-deprived mind can figure out. All he knows is that the words from his client’s mouth are so sure, so certain and spoken in such a way that begs to be written – no – to be heard, that he can’t help but wonder where such words come from.

But what does he know? He’s only the scribe; the recorder of language, and even if what he writes will eventually be lost in the murky waters of the future, at least he will know. At least he will remember, and take it with him to the afterlife.


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