by Paul S. Kim
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In the ancient stories and legends of old it had long been whispered among the populace that in the final days, a period of great struggle--a period of war--would take place, and the final survivors who overcame the trials and tribulation would be taken up by the Maker in a glorious ascension of ecstasy. This is the tale of the Quikening: throughout the landscape, A scene of pure and soft White, A serene land of perfect unity, peaceful and smooth, The silent glistening pallor of the full moon Bright, White oblivion. Looming into view overhead like a rumbling thunderhead, a towering conglomeration of darkness emerged into sight over the calm waters. Hovering ominously, the massive object cast a foreboding shadow over the oblivious White. From the black thing came the deep reverberations of a heave, a groan, then a gush of wind. Descending from the conglomeration, a smooth-flowing column of equally dark hue shot swiftly down through the air, penetrating the silky uniform surface, unimpeded and unnoticed. Then, they were gone--the hovering mass whisked away like some supernatural phantom and the smooth column, which left a fading, charred scar where it had descended. A few more seconds passed, and the white mass soon swallowed the tinted blemish, restoring its purity--for a while. In the calm before the storm, a queer stillness fell upon the landscape in a smothering blanket of placid yet uncomfortable muteness as if some great change was about to occur. A lingering odor of saccharine uncertainty wafted around, enveloping everything like a viscous cloak of inevitability. During that abrupt space in time the only observation more unsettling than the eerie restlessness in the air was the unusually calm tranquillity of the waters, which did not stir so much as a ripple. In a paradox of reality, nothing ever appeared so perfectly serene and yet, at the same time, seemed so imminently volatile. Suddenly without warning, a hail of screeching explosions ripped into the fragile stillness as a sterling bolt of thunder tore across the surface of the waters. From the depths erupted a cataclysmic quake of sheer raw power. The booming shockwaves vehemently wrenched the smooth, white surface into twisting contortions of racking terror. Out of the deafening tumultuousness emerged a powerful, swirling current at the center of the battlefield. A frenzied hoard of latent black invaders spewed forth from inside the Whiteness, cutting a wide swath of destruction with its ranks. Like a poison, column after column of the lethal toxins surged forth into the far recesses of its host while dark, seething tendrils greedily smothered their victim, strangling off sections of White. The White pulled out its reserves and fiercely retaliated. In a brutal counterstrike, roaring battalions of the determined defenders annihilated whole sections of the enemy troops as wedge after wedge of Black infantry fell before them. Forming a staunch wall, the White forces pushed back the invaders with a strength that only desperation could inspire. And thus, the battle continued. It was a horrific struggle: the insatiable Black marauders bent on utter domination; the dauntless White warriors valiantly fighting for their homeland. To the winner went all the spoils of this Armageddon. The metallic clanging of combat stirred the brave defenders to mount another assault. The adamant, Black juggernaut, however, obstinately refused to relinquish the contest for supremacy and drove relentlessly into the enemy’s lines. The tide of the battle wavered uncertainly as the lines of battle ebbed and flowed from side to side. As the battle raged on, a sense of urgency came over the entire conflict as, on both sides, ranks were thinning. It was clear. The end was rapidly approaching. As the last moments ticked by with impatient slowness, everything was thrown into confusion. By the time the battle was over, the actions of fighting had kicked up enough dirt to enshroud the fray in an obscure haziness, making it difficult to perceive the final outcome. One last flash of silver followed by a ringing, metallic sonority signaled with finality the conclusion of the battle. It was over. As the noisy din gradually died down, it was still impossible to discern who would emerge the victor, but, eventually, the clouds settled. What remained evoked nothing short of astonished bewilderment. The Black war machine was gone, nowhere to be seen. The White coalition, too, had disappeared. Had both entities perished in the tremendous fury of battle? Had they fought so hard in vain for nothing? No, but the entire spectacle had been completely transformed into something totally unexpected and unanticipated because, by the gods, it was BROWN! Here was an event that would go down for all time as a turning point in history, a milestone that civilizations would forever remember with awe, a discovery of universal truth that our children and our children’s children would cherish in their lifetimes! The result was neither a victorious White nor an exultant Black but a compromise--a mutual pronouncement of tolerance and coming together. Now, there would be instead of segregation, unity; instead of discord, harmony; instead of fighting, peace. And so, this tale ends as it began: throughout the landscape, A scene of pure and dark brown, A serene land of perfect unity, peaceful and smooth, The solid confidence of rich compromise, Sweet, Chocolate oblivion. And the Quikening was finished. |
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