Sunday, January 8, 2023

Spancil Hill

The brook used to speak to anyone that would listen. It would recall moments of stolen love at its banks. It spoke volumes of battle and offered advice on how to take the upper hand if one were to find themselves intwined in conflict. It told of mysterious lost civilizations. They were tales of treachery and woe, triumph and celebration. There existed a vast history to uncover for anyone who wished to listen.

The people started to worship these voices as the word of their gods. Priests and priestesses became quite versed on the etiquette and language of the brook and wrote the word of the gods, recording it for generations to come.

Now, these records are but mere mention. The word of the brook has been lost to time. It was considered heresy when the next religion moved to the region. The old priests and priestesses's burned along with their words. Their screams carried to the water and the brook lamented, pushing its waters deeper until there became a grand roar. Rapids formed and the water rushed through pushing sediment out to the ocean. 

They lament to this day, waiting for someone to sit upon their banks and converse once more.

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