As he senses them coming, he rises, pats the dust off his coat, and walks over to the Hole. Taking a quick look to make sure it was stable, he draws a small pocket knife of engraved light out of his pocket. A rare blade, crafted for one purpose, to tear the fabric of space and time, and allow those who are not, to be. It was the Doorman's duty to let beings in, no matter what their intentions be. Over time the Doorman had been mauled, murdered, beaten up, disposed of, cooked, burnt(not in that order), yet every time he came back. It was his dharma. His one duty. Those who know the Doorman know he can't be stopped from doing it, no matter how hard they try, for those who do try, learn to give up.
The Doorman leans close to the surface in front of him, a white surface, panning as long as ones imagination runs, and picking a spot, slides the knife in, and then out. A second goes by. Then another. And another. And then the very surface bursts open with enough force to set a ship sailing across space, and out pour a thousand horses, some live, some bionic, some dead from the journey, tethered to massive ship headed by noone in particular. It is a transport ship harbouring refugees from across dimensions. But the Doorman doesn't care. He simply steps aside, pokes another hole in the surface, pulls a stool out of it and sitting down, watches them pass by. The beings watch him. Some wave, some turn away, frightened, but all are thankful. Of what, one can only wonder, but that may be the case of anyone or many seeking refuge.
After the ship passes by on its way to wherever it needs to go, the surface starts to seal up again, as if in discomfort of being torn.
The Doorman waits on his stool, patiently, for whoever or whatever comes next.
The Doorman leans close to the surface in front of him, a white surface, panning as long as ones imagination runs, and picking a spot, slides the knife in, and then out. A second goes by. Then another. And another. And then the very surface bursts open with enough force to set a ship sailing across space, and out pour a thousand horses, some live, some bionic, some dead from the journey, tethered to massive ship headed by noone in particular. It is a transport ship harbouring refugees from across dimensions. But the Doorman doesn't care. He simply steps aside, pokes another hole in the surface, pulls a stool out of it and sitting down, watches them pass by. The beings watch him. Some wave, some turn away, frightened, but all are thankful. Of what, one can only wonder, but that may be the case of anyone or many seeking refuge.
After the ship passes by on its way to wherever it needs to go, the surface starts to seal up again, as if in discomfort of being torn.
The Doorman waits on his stool, patiently, for whoever or whatever comes next.
No comments:
Post a Comment