Tower

The moaning drew me to the far side of the copse, where I beheld what can only be described as the most unusual sight.

Down a rather vertical, sandstone slope, a man lay in the dirt, face up. His face was far from expected, swollen and purple as it was. The cause of the poor bloke’s facial distortion and breathless moaning was quite plain. A tower, nigh two and a half stories high, stood upon his woefully compressed chest. The tower was of a brick the likes of which I’d never before seen. Each brick was, judging from its effect upon the splayed man, quite heavy. Yet each brick was darkly translucent, as a shadow. The tower grew steadily, one brick at a time, and at the man’s own doing. For though he lay pinned, his arms worked tirelessly, like two, overly stretched serpents, slithering along the ground on each side of the tower, pulling translucent, shadow bricks from all sorts of cracks and creviced rocks, reaching far higher than any man’s arms ought to be able to reach, and placing them carefully atop the teetering edifice. This poor, and clearly foolish, man had pinned himself, and only continued to add to his towering demise.

 

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