The Loon and His Candle

Note: A loon is a crazy person.

 “Flick! Fffff,” The soft encouraging sound to move on, to keep going, to shine brightly. The crazy loon carefully coaxed the soft and soothing hope toward his little tea candle🕯. The hope bit back a bit at his calloused hand, eating away bit by bit of the wooden stick that held it close as the loon brought his hope to the candle.🕯

“One day.” He told himself glancing at the lovely little silver disk.

“One day.”

The loon uncovered the dark, pitch-black curtain and looked out into his dark, pitch-black world,🗺 holding tightly to his wooden stick with the red reactor at the tip and carefully placing the silver disk in front of the window. As he did every night, the loon threw open his window and placed the open sign in front of his door, put things away, and got ready for a party. But, just as expected, no one came. No one ever came and the candle would dwindle into nothing but a pile of wax. A burnt-out wick in an equally burnt out world and the loon would feel just as discouraged as before.

“Why do I do this?” He asked himself glancing at the soldiers out front glaring at his open window and glaring at the candle. The hope didn’t respond, it was a silent creature, other than the reaction to the strike of the stick, it just bobbed along not saying anything. As was the case every night the soldiers entered his house tore up his room, attacked in such a malicious and frightful way the loon hardly felt a day away from pain and painted a bright red x along the door 🚪telling everyone that he was a loon. Lastly, as he did every night, the soldier licked his fingers and distinguished the hope.

Of course, tears came, of course, the fear came, it came every night. But the loon, soar from being stricken and tossed around, as well as discouraged by the harsh response thought back to the time long long ago when every house in this very town held a soft tea candle in the window with the shutters open, with the lack of a bright red x on the door, without the beatings and shovings and tearing things apart. When full bonfires of hope could come, and it was this thought that caused the loon to glance back at the doused tea candle and smile. It was this thought that lead him to finish tidying the house🧹 with a sore aching body and to whisper to himself…

“One day.”

As expected the only other people who came to his house the next day were more loons just as pathetic as himself, with scratches and scrapes and declarations, even a few arguments over keeping the hope alive.

“If they don’t come…” one tired loony woman asked with buoyant blonde hair that covered her black eye, a shimmery blue eye that wasn’t covered, and an elegant sequined dress that had been torn in a few places as if she had been cut by thousands of thorny bushes. She held a small bag of ice to her eye, the mark on her hand a firm reminder of just how loony they were. An x longer on one side and shorter on the other that reminded them all that they didn’t belong. That told the whole town that they didn’t belong. That begged other citizens to be as cruel to them as the soldiers were. A few tears poured down her cheek as she voiced her opinion.

“Is it possible that they don’t want us?”

The loon sighed. More and more had hidden their hope behind the pitch-black shutters. More and more succumbed to the pitch-black world around, some even getting to the point of attacking loons themselves.

“Crazy, inconsiderate, stupid fools!” They’d cry out kicking them till their foot became soar and seeming to have forgotten the days when they themselves had had hope crawl onto their own wooden stick and rest upon their own candle.

“Maybe we are crazy.” A small child whimpered clutching tightly to his small puppy🐕 that was licking his swollen lip. The many adults shook their heads until one of the political loons stepped forward. It was hard to look at him. He held so many scars you could play tic tac toe on just his back alone, he had a few stubby knobs for fingers that had physically been cut by soldiers and a cane that was clutched tightly by his branded hand. He stared about at the many loons with his greasy hair and his bandaged head. The grey-eyed loon held out his branded hand.

“They have marked us all fools!” He cried,

“They have taken apart our homes, and have extinguished our very hope! They have beaten our dignity, our bodies, garb!” He cried using an older slang term.

“They’ve even beaten our minds, but they will not beat our soul!”

The courageous loon twisted his hand the ugly and disgraceful x becoming a t.

“This hand does not stand for them!” He cried

“This hand does not stand for a degrading term like loon, scumbag, fool, or even clout. This hand stands for triumph!” A soft cheer arose from the loons all glancing at their hands as if it held a brighter meaning.

The loon glanced back at the blonde-haired black-eyed woman who shook her head,

“I’m sorry but I just can’t do it anymore, it’s too hard!” And with that, she held out her small box of wooden sticks and doused them in her cup of water.💧

“It will take years for me to get my reputation back!” She sobbed.

“Years! But at least I won’t be against the law anymore.”

 The loon watched in a sorrowful understanding as she walked out of his home. The loon found himself counting again. The small, little number he had. The small number who suffered the same way he did. The small number who let their own little hopes rest in the tea candle. The loon excused himself, with the meeting nearly over and walked around the town. Trying not to shudder at the gruesome executioner's block, the same gory red x that had been painted with many of his own fellow loons who had gone too far. As always the creeping doubt would claw at his heart and mind. As always when he entered the office building full of dogma that made his heart and soul ache, the loon wondered if he was making any sort of difference. The loon walked through various halls, letting the soldiers lead him to his learning where the soar old man was requested to write out all that had been taught.✍ As always he wrote them out with ease until the last sentence. All his being asked him to write them out. His body ached for him to stop taking his stand, but nothing could lead him to write them. They were simple words, with a simple answer, the civil minded people had answered it the same way, every single one of them, every single time. The answer to who can save us all? Was the human. His answer was not.

The soldier cracked his knuckles unhealthily grinning eerily as he read the drilled answers, then froze at the last response. Anger heating through him he shook his head and the loon was taken to hours of training where the older women and a few men spoke of the meaning of life, the meaning of existence, and how to live in harmony. The loon took the barrage like a bitter pill until he was permitted to go back to his home.

“Flick! Ffff,” Just as it had the night before, joy came to the loon’s heart as he stared back at his soft and fragile hope. But, unlike the night before, and indeed many days before that, the loon felt a deep dread. The hope crawled down his fingers clawing at the loon to come to a decision. Fear creeping down his soul at the thought of torture he’d receive. But, just as he had done before the loon placed the hope (scarring and burning his hand along the way) to the tea candle🕯 where he placed outside the open shutters that lit up the dark, cold town and speaking softly to himself he whispered the words.

“One day.”

Years went by of the same treatment; the courageous political loon had been killed;  a pale ghostly man had abandoned the loons completely, a coffee-colored loon had been blinded, one loon had betrayed them siding fully with the opposing side, and the child had become an adult with a scarred pup as a malicious and protective dog. The loon received similarly as before. Each night he lit the candle🕯 never seeing any change, but faithfully striking the wooden stick and watching his hope eat at the wood.

Until one day, the soldier came into his house. It was the same soldier that always came. The loon prepared for the worst but was shocked to hear of the soldier’s child. The soldier pleaded with the old loon to lend him his candle,🕯 for his child was afraid of the dark. The loon agreed, grabbed ahold of his candle and handed it the soldier, who gratefully took it to his home. The child, once terrified of the world around him, marveled at the little tea candle.

The loon had gotten another candle and the next night, with the soft and briefly comforting flicker of hope, the loon placed it on the little tea candle and opened the shudders staring back at the cold dark, world around him. As always he said the same thing…

“One day.” And was about to tidy his home when, a slight, brief, speck of hope appeared a short distance away. The loon smiled to himself feeling more joy than he had felt in years. For the first time, he didn’t say. “One day.” He said.

“It’s here!”

“Flick! Ffff,” The loon would light his candle.🕯

 “flick! Ffff,” The soldier’s child would light his candle.🕯

“ flick! Ffff,” The boy and his dog would light their candle.🕯

“ Flick! Ffff,” The blind man would light his candle.🕯

 One by one, the citizens began to see the flickering lights of hope in their pitch-black dark world. Night by night,

 “flick! Ffff,” the soldier became a loon.🕯

 Flick by flick, the citizens became loons. Until soon, the pitch-black terrible town became a place full of light and hope. Each little tea light in the window telling others of the light they could have. Nights drifted by and soon the degrading mark of the loon was brought upright for their triumph, the attacks became less frequent, the dogma became fewer until soon, every window was a lit with a candle that shone brightly through the night. Each one lit with a soft gentle touch of the match meeting box.

“Flick! Fffff,” The soft encouraging sound to move on, to keep going, to shine brightly. The crazy loon carefully coaxed the soft and soothing hope toward his little tea candle. The hope bit back a bit at his calloused hand eating away, bit by bit of the wooden stick that held it close as the loon brought his hope to the candle.

“ It’s here.” He told himself glancing at the lovely little silver disk.

“ It’s here.” The loon uncovered the dark pitch black curtain and looked out into his shining, lit up world, holding tightly to his wooden stick with the red reactor at the tip and carefully placing the silver disk in front of the window. As he did every night, the loon threw open his window and placed the open sign in front of his door, put things away, and got ready for a party, and slowly, as was bound to happen, people began to show up and embrace his formerly backward teaching. They soon came to him so often… he found the need in the mornings as well, as they came to him, asking him about the light in the window.

“Why did you put that candle in the window Christian when you suffered so?” They asked him. The loon had just smiled remembering the day when he had first learned of the truth and had first seen the light. He held out his branded hand then turned it so the x became a lowercase t.

 “Because…” He began “Our hope and light, suffered for me.”