Dice

The cube rolled forward, one side after the other making its mark on the ground. Many revolutions later, it stopped, on the side it had begun from. It was wooden, light brown, marked with lines, ageing wood. The side facing the sky was two lines intersecting at a parallel. It smelled of polished wood, and oil. The L was bright red. From the sky above, a paraglider was falling, slowly, marking the spot he would land at. His jumpsuit was ballooning impossibly, his parachute floating to one side, drifting to another. He landed in between the block, and The Apple. The apple was bright red, a sheen marking one spot on which it seemed light had left a mark forever. It was bright, and shiny. There was a hole in it, and a small green head poked out, an impossible, almost human smile on its face. The apple smelled of paint. There was a tent, a small Indian tent, narrow cone shape, marked with lines, as if marking the height of something, every time it grew the same amount. The distance between the lines was the same. The tent smelled of leather, and magic.

Every seven nights when the moon was in very specific size, the light of the moon would shine on the tent, dancing over it briefly. It would glow, and then it would grow. A bubble would come out of it. Not the ones we are used to. If a human were to be lucky enough to see this happen, they would describe it as a green thought bubble. Or a delusion. Madness. Something you can see but know you cannot touch it. Your hands would simply slip through. Symbols would appear on the bubble, undecipherable by human eyes, but they would essentially translate to a yawn. An Indian wearing a cowboy hat would pop out, arms stretching wide behind him. Yawning large, but silently. Those who needed to hear it would hear it. Humans wouldn’t.

Those who need to hear it would be woken up by the silent yawn, as if a rooster were heralding the dawn of day. A tribe would gather on the teacher’s desk, right next to the apple, and the chief would stand on the apple, deliver his sermon, once every seven days, and the newcomers would be introduced, they had stickers on with their names on them. Every seven days, a new member of the old guard would be chosen to stand outside the door, one on the windowsill holding impossibly pink cellphones with antennas. The third of the collection would be jutting out of the chief’s brown leather boot.

When the introductions were done, the chief would signal to Big Eagle Horus to bring out the weapons. They would be lain down on the thick carpet, with all the primary colors, thick, absorbing, comforting, and last, a fuzzy dice would be brought out. The rules would be explained, with time for questions. A water break would be had. The food would begin cooking. The drums would begin beating. One could hear knuckles cracking. The dice would be rolled, the chaos would begin.