I strolled purposefully, the chill air cold through my nose. I chose a different path today, one seldom used as it followed the river's meanderings lazily here and there with seemingly no purpose. I made my way along the river's edge, enjoying it's twists and turns that hid gentle beauty, opening up into meadows before closing into woodland again. A new smell had my attention, a welcome one. I doubled my pace. It occurred to me the smell was out of place here along the river, 'Coffee!' I thought.
"Coffee smells good," I called hopefully,
"I'm just shutting up," the burly tattooed man called back from his small trailer. My pace slowed.
"C'mon then, I could probably squeeze one out."
My pace quickened again, "Thanks, man I could really do with it." The tattooed man grinned and handed over the coffee.
"How much brother?" I looked in my wallet, 17 bucks, the night before had been expensive.
"Ah, on the house, well trailer," he laughed. I thanked him and headed to the river bank with my coffee.
**********************************************************************
A fresh unfamiliar place, tranquil and sweet smelling, a tree bough slung low upon which I sat. Fumbling in my pockets I twisted and spied the spine of a little black book and leaned down to grasp it. It was about the size of my hand, nicely made and bound in leather or something like that. I loosened the strip that held the book closed. Though the cover seemed aged the pages inside were pristine. Abstract sketches and otherworldly art, frantic scribbling on others contrasted by elegant writing in unfamiliar characters. I looked through it again slowly. Some of the pictures had a sense I somehow new them, grotesqueness and others of heavenly beauty, cuneiform, runes and blank pages running through. On the back cover it read 'If found give thanks. Please return by hand." My eyebrows raised, "How? Who to, where?" I flicked back to one of the grotesque creatures that seemed to beckon. I stared. It stared back. Transfixed I couldn't loosen my gaze. Anger and rage surged through my being. "How could he do that to me!" I screamed out, more sound than words. I had been the fall guy, unwitting, ignorant, when the Global crisis brought everything crashing down. The masses needed to point the finger, to find fault anywhere but themselves. My corporate associate ensured it pointed at me. The following media circus and trial had made me a social pariah and prisoner, cost me everything; position, home, family. Resentment filled me. I snapped the book shut. 'Revenge, but how? With him on his summit and me in the gorge far below, I cannot reach him.' I pocketed the curious book and brooded.
I left my beautiful river bank pacing quickly along the path that diverges from the water's course steeply uphill. I cared only for revenge, my fury like thunder, loud and impotent. I stepped upon the ridge and continued, one side a vast patchwork of meadows and woodland, the other a steep drop into the river gorge. A white flash in my head, confused, on the ground now, a contorted groan leaves my body as something heavy strikes my gut, gasping for air, choking on the dirt where I lay.
"Lay still now," growled my attacker as he rummaged my pockets. Kicked again, now dragged, all strength gone, tumbling now, rocks and prickly shrubs loom toward me, raising my arms to protect my face.
First becoming aware of the sharp pain rattling my skull, I lay gradually sensing my surroundings, sharp protrusions under my body, above the red glow of the Sun behind closed eyes, it's fierce heat beating down, the sharpness in my throat, mouth unable to wet, painful arm, the sound of water. Gingerly I opened my eyes, lashes bound together with blood and vomit. I lay without thought, the bright cloudless sky, long grasses clambering up around my head framing a beautiful butterfly circling over my face, It's wings' colors flickering and changing, contrasting with the grass framed blue. It spiraled down until almost still, a fingers breadth from my forehead, an almost imperceptible touch, and in a flap of it's beguiling wings it was gone. Suddenly aware of my terrible thirst with much effort I stood, cradled my injured arm in the other and stumbled toward the river. I prostrated myself to touch my lips to the sweet cool water. Quenched I set about slinging my arm in my ragged shirt and cleaned the crud from my face. Refreshed, I remembered, the assault, tumbling, my beautiful river bank where I'd found the little black book. "The Little Black Book!" I patted myself down, everything gone, "Robbery," I scathed, "left for dead over 17 measly bucks." I made my way shoeless back across the river bank to search for a way back to civilization. "Humph, a different path," I snorted sarcastically.
Something caught my eye, I stopped motionless so as not to frighten it away. That beautiful otherworldly butterfly in stillness on a rock, it's wings still changing, pulsating. It took off flying in a circle away from me and closing the circle again as it fluttered back, rising and falling with each beat of it's trance inducing wings. Mesmerized by the small insect I felt peace wash through me and settle in my heart. It moved off and I sprang after for fear of losing this heavenly creature. I followed it to where the shingle and grasses give way to cragged rise and submit to the plants that cling defiantly to the cliff's face. The delightful creature settled just out of reach on a thorny shrub to be still once more. There below it's perch I could see a dark straight edge along a brilliant white, "The book, the Little Back Book!" With a painful stretch I retrieved the curious book and slumped back against the rock in wonder of what had occurred, 'The butterfly!' I turned and tipped my head back but it was gone. I opened the book, 'There're are answers in here to questions I don't even know, the book the butterfly, what does it all mean?' I turned the pages looking for my butterfly among the numerous sketches and colorful pictures. I came to a fish and imagined feasting, my stomach grumbled and I turned the page. The next was empty, inviting me to fill it. There was a thin pencil like object kept inside the leather that protected the pages within. I started to draw clumsily at first as I put too much effort into it and the memory of it. I sat and visualized the butterfly and felt love for the world. Effortlessly it's image came to the paper through the thing I used, though cold and grey as a pencil, was the kaleidoscope array of what it represented.
Unable to find a way back I traveled along the river. The smell of cooking fish wafted past my nose. I moved slowly scanning with hopeful eyes. Where the river bends from view was a large fallen tree, wisps of smoke rising behind. As I neared I heard a jovial whistling.
"Hello," I called.
"Hello," came a booming voice, "Sit, you must be hungry."
I sat stunned, it was him, the tattooed coffee guy, "How...?what..who?" I stammered. The tattooed man laughed his great laugh, his large frame shaking as benevolence shone out through bright eyes. I watched him as he prepared the fish, his hefty bulk moving so lightly, 'Tattoos so familiar.... where had I.... yes, in the little black book.' Thick arms covered in patterns of cuneiform and runes, the grotesque and the heavenly, and as he sat back I could see the butterfly in all it's color, unchanging this time, reaching from navel to throat and spreading across his broad chest. "Eat," he ordered and passed a plate of fish.
In the cool shade of a tree, stomach full and tired from my ordeal, I didn't fight, surrendering to the sweet cradle of sleep. Then dreams; a fish, a butterfly, all the patterns and pictures tumbling chaotically through my mind. I join them twisting, swirling above the land and then nothingness. And in that emptiness my heart opened, filled and over flowed with love for the world and all it's people. I felt their suffering and anguish and wept compassion. I understood. My suffering was theirs, their suffering was mine, for no one is left untouched.
I left the emptiness, an industrial landscape materializing around me. I knew it, a crime ridden slum on the river's north bank, where I'd made a home after my painful descent to join the filthy and destitute. I hurried, it was dark and danger lurked. My place was only a few blocks away. A cat watched me pass by. I turned onto my street and stopped. Back where I'd started. I started again, the cat, the sounds, everything as before and as before, found myself inexplicably back where I'd started, like I'd walked a great circle. I took a deep breath, remembered the butterfly and my heart opened. I stopped by the cat and looked for a sign. It yawned, stretched and leaped from view. Where it had lain was a bag, heavy duty, the kind the banks use. I picked it up, the Corporations logo stamped across. My hands begun to shake, all my resentment welling up again. I unzipped it and pulled out the contents, 'Cash! Cold hard cash,' I counted, '20 grand!' I'd read of a robbery, not all was recovered, thought to have passed through corrupt officials, it was written off. 'A chance to make it back to the top, live in luxury once more and revenge, sweet revenge.' The darkness was in me now, an insatiable lord to served with greed and anger and revenge. In that darkness came focus as I thought of the architect of my demise. In an instant I found myself stood behind a luxurious chair, dagger in hand. It used to be mine, the chair, the palatial building in which it stood. My nemesis sat unaware. To plunge and twist that vicious steel through the chair, to sate the insatiable. I moved quickly, silently.
I heard the music first, ephemeral, beautiful, then the smell, sweeter than any earthly scent. Turning toward the sound I glimpsed a gentle light, undulating in metamorphic color, moving away down the hallway. I scrambled after to a room of dancing light and a girl of about ten playing her violin. I was awed. The light was her, came from her, her eyes pulsating, changing like the butterfly's wings. She smiled and took me in her wings and together we flew. I understood. She is Love; wise, unconditional and compassionate.
Over the slums we rose, I took the money from it's bag and let the wind snatch it away, for like the butterfly, energy can be transformed. As the notes drifted to earth small miracles happened; fruit trees sprouted fourth, playgrounds, vegetable gardens, clean streams running through, children laughing, music....
I understood. I too am Love; wise, unconditional and compassionate. I spread my beautiful wings and sailed to the architect of my demise. I stood again behind that chair, occupant unaware. This time armed with love, the true dagger that cuts through the delusions of greed and anger, and with absolute love in my heart, forgave my nemesis.
The chair slowly rotated, our eyes met. The eyes smiling back were my very own.
**********************************************************************
I came to as if out of a day dream, the little black book still open in my hand, that grotesque creature grinning. I understood. I kissed the grotesque picture, closed the book and placed it back under my seat. I'd read of a robbery, not all was recovered. I knew what to do. 'Today a different path.' I remembered my coffee, it was still hot.
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The Day ‘Stop’ Meant Nothing”
A quiet sign, a loud tragedy, and the cost of a world that won’t pause The stop sign had been there longer than anyone could remember. Its red paint had faded into a tired maroon, edges nicked and scarred by time, winters, and neglect. It stood at the corner like a patient elder, asking—politely, repeatedly—for the world to slow down. Most days, people barely noticed it. Cars rolled through the intersection without fully stopping, drivers glancing left and right just long enough to convince themselves it was safe to keep moving. Cyclists treated it like a suggestion. Walkers passed beneath it, trusting that someone else would obey. The sign did not shout. It did not move. It simply waited, believing in the rules it was made to represent. On the day everything changed, the sky was overcast—one of those gray mornings that feels unfinished, as if the sun forgot to show up. The air carried a cold stillness, the kind that makes sounds sharper and silences heavier. Snow threatened but didn’t fall. Life continued in its ordinary, careless rhythm. And then, somewhere beyond that quiet corner, violence arrived without asking for permission. There are moments in life when you realize how fragile the idea of “normal” really is. How quickly it dissolves. How easily it abandons us. That day, the word stop lost its power—not just on that sign, but everywhere. Gun violence does not announce itself. It doesn’t send warnings ahead of time. It doesn’t respect neighborhoods, routines, or innocence. It crashes into lives like an unwanted storm, leaving behind questions that never find answers. Afterward, people gathered near that intersection. Some stood silently. Others cried. A few argued—about causes, about laws, about what should have been done. The stop sign watched it all, unchanged, unmoved, still doing its job. Still asking the same thing it always had. Stop. But stopping is not something we are good at anymore. We rush through days like they owe us something. We scroll past suffering. We debate tragedies instead of mourning them. We turn real pain into statistics because numbers feel safer than names. Slower than grief is reflection, and reflection requires us to pause—something our world resists with impressive determination. The stop sign is a simple object, but it carries a complex promise: that if we all agree to pause, we can protect one another. That shared responsibility can reduce harm. That rules exist not to control us, but to keep us alive. Gun violence exposes how often we break that promise. After every incident, we hear the same phrases. Thoughts and prayers. This is complicated. Now is not the time. Each sentence is a way of rolling through the intersection without fully stopping. A way of acknowledging the sign without obeying it. Somewhere beneath the surface of all this noise, there are people trying to survive quietly. They don’t always protest. They don’t always speak. They float through the aftermath—traumatized, exhausted, invisible. Like something drifting beneath frozen water, their pain is easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. Silent survival doesn’t make headlines. The survivors carry it with them to grocery stores, classrooms, and bedrooms where sleep comes reluctantly. They flinch at loud sounds. They measure exits when entering rooms. They learn to live with a background fear that never fully fades. And still, the world asks them to move on. The stop sign remains, doing what it has always done. It does not blame. It does not choose sides. It simply insists that some things require our full attention. That speed is not always strength. That hesitation can be an act of care. But caring takes effort. It requires us to sit with discomfort instead of rushing to conclusions. To listen without planning our rebuttals. To acknowledge that prevention is harder than reaction, and patience harder than outrage. In a culture addicted to momentum, stopping feels unnatural. We mistake motion for progress. We confuse volume with action. We demand quick fixes for slow-burning problems. Gun violence does not thrive in silence alone. It thrives in avoidance. Avoiding hard conversations. Avoiding responsibility. Avoiding the pause that might force us to change. The day “stop” meant nothing was not a single day. It was a culmination. A buildup of moments when we chose convenience over caution, speed over safety, certainty over compassion. That’s what makes the sign so haunting. It reminds us that the tools for prevention are often already in place—but they only work if we agree to honor them. You can repaint a stop sign. You can replace it. You can install brighter lights, louder warnings. But none of it matters if we don’t believe in the message behind it. Stop is not weakness. Stop is not surrender. Stop is not delay for the sake of delay. Stop is a decision. A decision to value life over haste. A decision to notice the people we usually overlook. A decision to treat prevention as seriously as punishment. Long after the crowd dispersed, the intersection returned to its routine. Cars passed. People walked. The sign stood quietly, holding its ground. It did not know about politics or policy. It did not understand arguments. It only understood its purpose. To protect. Maybe that’s what we’ve forgotten—not just how to stop, but why stopping matters. If we paused more often, we might see what’s drifting beneath the surface of our communities: grief waiting to be acknowledged, fear waiting to be eased, resilience waiting to be supported. If we stopped, even briefly, we might hear the quiet voices drowned out by louder ones. We might notice the warning signs before they become memorials. The stop sign will keep standing there, faithful and ignored, until we decide its message is worth following. The question isn’t whether the sign is clear enough. The question is whether we are willing to listen.
By Inayat khan2 days ago in Humans
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