Je me suis récemment inscrit·e sur Skillshare, un site d’apprentissage communautaire.
Au départ, je comptais ne poster mes « devoirs » que sur Skillshare mais finalement, je les compilerai ici aussi. Par contre, comme je suis une sale feignasse, je ne traduirai pas et tout sera en anglais.
La première classe que j’ai suivie sur ce site était une courte introduction à la « flash fiction » pour laquelle il fallait écrire trois versions d’une même histoire :
- Version « Un étranger arrive en ville »
- Version « Partir à l’aventure » (PoV de l’étranger de la version 1)
- Version « Twitter »
Et tout de suite, le résultat de ces exercices :
He came one day. People asked where he came from, what his name was, what he was doing for a living, all kind of questions, but he never answered. He never spoke at all.
It was kind of strange. He was kind of strange. He never uttered a single word, not a single sound escaped his mouth, always writing on the big notepad he carried everywhere when he has something to say. Always silent.
Even his writing was strange, all gothic and regular, not a letter bigger or smaller than the other. He wrote like a machine.
He never spoke but he observed. Really, it seemed like all he was doing was observing. He watched people when they were walking down the street, he stared at the cars which passed by, he looked at the children running after a ball, he observed all day long, sometimes spending hours looking at a single flower or stone.
It was like he never saw anything before and tried to discover the meaning of all things.
He quickly became the sole subject of discussion in the little town. Everybody wanted to know more about the mysterious man who came a day. Everybody had something to say about him; how they saw him this day or how they where sure he was some kind of alien from outer space. People who believe the later were frown upon so they keep their certitude to themselves.
But yet, he was strange, that man who never spoke nor did anything other than observing. He couldn’t be normal, could he? Maybe he was a spy? Or an eccentric artist, who knew? Who was he? What did he want? Why was he here?
He came one day, stayed for a few weeks, then disappeared.
Where did he go?, people asked for days. Then, they started to find other subjects of discussion, other questions to ask, other stories to imagine.
He was forgotten, that man who came one day and left. He wasn’t important now. Not when the world was on the verge of war. Not when people were suffering all around them. That mystery of a man was of no importance now; he was just a man who came and left.
The people of the town heard rumours from the other villages. They heard rumours from the big city. All where about a strange, non-talking man who came and left.
The school teacher of the little town, who was particularly curious about that strange man, researched all the sightings of the man and discovered that people have talked about him for decades, maybe centuries.
Who was he? What was he? Was he alone or was there more like him? What was he doing?
Time passed and the war came and stopped. Then another one. People died and there was nobody who remembered the time when a strange man came to town, stayed for a few weeks, never talked, and left. Centuries passed and died. And the story of the man became a myth.
Then he came back. The strange man who observed the world without uttering a single sound.
He came, open the mouth, and the world ended.
He was on a mission. The most terrifying and important mission of all.
But it had to be done and he never asked why this mission or why him. He was asked to do something and he did it, simple at that. He was a good employee and he just obeyed orders without a question.
So he was on this never ending mission, travelling from town to town, from country to country, from continent to continent. And back again. He travelled the world and the seven seas, observing all. Searching for something he would recognize only when he sees it.
He knew people where asking questions about him, even when they didn’t confronted him directly. But he just couldn’t answer. He just couldn’t speak or utter a single sound. Not yet.
He travelled the world and observed. He saw beauty and horror, birth and death, goodness and evilness. He saw Life.
He saw all and knew someday it would all come to an end.
He travelled for so long he started to forget when was that he started this never-ending mission. He travelled so long that he couldn’t remember the world he first walked through.
Sometimes, he wanted to abandon his travel and forget about this cruel mission. But he knew he couldn’t; he had promised he would do it.
So he continued to walk the Earth for decades, centuries, maybe a millennium, who knew?
He walked, walked, walked, never able to forget why he was doing it, what was the final goal.
He walked, observed, always silent, looking for a sign that his mission was coming to an end.
Then he saw it, the sign. At first he didn’t knew what he saw in this little girl who played in the street of a little town. And he hit him. That was it; that was the sign he spent eons to look for.
His mission was done. He open his mouth and let the word escaped. The word which would end the world.
He came back. The silent observer from the old legends. He came back, opened his mouth and the world ended.
• • • • •
En théorie, je devrais écrire un article sur un sujet de « pop culture » pour une classe suivie ces jours, mais encore faut-il que je trouve un sujet. Du coup, je vais prier pour qu’une des séries que je suis me donne de la matière à cogiter (ou râler, hein)(râler, c’est bien aussi).