The Brazier
The Brazier
A conflagration of dying embers within a rusted brazier glowed through the gray light of a bitter evening. An unkempt bearded man huddled over it seeking warmth with partially woolen clad hands and fingers interlaced through the handle of a steaming tin mug. He was not alone. Silent, obscure figures were present, some seated, prone or standing as close as he in order to gain what little warmth was left of the fading heat. Their predicament was a united bleakness with a future of empty frozen days and food uncertainty. The bearded man cast an uninterested glance at the cluster of multicolored neon lights that exuded from the busy distant fair ground with twinkling tower blocks beyond that represented the great metropolis. The shrieks of thrill along with the capitalist’s bill represented a system that he had been part of. He had elected to walk out of a life that had shackled him to their expectations, one of false standards, molded by a society that based itself on monetary acquisition and the greed of others. It might be cold, miserable at times, but at least he was free. He had witnessed the effect that this relentless stress had on others often with dire consequence. As he peered onto the smoldering contents of the filigreed brazier, he hearkened back to times when he himself had subjected the poor to further degradation, carrot dangling finance so they could extricate themselves out of debt. Instead they found themselves on the slippery downhill slope of ruination under ruthless pressures to repay along with an extortionate interest rate on top of the loan. He exacted inhumane methods in order to reclaim the money without the slightest feelings of remorse. His business was becoming lucrative as he entered into yet more successful enterprises. He had observed with morbid glee the effects that his steamroller was having on those he exploited. The power and hold on the unfortunates that stepped in his way was feeding his corrupted psyche in an ever increasing cycle. It was the lone beggar on the pavement by his luxurious office block that strangely prompted the change. He swept past towards the rotating door intending to ask his doorman to move the wretch on. The man sat amid his bundle of meager possessions playing a penny whistle with a dexterity that even Appollo himself would have envied. The businessman paused to admire the beautiful tones expressed by this simple instrument and he began to submit to the sounds like a snake to a snake charmer. He felt himself being carried away to a distant land where poverty existed, a world of emaciation and degradation, a sea of needy faces with some he recognized. From somewhere a penny whistle continued to be heard. He felt himself being dragged into this human abyss of baying faces as terror filled his presumptuous little body. They would have ripped him apart if the penny whistle had not stopped. Instantly he found himself back on the pavement. The beggar had gone but something had changed. Head down in shame he walked away from his office. He would never go back.
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