The night stood still; not a limb moved. The moon, near whole, beamed across the sky and into the worlds below, tinting all things its unique shade of blue. The winds had fled this silent night, gathered underground or over the hills. Nowhere here showed a single sign of animation. It was as though the earth’s inhabitants had all but died off.
But then a stirring, like the movements of primal waters before a world is born, a universe created. Something was coming. The night was not to be left at peace.
The Oaf stumbled from a small wooden hut, much like a cabin. It had awoken from some deep slumber; a sleep which was always meant to be eternal. Just something had gone wrong. The Creator’s attention had waned; something had slipped through the divine cracks.
Stumbling sleepily from its abode, the Oaf rubbed its eyes, squinted at the breathtaking moon. It belched, scratched its groin and then slowly, very slowly, sauntered ahead of itself, in some direction, apparently with some aim in mind.
The silent world looked on in horror, following the great, lanky thing with its omnipresent gaze, lamenting the mistake it had somehow made.
The Oaf took no notice. It moved placidly on.
The only sound now was the sound of the creature’s movements: its feet crunching on the earth; the heavy panting of its ill-used breathing apparatus; the various scratching sounds from its vastly irritated epidermis. The inanimate nature of the entirety of its surroundings did not seem to disconcert the Oaf, as it wandered through. It’s face remained impassive, its eyes fixed ahead.
Dishevelled, the creature finally came to a standstill. The stillness, the silence around it, waited.
What is it doing? Has it found what it wanted? Will it return to its slumber now!?
A moment of bafflement…
And then, without warning, the Oaf began to urinate.
It had stopped by a tree, stopped for a brief moment in reverie, and then grasped its apparatus in readiness for micturition. The world stood still again, for that small moment, as the creature dreamed; and then, as quickly as it had come about, it was annihilated by the sound of the creature’s watery waste, splashing noisily onto the exposed roots of a beautiful old tree.
But the tree did not groan, nor moan. The silence waited.
The Oaf had apparently been in lodging for some time, as the stream seemed to flow and flow. Steam rose.
Finally, with a relieved sigh, the Oaf’s urination slowly ceased. The rain had stopped. The universe watched on, awaiting the strange being’s next move.
Again, scratching and dragging its feet, the Oaf sauntered back along the path it had taken. Slowly, certainly, it made its way back to the log hut, its eyes still fixed, its movements still noisy. But now it seemed lighter, less burdened.
It walked up the two steps to the door, went inside, closed the door—and was gone.
The world breathed a sigh of relief.
The sky still beamed moon-blue. But now, unlike before, the sound of a small stream of urine could be heard, meandering from the tall tree down into a valley. It could be seen, too. No longer was the world silent; no longer was it still.
It was animate.
It was animate.