((Author's Note: I wrote this to convey an idea that struck me. Read it as you would read a parable...there is a meaning behind the plot.))

There was a village with no name. It was boring, humdrum, everyday, wracked with an incurable case of banality. In fact, it was so close to being a stereotype that the villagers themselves treated it that way. They paid no mind to it, for it was exactly the way it had always been and always would be.

One day, just after harvest in a particularly fruitful year, a magician came to the village. He looked about him and exclaimed over this and that...and many things the villagers took for granted. They watched him in a trance-like state, unsure of how to react.

The magician saw this, and decided to act himself. He called them all together a few days after his arrival, and spoke to them. As he spoke, their eyelids drooped. Their minds flew away from their control. Every single villager, down to the last grandfather and the newest infant, fell asleep, sprawling on the ground in the village square.

The magician, seeing that his spell had worked, proceeded to eat, systematically, the food these people had just finished gathering, and drinking the wine so carefully stored for their harvest feast, living in their houses and picking choice possessions to take away with him. After a few weeks, he packed any extra food away as well, and then he left, speaking one word that reverberated throughout the village. The air touched by that sound became still and thick. The entire village stood as if it were mired: none could go near it; none could wade through the swamps of air surrounding it.

Occasionally, one villager would waken from his enchanted hibernation. He or she would raise their head slightly, using all the effort they could muster. When they saw all their compatriots still sleeping, they usually gave up and lay back down again. Sometimes they would find the strength--from where it is impossible to say--and they would drag themselves to the person lying nearest to them. They tried to wake their indolent compatriot, but found that it was an impossible task. Some gave up and lay down again. Others persisted in shaking the sleeper until he threw a heavy arm around this annoyance and drew the waker into slumber once more.

One man woke up and found himself near the edge of the marketplace that was on the town border. He could see the ripples in the air as he breathed, but he could also see the line of the village's end. Without glancing at his sleeping compatriots, he marshaled any and all of his powers, and bit by bit brought himself to the edge. He reached it some time later, near evening of the following day. He was exhausted. He could not find the strength to drag himself over the edge, which was more strongly enchanted than the air within. He needed someone outside to help him. He called out over and over in as loud a voice as he could manage, until a girl getting water from the river nearby approached shyly. She didn't come any closer than a couple hundred feet. "Please," the man yelled hoarsely, "please, you must help me get out of here! Please!" The girl cocked her head, considering, and ran off. The man fell back, all vitality seeping from his body. He was allowing himself to become drowsy again when he heard voices--many men's voices. He rose agonizingly up on his elbow to see them better in the gathering dusk.

"We cannot decide if you are djinn, or if you are real and need our help," an old man said, stepping forward at last. He appeared to be the spokesman of several villages, for their representatives were present as well. Some glowered at the man, some looked helplessly at him.

"A magician put a spell on our village, making us all sleep like death, and the air thick like molasses," he said. "Please, oh please, help me to escape. Then I shall go and seek for the cure for this spell."

The village chiefs came together again, in whispered discussion. They could not decide what to do.

"Give us a week to decide," the spokesman said at last, turning to the man.

"Every moment you wait, my chance of finding a release lessens immensely!" the man exclaimed. "Please, don't waste time. All I need is for someone to grab my hand that touches this morass of spelled air, and pull me out. It won't take more than a few minutes! You must help me!"

The chiefs came together again. It was nearing dark. The spokesman stepped forward. "I am sorry," he said quietly, "but we cannot help you. We cannot come to a consensus on this matter. Best of luck." They all walked away.

All but the first girl to see him. She stopped a moment, and looked back through the gathering gloom. His eyes pleaded eloquently with her. She started to turn back, but then seemed to think better of it. She followed her fellows into the night.

The man laid back on the ground, staring up at what he could see of the stars, blurred almost beyond recognition by the magician's spelled air. He could feel drowsiness tugging at the corners of his mind. To give in to sleep once more seemed so easy...so easy....

The man jerked himself out of the trance again, and thought vehemently, I would rather stay awake and die of starvation than go back to that enchanted sleep.

...And so he did.

((Endnote: I won't talk about my political message, though you can review or e-mail me if you have questions or comments. Suffice it to say that I believe this story still has an important message even now.))