Spring had come only recently to the small town of Aspen, and yet a new warmth filled the land with prosperity, as it did every year. Although just early in the season, red tulips dotted the valley sides and crevices in the hilly area, planted by some forgotten soul. The green hills were sprinkled with a mixture of sheep, which from far away looked like clouds sailing smoothly over an emerald sky. However, the green knolls were broken up by deep cuts in the earth, in which day after day for centuries, the people of the town had crawled or climbed down into, and at the end of each day come out, tired and sweaty, their form seemingly evolved to a blackened color.
Life continued on as it did in Aspen. Day after day, the miners would be taken down below the surface, and emerge black, except for their white teeth, which sparkled when they laughed. (As they often did) The familiar smells of food would mingle and skip down the sloppy sides of the hills, and spread out upon the valley. These familiar aromas would greet the husbands as they walked merrily home from work, taking a swig of rum to lighten their spirits, and warm their bodies. And night after night, the wives would greet the husbands from their work, whether it was at the coalmines or selling books. The hills, perhaps, were the only things that did not seem to change. Whether winter or summer, their color was always the same, and they watched quietly with ancient eyes as the young grew old, and the old grew young at heart. The nearby sea greeted visitors (which were few) with open arms, and bade them visit again. The sea, unlike the hills, changed continually, as the great waves constantly beat against the sides of the cliffs, changing their form year after year. Sometimes the change was so great that travelers from afar familiar with the area would question if they had their bearings right.
As was said, spring had just newly blossomed upon the small community, sheltered from the world, and with the spring came news and information from across ocean. News of ocean liners, recipes, fashions, airplanes, and such as they were. And the townspeople looked forward to it immensely. However, this spring not all the news was so beautiful, for it was spoken that the clouds of war were soon forming. This did not hinder the townspeople, for they figured that their life, whether affected or not, would continue as it always did. The tulips would bloom in March, and the poppies would bloom in April. And so…life continued as it always did.

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Rosso looked up at the twilight sky, its lavender color almost extending to just beyond the horizon. He stopped for a moment, and set his pail down, and continued to gaze at the sky, speckled with low clouds. A twinkle came into his eye, visible even in the weakening light of the day. And a new form spread over his being, as if some unseen energy coursed within him. A sort of grin appeared on his face, and he stared up at the deepening color of the sky, the sky he would one day tame, and call his own.
A shrill whistle of a bell, and a few seconds later, a grind of mechanics being put to the test interrupted his thoughts. Realizing his blunder, he scooped on the tin thermos, and pale of water and jogged down the gravely path down to the entrance to the mine.
“You’re late!” a voice out of nowhere said. Rosso walked up to the control station, and hung his arm over the side, looking up at the keeper of the voice.
A pair of eyes, glinting like shinny grasshoppers looked down at him, forested by a growth of dark hair.
“Sorry about that.” He commented.
“Its alright.” He answered gruffly, as he was handed the thermos. He opened it slowly, and the smell of meatballs and pasta filled the small room. The man seemed to heave a sigh of relief, as if somehow this homely scent seemed to gently ease away all the stress of the day.
“I good day is when Mrs. Wattson decides to make her meatballs and pasta.
Rosso just grinned at his friend who was now searching around in vane for his trusty metal fork. After a few moments of searching, he found it buried deep in the dark corners of his leather shoulder bag. His mouth now full of pasta, he directed his attention towards Rosso.
“Well, I said you could, so get to it.” A grin was just visible as he intently chewed away on the food. Rosso’s eyes momentarily widened, and then a spark was lit, and quickly running around to the other side of the control room, he hopped into the dim quarters.
“Now, you remember how to do’t, don’t yaeh?” he questioned, pointing to the lever which Rosso was now gripping firmly. Rosso just nodded, as if all his attention had now gone into this task. His grip tightened against the lever, and slowly he pulled it down. Noises of machinery and the whirl of metal rods resinated from the small dark shaft.
“Now, now not to fast.” The bearded man commented, a bit of perspiration forming on his creased brow, “We don’t want theah men to be pancakes when the door opens, now do we?”
Rosso’s grip loosened, and a few seconds later his hand stopped, and some few hundred meters away, battered tin doors opened, and a group of men shuffled out, pulling an old blackened wagon.
“Yaeh did good.” The man commented, gingerly whipping his mouth with his sleeve, “Now, yaeh best be off with yaeh. Time stops for no one.”
Gathering up his leather bag, filled with his own supper [of meatballs as well], Rosso headed off, calling behind him, “Goodbye , I hope that your mother gets well soon.”
Mr. Donavan waved a goodbye, answering in return, his loud booming voice echoing throughout the area, “I’ll tell her you said so! Good nigh’ with yaeh.”
Rosso, with his back turned, did not see the worry that now creased his friends face as he turned around and walked up to his fellow miners, and picked up a piece of the black rock.
“Still the same?” he muttered, resting against the wagon.
Mr. Kelley, his bright red hair standing out in the dim electricity, answered, his face full of concern, “Yaeh, still the same. If we don’t find another vein soon, this mine will be done for.”
A general silence loomed about the once cheerful site as the sky continued to turn deeper and deeper in color. And yet to Rosso that walked almost merrily along to his dwelling, this night seemed like any other night, except that Mrs. Wattson had decided to cook her meatballs and pasta.
Rosso continued to walk quietly up the dusty road that led to his abode. He knew this pathway well, each crevice and turn. He had walked it since as far back as he could remember—however, often he forced himself not to, for when he did, he would see his mother and father looking down at him. Their now dead faces shining with love. He sighed quietly to himself, and once again looked up at the night sky, his comfort…
The quiet hills gently whispered with the calming voice of the sea breeze, now picking up off the rocky shore. As he steadily plodded along the hillside, a sudden hush came about him. Quickly turning around, he surveyed his surroundings, but finding nothing, he could only presume that it was his imagination that had falsely created the sound. However, as he continued on, the quiet hush did not disappear, but steadily became even worse. Even the sea had gone silent, as if the whole world was watching him. He felt his brow, now wet with moisture, which had turned cold in the silent breeze. His pace quickened, and the great sky overhead no longer seemed as beautiful as it had before. It seemed to laugh down at him, him in his panic and cautiousness. The ground felt slippery, and the blades of grass seemed to grab maliciously at his legs.
He felt himself hit the ground, and lay there for some time, forcing his body to calm down. The wind suddenly picked up, the nightingale’s song drifted across the wind from some window down below in the town. The world had sprung back to life in those moments, as if it had breathed a sigh of relief when he had fallen. Leaning against the dusty damp ground that smelled clean and refreshing, he flung his hand over his eyes, so that his view was partially obstructed.
Something was eating slowly away at the back of his mind, slowly asking him questions he could just not hear. Hoisting himself off the ground, he edged his way back up into stationary. He looked around, almost in a glazed sort of way, as the beginnings of sleep began to seep in. However, for some moments, he dimly realized, he had been staring fixedly at something crouched in the grass. It showed no signs on moving; in fact it looked like whatever it was seemed quite content to stay there. Perhaps, this would not have worried Rosso so much, except for whatever this thing was, it was giving off a strange greenish light. He crouched forward, and peered down at the thing. However, he was quite mistaken, it wasn’t a thing at all, but a young girl, who either had decided to take a nap, or had collapsed. Rosso presumed the later, for a look of fatigue surrounded her content figure. Around her neck was a stone, now beginning to fade in the color that it emanated. It was a strange stone indeed, its color one that he could not quite describe –the color of the dark murky seas, highlighted with the last rays of sunlight of the day. It glowed and pulsed, but the sun was setting, and finally the light was extinguished, suddenly.
Indeed this was a predicament—whether he should mind his own business, and let this girl lay seemingly content among the blowing grasses of the nearby more, or instead, take her to his house—where he could perhaps learn more of her, and her travels which had caused her to fall asleep on the side of a hill. Finally, he had decided, and bending down and forcing all the strength he had, he picked up the girl, and began along his way, which he had first started.
Quietly, after about five minutes of walking, he opened the door to his home, now quiet in the deep darkness of the night. Feeling his way around the black room, he found the bed, and gently placed the girl on it. He gave one last look at her, but then, consulting his clock that cheerfully ticked in the far corner of his house, he hurried up the stairs (now creaking woefully under his weight) and flung open the door that led to the roof. The sounds of the night: crickets, grasses, waves, and such, were blocked out by the sound of the gentle doves cooing—for only one reason. The poor devils were hungry! How terrible I it must have been, Rosso thought as he scooped up some bird seed and placed it into the troughs inside the cage, that the poor birds for hours had been sitting, starring at the bag which was just outside of their reach, tempting them with its shinny sides sparkling in the moonlight.
Leaning against the cage, he spoke softly to them, whispering his apologies of forgetfulness and the strange encounter with the girl he had met on the path up to his house. The birds seemed to gargle and coo as they ate the food, and then, once one had their fill, they daintily flew the short distance, to where Rosso’s hand was outstretched. He gently petted them, and yet while he did so, he inspected them meticulously, like a mother with a child. He would want none of them getting sick! The white feathers of the doves glowed like moonstones in the starlight, and yet, he too had to feed himself, and so mournfully, he left them, promising them food when he returned in the morning.
Walking down the stair, he paused momentarily, glancing at a picture hanging lopsidedly on the wall. The two gentle faces, smiling at him, from some gazebo located on the edge of a cliff, with the great sparkling sea shining behind them, like a diamond. A proud and tall man, with a bristling mustache and bowler hat, dressed in his Sunday best; and the beautiful lady by his side, holding in her gloved hand, a dainty umbrella, edged in lace. Her eyes were liquid in the light, and seemed to be looking straight into Rosso’s soul, gently healing and inflicting pain as they did so. Looking at this picture, of sea and sun, always made him feel as if he was just a piece of wet cloth, being pulled tighter and twisted into a knot. Rosso now looked away, and hurriedly walked down the remaining stairs down to the main floor.
Forgetting about the hunger that began to yell angrily from his stomach, he settled himself down, looked out at the night sky, water colored in moon glow, and the tips of the clouds spilled in silver.
He spent some time looking up at the night sky, and yet, as he did so, the image blurred in front of his eyes, and became a dreamlike fantasy filled with beautiful colors of the night. A few moments later, he slumped exhausted to the floor.

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AN: This story in the begining is roughly based on Laputa by Hayao Miyazaki, however as we go along the plot will change, but stay true to Miyazaki's genious....^_^ I would say R + R, but we can't do that anymore. :