"The Stoic" By Chris Conidis

"The Stoic"

Chris Conidis " The Stoic"

By Chris Conidis

At the edge of the village, where the wind carved lines into the earth and the clouds sagged heavy with unshed storms, he stood. The villagers called him “The Stoic,” as if naming him gave them ownership over his silence.

He was a monument more than a man—a blade clenched in calloused hands, a face set like granite beneath a weathered helmet. His silence was so vast, it seemed to swallow time itself.

Seasons cycled like old scrolls, and still he remained. Unflinching.The villagers whispered epics about him, polishing his myth with each retelling.“A thousand men,” they’d say.“Spirits from the mountain,” they’d swear.Even the wind began to speak of him, rustling through the reeds like gossip.

Children tossed stones at his feet.The braver ones tugged at his sleeve, only to retreat when his eyes—blank and unmoving—reflected their own mischief back at them.

Years passed like lantern smoke.

Then came the new governor, all lacquered armor and puffed chest. He stood before The Stoic, squinting as if peering into an old superstition.

“What nonsense,” he chuckled. “Guarding rice paddies and empty huts.”

With a finger heavy with rings, he prodded The Stoic’s chest.

And The Stoic, loyal to gravity and decay, obliged. He tipped forward, clattering to the ground in a heap of hollow echoes. The armor split open, spilling nothing but moth-bitten silk and the stale air of forgotten faith.

Inside? No man. Only wood, straw, and rumor stitched together.

The villagers stared as if they had unearthed the bones of their own gullibility.

The governor laughed and left. But the next day, at dawn, the villagers gathered in the mist. Quietly, reverently, they pieced The Stoic back together—shinier, stronger, hollow still.

Because sometimes, a village needs its myths.

And sometimes, even an empty suit of armor stands straighter than the men who mock it.