Someone, a long time ago, scythed up heaps of reeds, vegetables, other fibrous plants and sent them on to a processor. For a fee. At that manufacturer, or workhouse, another worker hammered and dried these fibers into long strands of sandy brown twine, which was sent along again to another, no doubt disgruntled, laborer, underpaid, overtired, who twisted the twine into a skein of a rope.
Now, after however many years that rope has sat and baked in dusty sunsets and lamenting rain, it's been tied and bound into another sort of skein.
A loop around my neck.
'Here's a manual,' Geoff said, thrusting a brick of paper into his hands. 'I don't expect you to have it all memorized by tomorrow, but at least read through it this week, clear?'
Hours later, Dennis was near to tearing his hair out over the unnecessary wordiness of the least laconic mechanic manual he expected the universe held. 'How many ways can they describe "crank?"' he grumbled. '"Handle,' 'turning wheel,' 'pull-crank,' 'pulley-jig?' Just say 'crank,' you--" he ended the complaint early with a hissing sigh.
To define 'laconic' as 'concise' is a most laconic way to define 'laconic.'
Joyce was certainly many things, but a 'morning person' was not among her attributes. Every day, no matter the time, she'd wake bleary, eyes red as cadmium, and a perfectly irascible outlook. Each statement she'd make was down to simple, rude declarations of two or three words each, spoken typically without red-eye contact. Loud noises made her jumpy, and she bothered querulously about 'too many questions' after only two or three were asked. Happily, this behavior loosened after only an hour or so of irritability, and she'd always brighten up on the same schedule as the sun.
Taciturn, as a cottonwood seed on the wind.
As one penitent, groveling in a cathedral.
As a heartbeat during sleepy white noise.
As turning the pages of a book.
As a kitten purring, wrapped in a quilt.
As a stern library during final exams.
As one struck with the news their father's just passed.
As a blink of a crusty eye.
As a wolf happily on the prowl.
As a truant gardener on a warm afternoon, too good to be spent doing work.
As a butterfly in the forgetful breeze.
As the grave.
Other things that are taciturn:
A heartbreaking someone eating alone in a restaurant.
A lonely child in the bare corner of a playground.
Being under a doleful nighttime streetlamp on a sickly intersection.
A person sipping harsh coffee, thoughtfully turning the pages of a book, seated alone in a relatively energetic coffee house.
I'm laying in my bed, with a heap of emphatic thoughts piling up in my mind. What I'd do for my head to be more taciturn at the end of the day! Deep thinking is welcome when the sun is up, but at night, when my lids are heavy and limbs the same, it'd be appreciated for my thoughts to abate somewhat. They never seem to.
