I WASN'T FIGHTING // tissue paper ghosts

[SLOAN.]

Progression of time untouched, concept made as strove for understanding in all, misguided those who came before and dictated the now in days buried in ash, each day further expanding gap. Away packed the festivities, process slow but necessary, routine returned to in mockery of the normalcy wished for, beneath taunt tension war brewing. Oblivious child dusted with gold, internal issues arising and further complicated until nothing beyond may be focused upon, a pawn on the chess board bearing no interest in such base placement. Further ze would not reach, however, preoccupied in manner no other was, ignored the increased activity.

Familiar hir placement among minimal patrons, dispersed the common crowd populating the inn, those few lingering caught in hushed conversation. Preferred such, low hum tuned out with ease, hearing occupied with only the best of heart held behind curved bone, the rustle and scrape, that before focus lingering upon. Ze knew of the talk, preparation and planning conducted within public space to allow wayward soul to offer misguided offerings, a messy plan spearheaded and shaped by hir father.

Old wood groaned in protest beneath the drag of blunt tips, pale lips crowned with an expression that one may deem more sneer, corners twitching, a mere unconscious action or the hint more lay beneath the surface. No further may be apparent, however, clean wiped hir visage as work begun, silent as always. Odd the child deemed Sloan, alike the work that saw balled up tissue paper pressed to another sheet, about folded until it was engulfed. Nothing may ze do, young and inexperienced, lost within the turbulent wellspring of conflicting thought and emotion that tormented ze further with each day, except this. Below encased ball a string wound, completed the simple craft.

A ghost. Or, at the least, would may somewhat pass for such. Typical simplification, an easy to accept version of that which walked ruined paths, a base offering but one hoped enough alongside those others stashed in hir living quarters. Work begun on another, soon discarded, growing the pile of torn paper as next was roughly dragged toward hirself.  "Please, I don't want to lose them as well." Strangled whisper left Sloan, head bowed as ze rolled a ball of tissue paper along the table top. Wrong felt those words, utterance of care unbefitting a tongue grown clumsy and thick, a truth well kept become apparent in those simple words.

The child that cared for nothing but hirself, grown further self interested with the conclusion of each lunar cycle, admitted another held a place in hir heart, small that part of ze that was petrified at the notion of impeding war.

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Roundest moon flutters on the river, night bird song coasting through heat hangs for a moment there cascades slowly down the thick air, landing somewhere by my feet waking up bugs try to repeat, a fine night to feel light

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code by Wisker