[Fic] Navy Boys
Oct. 8th, 2010 08:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fairieloreTitle: Navy Boys
Author: fairielore
Rating: G.
Characters: As mentioned in the title, this is from the perspective of the boys in uniform.
Summary: Whimsical drabble piece, still on a roll with that poem mood.
Word count: 282
To fly like a bird above a starry sky, twinkling like a series of lightning bulbs, the ingenue of the geniuses before them shining down. They are the floating souls of that have passed from their bodies. Though they rot in fertile earth, their memories and dreams never corrode, nor do they rust in the tempest rain. There is but a stone to mark we were here, that we once stood strong. We are the boys who fought the war that wasn’t ours, pawns of a particular game, crafted pieces of marble on a polished chessboard. We are blue and they are black, the soul’s aura the only indication of side. Our leader has kohl rimmed eyes and he awakes up in the morning and looks in the mirror, seeing a pale face and sea blue eyes. Majestic and proud, a regal king of the sea.
He opens up a drawer and pulls out a tin, bronze and etched with little toy ships. He opens up tin and there is charcoal, dark and smelling of ash, of ruthlessness. It is his war point, a waning to all those who would cross him. He will wear their flesh and dreams as make-up, for he has stripped of that luggage long ago. The black mask hides not that there is something, but that there is no longer. He looks out through his telescope, his rose colored glasses that see only death and chaos and rivers of death. The black and white accentuate his sickly frame, a note to the Reaper not to worry, he will come to pass in the night, dreams a prison that no can escape – unless they’ve bartered for the key.
Author: fairielore
Rating: G.
Characters: As mentioned in the title, this is from the perspective of the boys in uniform.
Summary: Whimsical drabble piece, still on a roll with that poem mood.
Word count: 282
To fly like a bird above a starry sky, twinkling like a series of lightning bulbs, the ingenue of the geniuses before them shining down. They are the floating souls of that have passed from their bodies. Though they rot in fertile earth, their memories and dreams never corrode, nor do they rust in the tempest rain. There is but a stone to mark we were here, that we once stood strong. We are the boys who fought the war that wasn’t ours, pawns of a particular game, crafted pieces of marble on a polished chessboard. We are blue and they are black, the soul’s aura the only indication of side. Our leader has kohl rimmed eyes and he awakes up in the morning and looks in the mirror, seeing a pale face and sea blue eyes. Majestic and proud, a regal king of the sea.
He opens up a drawer and pulls out a tin, bronze and etched with little toy ships. He opens up tin and there is charcoal, dark and smelling of ash, of ruthlessness. It is his war point, a waning to all those who would cross him. He will wear their flesh and dreams as make-up, for he has stripped of that luggage long ago. The black mask hides not that there is something, but that there is no longer. He looks out through his telescope, his rose colored glasses that see only death and chaos and rivers of death. The black and white accentuate his sickly frame, a note to the Reaper not to worry, he will come to pass in the night, dreams a prison that no can escape – unless they’ve bartered for the key.
