Post by Deleted on May 12, 2020 14:51:39 GMT -6
It was a half-dark, a dark dappled with pitches of light; a night with a clear and unclouded sky. Where trees surrounded but didn’t dare encroach on hallowed soil, there were no places to hide – unless you were foot-high-small, unthreatening, and too blisteringly irate to care.
The plaza is gutted. The stalls are empty. The atmosphere is stolid and silent. There is only remnants. There is only junk: what they left behind. With the festivity swept away, it took meaning with it; these streamers, just paper. The sun begins to set and reflex sets in like the impending winter cold, a routine of docile domesticity, of sweeping, accumulating, and disposing. Sweeping, accumulating… But stopping; the flurry of motion and excitement scattered the effigy, flowers for Xerneas, strewn like a blood trail away from the plaza. Approaching the distance, inviting.
There is an accusation unvoiced of why you are the only one without a vacation day.
Chika muttered to herself: “Screw this - screw this - screw this.” She grabbed the earth with her barren claws and she squeezed – and she popped through when her ‘shrooms decided to cooperate, then, towards her fate. Squeezed under the iron fence, the Paras tumbled down the slope and into the thick of the cemetery in a cloud of dirt and at the expense of one of her ribbons. She ignored the commotion. She kept going. On a beeline, with a single intention, ever-persistent even underneath the thousand, blinking eyes of floating candles.
They study you as you plant the last flag and you loathe their pity. Crawling down to meet the storehand, they offer, “You can take a break, if you want. It’s practically a holiday.”
“No, it’s okay–” Why the hell are you so apologetic, Chika? What’s that around your claw right now? “–no, I can’t.”
open! happy nou rega...