The General

The boy turns and straightens, his outstretched hand presenting the tool

"Sir?"

Ancient wood creaks as his weight shifts onto the pitted floor

Worn tunic and breeches delicately enveloping

A hand slides carefully along the taught cloth of the table

Calloused, bent, scarred . . .

Shaking

Fingers wrap around the smooth, ebony wood

He stands a moment, eyes intent upon the map

His men watch, the silence tasting of mercury

A hand slides across the table

Almost casually

The spear trembles as it is laid to rest, pointing

A faint wisp of hair lazily tumbles forward as his gaze locks with the boy's

Close now

Clouded eyes suddenly bright, mischievous

Tinder spits and crackles in the boy's chest

As they turn away

The trembling is gone . . .

Fiber and sinew now rigid, strong . . .

Stone

The weapon lashes suddenly, a smooth flash of midnight

Sending a star

Straight and true

Quietly, in concert, is heard

"Eight ball, corner pocket"





I miss ya Granpa.

DJ