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