elpsycongroo

An older gentleman, with steel poise and gentle gait, took a leisurely stroll along the deserted streets. The moonlight illuminated the cobblestone paths as his wooden sandals made impact. The man liked to clear his head from time to time, to release the pressure valve of his day to day life. The only son of the town's blacksmith, he grew up baptized by the smoke and grit of the forge. Happier times, when tools took precedence over instruments of death. He smiled sadly, remembering the decent of his father's face into wrinkles and misery, as blades became vogue. It was a town off the beaten path. It's humble looks masked the history paved with effort, and marred by blood. But it was the man's home. From the thatched huts to the modern wooden buildings; all was necessary for the soul of the town to resonate. Walking past happy memories and homesteads with darkened lanterns, the man finally reached his destination. A single cross, pointing straight at the sky; a wooden beacon of memorandum. Taking two fingers to his lips, he laid a gentle kiss and applied his feelings to the cross. He hoped that his wife would understand. Suddenly, the grass groaned under the weight of multiple feet. The man looked around in confusion. A group of people, with lit candles and somber expressions, centered themselves around a single figure. "Our vigil today, to bring peace to the dead, will light their path to the beyond." Someone had grasped the man's hand. He turned his head, only to find himself staring into the loving eyes of his departed wife. He had not noticed the other townsfolk appearing around him; gentle smiles and kind eyes. The man brought his hand to his face, feigning a headache, with a self-deprecating little smile. So... that was it. The silent prayers of the somber faced group criss crossed the sky along the paths of the fireflies. __ Daybreak. The cobblestone streets are cracked and bruised. The proud town, razed. But not a whiff of smoke to be found. Broken plywood hung by a wooden thread off the frames they originated from. The forge was buried under the remains of the roof. The cross... There were many. 112. A town off the beaten path. Consumed by turmoil that came with the wind, and left just as quickly. But with the help of the living, the dead found their way.