mella

they genuinely need to have a mogging competition, why are they always serving face

— William D. Carrigan | 1744. American History: The Lynching of Mexicans

The guy next to me @fozzeyrabbithole (TG)

A moonlit absence danced across the swiveling blades of grass, a September's breeze painted the sky with loose leaves and stray petals. A laughter, a snide snicker, both danced through the air like acrobatics, turning their feet and then jumping onto the ground and crashing. Two boys tumbled down the grassy hill, one knocked onto the other like a bundle of sticks. One laughed, the other feverishly tried to catch his breath. With small utterences they teased each other relentlessly for their rosy faces, one face speckled with peat-brown freckles, the other so littered with acne it could speak in braile. A low buzz simmered across the open, watercolour sky. The hue of navy and lilac purple amidst the grey hue of clouds reigned above like the Queen on her throne. Starlight lit the sky overhead, constellations held eachothers hands and watched the youth's laughter. Their voices littered the empty field with the noise pollution of their shared humanity. Their sillouttes were interrupted by a dark shadow. It cast onto the two boys like a spotlight, though darkened their bodies like blinds do a sun-facing window. They took their eyes from eachothers youthful faces and up into the outstrech of sky above. The two lay beside each other, classmates, friends, a spare evening. A plane flew ahead, peaking across the sky with it's black propeller only a glimpse, its trail of cloud round and puffy, yet brisk and swift. The two stopped laughing, the grass swayed forward from the sheer speed of the machine overhead. The two boys lay perfectly still, the hairs on their legs stood tall and swayed like the pins of grass beneath them. Prickling their skin and crushed beneath their shared weight. The speckled boy grasped the acne-ridden fiend in a tight grasp. They watched as the black buzzard growled in the distance and took hold of the free air. An emergence of gas, a sprout of black cloud, a rumble in the distance. A firey blaze erupted past the hilly field and into the town ahead. The breeze broke into an orchard of force, an unfolding of iron and will. The kind hand of man tore into the tower, which peaked above the trees, like a bullet through skin. A mushroom cloud unfurled it's body and poured red over the sky and lit the darkening sky into an open blaze. Friends, classmates, now orphans, held each other tightly in eachothers hold. The fiend covered his mouth in horror, their legs tangled together like the dough of a pretzel. The freckled boy held his comrades head and watched the tower's shadow disappear and the trees recoil from the impact like slingshots. Animals scuffled their paws from the birth of fire, the creation of man had open it's womb and released itself upon the small woodland. Squirrels sped down the trees, birds flew out their nests. Their homes, abandoned and destroyed. Prey, predators, casualties. A fox left her babies and scrambled for all she knew. The boys watched the blaze of destruction dance her wretched choreography ahead. It was just like the newspapers would've described. Like the tearing of trees in the ardenne, the pointed noses of tanks holding up high with pride. Like the fall of France, the surrender of Paris. Blitzkrieg, a word the two had not yet exchanged with their tongues, for the war was a channel away, and nowhere near their schoolyard. The schoolyard would remain a memory, the evening, painted by the tomfoolery of the freckled boy and his acne-ridden friend, shall too, be remembered. For today is September seventh, the year is 1940. The Blitz is here.

Mural in Belfast, Northern Ireland

time changes people.

your friends may think that i'm a stranger / my face, you'll never see no more