#junk verse

The child falls into the river trying to save a lamb that lost its footing. The spectre stands on the bank the rosy light held aloft in its claw, guttering like a candle flame in the wind. The child struggles. She hauls the panicked lamb from the current and into the shallows, the lamb skips away. The girls feet slip in the loose gravel. The current sucks her under, only to spit her out back on the bank some metres down the river at what would be the spectres feet, if it had any. She rolls onto her stomach and vomits, river water and breakfast hitting the soil. Worried voices come closer borne by hurried footsteps. The girl rolls back onto her back and stares at the sky. A spectre cradling a rosy ball of light in its claw like hand appears in the corner of her vision before she passes out.  

A snake shoots out from the undergrowth and strikes the teenager on her ankle. The poison rushes through her body, she collapses. She is carried home on the shoulders of her best friend, the witch doctor is called. The spectre watches on from the shadows, ball of rosy light cradled in it’s claw-like hand, the light flickering for only the teen to see. She recovers four days later. The light settles and burns bright. The spectre fades.

A young woman stands in the middle of her village, short swords in both her hands. Her betrothed with his back pressed to her. They’re surrounded by the enemy. There appears to be no hope, no escape for either of them as the village burns around them. A spectre sits on the rooftop, rosy ball of light held aloft and guttering in its claw like hand, despite there being no wind to fan the flames.  The young woman spots the spectre out of the corner of her eye and grits her teeth. Surging forward she hacks off the head of a spear, and then its wielder. She charges with a blood curdling roar, the enemy begin to falter. The light in the spectres claw glows blindingly, if anybody else could see it, they would have dropped to the ground in shock. The young woman and her betrothed survive the attack and lead their people to victory. Their enemies lay dead and defeated in the street. The spectre fades out of the young woman’s line of sight.

A woman lies in labour. Her first born was coming breach. Both the midwife and the mother to be are aware of the spectre, rosy ball of light guttering in the palm of its claw. A nervous husband paces outside the hut, his footsteps rhythmic like an army march. The woman grits her teeth, challenging this pain to end her. The midwife flutters around doing her job, sweat on her brow and the hair on the back of her neck prickling at the eerie presence. The rosy light flares, temporarily blinding both the woman and the midwife, the cries of a new-born echo in the dawn space. The woman’s husband rushes to her side and pushes the hair from her face so he can plant a kiss on her forehead. The midwife cleans and swaddles the baby before handing it over to the proud but tired parents.

An old lady sits beside a grave marker. Her husband has been gone for eight years now. Her children long since married and having families of their own. She lives alone now. The nights are cold and her joints are sore. A spectre flickers in the corner of her vision. She sighs. The rosy light held in its claw-like had is faint. Reaching over she extinguishes it. Her heart stills. The spectre pops out of existence. The world keeps turning.

Sitting slumped in her chair in the student dining hall, Ymir watches the images flash across the oversized screen. Usually sports games occupy the space, and rowdy students sit down to dinner or lunch screaming encouragement at teams or sportspeople who can’t hear. Now though, on a lazy Saturday towards the end of April, images of Ymir’s hometown, images of Ymir’s country of birth, flash and flicker. The ruins of her cultural heritage standing forlorn onscreen by tons of rubble. The human cost is even more apparent, people are desperate, people are despondent, and people are mourning. People are pulled from collapsed building. Ymir is in shock. The atmosphere in the dining hall is considerably more sober than usual. She can feel several pairs of eyes flick to her, a mixture of curiosity, worry and sympathy pulses in the air.

Only her close friends and fellow RAs approach her. Historia slotting into her customary seat on Ymir’s right, she is numbly aware of tiny fingers lacing with her own. Eren and Armin sit across from her. Eren pushes a tray of plain food towards her, Armin a bottle of soft drink, she gives them both a half smile. She doesn’t have much of an appetite. Mikasa comes and sits on her left, briefly resting a hand on Ymir’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Their eyes meet. Mikasa knows her pain, five years ago they had sat down to breakfast together with their roles reversed.