The Poppy Boys

Just a short story about life through *someone's* eyes (not going to give it away, the identity of the story teller is to for you to contemplate) about the of one soldier furing WW1. Enjoy, it's an on-going thing.
Please comment, I (like everyone) love feedback. I'll always do the same. :) This is THE BOOK THEIF fan-fiction

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2. Starling

I'm holding his hand.

The man with the receeding chestnut hair and the languid brown eyes.

I press his flattened soul into my vacant palm, and massage his rattled thoughts. His conscience is swollen with thoughts of the woman festooned in the embroided apron, whom he called his wife, the hazy copper fields surrounding his home, curtained by a small babbling brook and his treasure: the little boy with the blonde hair and the irradescent soul.  

But Life doesn't need him anymore.

So we walk.

The man gazes at the frost-licked window, set with a peeling pane, a pane that he painted days after the man and his wife crossed the threshhold of the little brick house. He sees the body, that he once owned and tarnished and loved with. He knows that behind the calescence of the sunset, the woman with the apron has been slain with grief.

Because I slashed her heart. I stole from her. And she hates me.

But I don't care.

 

We have a long walk ahead of us, him and I. So I guide his soul away, leaving his heart in this place, this small green place. But the man turns around. And oh.

Oh.

Perched on the gate, by the crumbling limestone wall is sat a child with blonde hair and a irradescent soul. A boy. His boy. And the boy smiles. He laughs in pure, uncomprehensible, empty joy.

And the man laughs with him.

 

Their song dapples the sky until it turns pink. The pink of youth. I let their broken laughter smoulder the tainted sky. You could call it kindness. I call it mercy.

And, once the larks have returned and the clouds are dominant again, their melody ceases. Perhaps you expect it to curdle and turn sour, like the woman's grief. Again, dear reader, you would be wrong. Because I see, in the palm of my hand, the man's soul has swollen. Not swollen with bitter longing. No.

It is swollen with beautiful rememberance.

I take the man's hand and place a small portion of his soul into it. Once worn and faded, it has found longevity. He looks at me and I nod. The man blows his soul into the breeze. The wind does it's duty and carries it to the boy. The child catches it and the light disperses through the gaps of his chubby fingers. Three final words. "Look after it". I lead him away.

Through the pastures.

Down the winding lane.

Over the pearly stream.

Beyond the little chapel.

Through the dappled sunlight.

 

The boy watches us.

Always.

 

 

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