He sat atop the hill that overlooked the village and the fields from which they grew their food. The wind kindly swept his hair over his right shoulder as he faced the land before him. Flowers were blooming in random patches on the hill at the call of spring. Beside him were a small bed of baby's breath. Their petals felt small and smooth between his fingers; fragile also.
He could hear the villagers shouting. It was a cacophony full of squabbles; utters of nonsense and gibberish he couldn't really understand. After all, he was young-his face bereft of experience and his bones still stretching his skin.
He dug his fingers into the earth between his legs, sifting through the dirt and the rocks and the worms. In the afternoon sun, he could feel the heat radiating from the ground beneath him as his fingers journeyed through the grass. The wind whispered the tales of the quiet as it penetrated his ears.
He lay sprawled on his back facing the sun. He reached his hands up, shaking those of the ghosts that traveled on the tails of invisible beasts. And he continued staring up at the sun, with cloudy eyes that felt no pain save for the eternal slap of a blackboard, to which he had no chalk.
(photo via Facebook.com)
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