flames and shooting star

What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though, by your smiling, you seem to say so.

Hamlet, Act II, scene ii

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1914 - 1939

Once upon a time, there lived a young boy. Eyes bright like the shimmering stars that spanned the Earth. He was a peculiar kid, lanky thin, lips pursed into blood red rose petals, his skin a sickly white.

One day, he heard something. A very peculiar thing indeed, for in his short minuscule lifespan, he had never heard of it, and never would. This was a foreign sound. Foreign and new, like that rickety rackety toy Mom brought back home from work. A rubbery seat stuck on two wheels, a handle broken beyond repair, but it was new and foreign and it made him merry.

This sound was a peculiarity and an animosity. His curiosity was piqued. He silently crept out of his rickety rackety bed and stalked into the blanketed darkness of the night. He gasped in awe at the sight that was unravelling before his very innocent eyes. Never in his life had he saw such a pulchritudinous sight.

Flames, lights and … shooting star.

Unforgiving human eyes rarely descry a meteor shower. He is starry eyed, blessed and merry. The stars are shining for him, he makes a wish. He wishes for more loaves of bread. The stars are getting nearer and nearer. His hands are clasped into a prayer, his starry eyes are closed.

*

Rickety rackety roar of flames, it devours, burst into nothingness, into thick choking air of smokes and deaths.

Eyes no longer reflect the sparkle of the stars.

The flames devour and a prayer lingers.