"The Lamp is Out."

A Story of imagery, it does not take place in anywhere particular, like a dream.

In some time in some place there lived a man and a woman weighed down by time. Together they would wonder through the ravages of the earth that was their farm, a windmill turns on their farm, telling the story of its life in a high pitch voice that only few understood. Some times, if the crop was good and the cow did not need feeding, which was a sight as rare as a plane, they would walk across the native skin of brown of a blue planet, the wind would at first lightly grace their faces, inviting them into it's world but soon the shadows would come rushing up and they would endure the ravages of a fickle woman.

        At times as rare as their walks they would hold hands and a Lamp would shine in their minds, gears would turn and sing to them a song long forgotten of high pitches and low groans and the color green might suddenly warm their eyes, or maybe the feel of water falling from the sky and if they were extremely lucky the memory of how they met, a time so different than now, would slowly drip into their thoughts and rust those gears, just a little more. 

 

        They at first spoke through their eyes. For you see it was a war, and during war emotions were your enemy as much as that person shooting at you fighting their emotions. So their eyes betrayed their country at the light of a ill Lamp, the flame would burst at thoughts of memories but dwindle at the sight of reality. Across the spectrum of space and what is considered time their hearts leapt to one another's, changing places, testing out a bed, and finding that it fit just right. The ground shook under the weight of the lives of humans and cried forth drip's of dirt as the man and the woman egged towards one another, at this point gladly being prisoners of war. With their eyes at agreement, their lips quivered at the anticipation of artillery. 

        She shot first.

        "War is scary."

        He fired back.

        "It sure is mam."

        They reloaded, and fired.

        "My name is Eleanor." She raised her hand lightly to his as she whispered her poisonous gas. He raised his slightly and their bombs dropped. Her skin felt like ink across his crinkled paper of young skin. 

        The earth cried and both retreated, the lamp quivered but regained its ground.

        "My name is Henry."

        "It is a pleasure to meet you."

        "Please, the pleasure must be all mine." He whispered, her lips curved upwards at the gas. 

        "Where are you from?"

        "Oh, somewhere. you?"

        "Oh, no where." It was his lip's turn to curve in reaction to the intoxicating gas.

        "Well, would you like to join me in somewhere, some day."

        "If I can bring my nothing."

        "You must allow me to help."

        "Than I guess I must accept." She said leaning towards him, like spy's in the dark, when the earth gave a final gasp of pain as their sides joined lips to confront a new enemy.

 

        Now some time later, after the winds of dates, marriage, talk, kisses and other things have blown by all that remains is a windmill telling it's story as they live theirs. 

        Today is a special day, the sky cried as they walked.

        "Rain." He shot first today.

        "Yes, it seems to be." She shot back, diving for his side, infiltrating and grabbing hostage of his hand, spilling ink across torn paper. The bombs of heaven, filled with life, fell out of love and hate to the enemy below. No blast fazed the veterans. 

        "Well you allow me to take you inside?" He said, paper crunching as his lips now reacted to his own gas. 

        "I guess I must accept." She seemed to have the same reaction. They turned, joined together, and walked across the tanned earth to a building of fallen trees. Their one cow made a sound, it was a normal sound, maybe a siren, few can tell now ambits the gun shots. The door to their collection of fallen trees told its own story as they walked by it, hoping for them to remember it this time. In the corner on a table a Lamp sat coughing. Each taking their sides across this no mans land they sat and built a bridge connected in the middle, the weakest point, by their hands, their records of their life. The Lamp coughed dangerously as they sat. They sat some more, maintaing trade in this time of war as bombs fell from every where, the screams of causalities rang throughout their pile of fallen trees. A bomb broke its way through exploding on their bridge, sending derby shooting back to its builders. A lose brick hit the Lamp, and both sides froze and watched as the Lamp rolled ever so slowly making both sides helpless as it fell off no-man's land and shattered on the ground.

        He got this shot.

        "The Lamp is out."