"cotton"

Wispy little white clouds cling to brown, desiccated limbs of plants, like little white-haired mummies all lined up in a row. A dry rustle runs through the crowd with every whistle of the wind. Sun peeking up over the horizon, playing hide and seek with the moon and I twist the pen between my teeth, pulling the little arm of the cap like a slingshot and letting it snap back. Lost in the deepest moors of my mind, I see kingdoms come to fight on this field for the honor of their respective kings. The chainmail clinking, the horses flaring their noses and expelling air, exasperated and impatient. A little joy eeks out of my subconscious and it pulls me back to the field of brown and white. The soft hum of the machine picking its wat and suctioning up all of the little clouds of what looks like spun sugar, gobbling them like a kid who’s behind on their chocolate advent calendar and voraciously…