I had to post something...this is FAR from final...tell me what you think.
At dusk, I wander alone to the edge of the commons, my mind gently meandering and a warm feeling of calm hanging about me.
I stop at the fence, looking down at the many rows of burlap tents, now deserted. the soldiers have gone off to the fields to drill, the din of their shouts and muskets distant and undisturbing.
I absently toy with dirtied, aged lace at my throat, and I just am.
I feel whole.
Free of wanting. Free of passions. Free of sin. Free of doubt...
"You!" a sudden, soft cry escapes from my lips in surprise. "Irwing's boy, ahn't you?"
The voice is a strangled, high-pitched medley of a British and an American accent, choppy on the tongue and sharp to the ear.
"Yes, sir." I say, tentatively swerving around to face…
To face a boy.
A boy who couldn’t be any older than I, dressed in a pointedly dirty red uniform. Two sticky-looking, heavily bejeweled hands are half-buried in his coat pockets, and dark greasy hair juts out from below a slightly-askew bicorne.
He steps closer, pushing me back against the fence to escape the rank stench emanating from him.
So close, I can smell his breath, the spicy, sense-dulling odor of luxurious rum.
Oh, this is rich.
