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mouth hangs slightly open, like a dull animal's, but his eyebrows are knitted together, and the warrior can see anger in their intersection, and it is spreading down his face, cheeks sucked in, shoulders hunched, and still the mouth hangs dumbly. And then darkness seems to descend everywhere, and he pushes past the escort and out of the temple, nearly stumbling over the raised threshold, and he is out in the sunlight again, the guide in the far distance, her bright and eager commentary ongoing, This was a time for heroes, the sonic bloom of another explosive sounding off quite near, then another, but she was undeterred, which led to the foundation of our great country, crack-crack, been the inspiration of, boom, never to be forgotten, boom boom boom. ***  |
Ordinarily the master of the tea garden closes his establishment at sunset, but tonight, on a whim, gripped with nostalgia on this dying summer day, he leaves it open. The master's apartment in the village has been requisitioned by remnants of the local imperial forces, those stricken with the fever. Any time spent away from that hive of chaos is welcome, even as the master feels a twinge of guilt for his wife, who must tend to all under their roof, scurrying to and fro boiling fresh water, providing unsoiled blankets, stirring chicken stew for hastily improvised dinners. The master pours himself some of his favorite oolong blend. It is a sweetish variant that is supposed to relieve the joints on brisk nights as these. He sits back in his easy chair, admiring the muted glow of sunset, sucking on a hookah that has been replenished with tobacco that leaves  |
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