Twin bells rang out over the dismal rain. Their twin tones mingled in the fog. The bells stopped. A forest of black surrounded a small patch of white. The minute white was a small bundle of pure white roses placed atop an obsidian coffin. A voice rang out. It was pale and mournful, bowed heads listened, half to the speaker, half to the steady drumming of the rain on the umbrellas and on the coffin.

“It is a sad day, when we must gather on such terms as we gather today. I have attended many of these events, I am sad to say, and have spoken at a few.” The man stands with his back straight, almost to the point as to be uncomfortable.

He wears long blue pants, embroidered with gold and silver thread. If one had looked closely at the insignia on his left and right shoulders, just above the elbow, and below the curve of the shoulder there would gleam in white thread, three upward sloping lines that came to a point then sloped down again. A small space with a white diamond gleaming in the center, contrasting with the deep blue of the man’s uniform. Below that are six downward sloping half lines, three on each side that drop off into the ultramarine sea, and then resurface to meet the outward border. While these lines are traveling under the blue, a white star gleams in their absence. Nevertheless, even it cannot stay above the sea for too long, and there is a blue hole in the center. Two more downward curving lines mark the rank of chief master sergeant.

The rain beats a rhythm on his hat, which rides low on his forehead. He continues, “Today we mourn the loss of one of our country’s best, today we mourn a hero.” A single sapphire tear snakes its way down from the corner of his eye and makes its way down his cheek. It drops from his chin and the rain, that purifying white fire, washes it away.

A boy sits in a room. Its walls are gray, and its carpeted floor is blue. The gray walls are bare. He is typing away fervently on laptop computer. Every now and again, the computer emits a small chime, signaling a new message. Then the boy types away again, then stops and awaits the chime once more. As he waits for the person on the other end to respond, he thinks. Images flash before his eyes, of soft amber hair, waving in the wind like grass on a winter prairie, of eyes, like umber pools shining in the moonlight.