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The night sky hums in hues of purple and blue; conflicting the moon’s yellow glow and stellar rainbow dots spaciously scatter everywhere.
There are no roads or cars to disturb the peaceful hums. Only the soft cackles of fire complement the natural ambience that hugs its children in comfort and inspire awe.
A refreshing sight to behold. Take a deep breath and close your eyes with me, will you? Take your time and
”Hmmmm….” Dusty golden light radiate from the thin lines of a ghost sitting—a meerkat curiously scanning its surroundings. He steadily taps his quill pen on the paper: decorating the corner with dots. Every point is a fruitless attempt of deciphering a thought while it’s in motion.
What more should he add? He’s got the idea but a different style of execution is daunting.
Despite the tension he is in, a cozy fire still sways in the back. It nibbles on the soft sugary foam hovering over the bonfire. A delightful snack in the making by the hands of a child made of cotton.
Bory watches the marshmallows became a different shade and expand—A bright red balloon prepping for a lift. Although it’s airy, it looks fulfilling too. Plus, the aroma makes it better.
With a click in her head when the alarm sets off, she raises the stick up to the sky with a cheer; Bory runs to her makeshift mini kitchen. Comprising of a log as the counter and packages of ingredients for the perfect outdoor snack at the time of dawn. She wears her imaginary chef hat and starts smushing things together.
To the eyes that only glances with their brains only sees a child playing with their food, but to those who watches with their heart sees the youthful joy and entertainment behind the play.
Two crackers sandwiching a marshmallow in chocolate coating—from small plastic sticks full of liquid chocolate inside, found through a nearby store. Rays of light shines behind the s’more with a faint noise of “Perfect!” in pixels.
Who would be her first customer be?
She flips her head around to look for possible consumers. The grass can’t eat, the dirt has worms, the fire already has a full stomach. Then her eyes land on the living dim lightbulb in thought. His golden stellar—or transparent coat ever floating, defying physics.
Slow silent ticking reverberates in the past; he blankly stares at the skies like it’s his home, but it’s not his and neither is anywhere.
But that’s all in the plague’s mind. What’s a medication to sadness and an awesome gift for a cool-looking person?: a sweet happy treat made with love!
She gets up and runs up to him. Before he even gets the chance to react to her pitter-patter, a hand shoves the marshmallow right through his face.
Through
Yes, it didn’t manage to stay midair like his. The poor s’more falls to the lumpy soil. She lifts her head back up to face the towering clock person and realise: she didn’t even ask if he wants it first.
But the clock chuckles, giggles, cackles! His yellow glow shining radiantly again; Finding his spark again in the comedy he blindly reside.
“HA! HA HA!” He chortles. Not to make fun, not because of the s’more, but the nature of it all and the timing! Oh! What a glorious act in the mundane.
The child blinks and laughs along. Not really understanding his humour, but a laugh is surely contagious.
But the s’more couldn’t laugh along when it’s just sitting on the sad dirt. So Bory carries the treat in mild filth so it can laugh along—
Oh hello- The clock madman staring closely at the child with the widest grin he could ever pull: his arrow bending on its own in a arc. Maybe, he wants more!
She slips the s’more through his clock again and—plop! It falls again. No matter she can try again.
She grabs the s’more again in more filth—a couple more trips huh? Then to the face of the clock you go again-
Again!
Again.
Again?
Again!
Aaaaaaagain.
A- Oh!
She looks where her hands at again. Expecting for the s’more to fall but this time she hits solid gold.
Though unusual is the swirling portal behind the glass. Something is gripping on her hands, fangs softly keeping it in place but not enough to sink through her cotton flesh. It doesn’t hurt at all, it’s more of fish harmlessly nibbling on the flesh. It’s a weird sensation.
What’s on the other side? She holds no answer. Her hands are quickly spat out and the glass shuts itself back in place with that smile again.
”Thanks for the snack, buddy!” He pats the child continuously until she moves.
Does one bit weird her out? I doubt it does. She’s back making more s’mores like nothing happened as the clock man munches her food; the flowers on his tophat dancing in the wind.