Savage breath bashed the swamp’s surface, turning it a dieted black sort of color. Crash into one another, crash, crash. The swamp had been still for eternities and eons and decades and years and months and days and now. Now it was something of a fairy tale how it cranked and battered and willowed and walloped. The blue dragonflies were gone, the birds’ cries whipped away with the wind too many minutes ago, and the leaves shattered. The grass attacked the mossy marsh that held up nothing but itself and the now vanished children. Their games and laughs were distant. The booming clouds had starved not just the water but the air of its regular flavor. From something usually so sour and stagnant it was now the vividly fresh vibrant unraveled cleanliness of a star. So far away and so clear; so old and decaying, its new marks were old marks turned so dry and liquid-cracked it looked nothing but crystal to a face millions of miles away. Too new for this land, too old for this day. His cries chalked into the air and slammed down right at his feet, dust in scattered bits. They poured and poured from his pounding head, from his veins came the wails of lost. He held a shield of cries to that new day not for self-defense but for fear. The day had vibrated out to spread and spread and spread and the boy sat still then. Then it battered in, walloped around, and willowed its way into the lines of that water and moss and grass. Greyish marsh oozing with grey water caressed the boy in his suit of horror, familiar land clinging to another familiar face. Bubbly cheeks bounced tears in steps from his eyes to the weeping grey.