This is an idea from The Periwinkle Pen, from weekly segments called Weekly Warmups.
In this exercise, I wrote about whatever the music video of Sigur Ros' "Untitled" made me think of.
I'm a weird person.
Deadroot glared across the fence at Plywood. The enemy's handlebar mustache and naturally wrinkly forehead gave Deadroot cold shivers. Evil men in history donned mustaches, and no men who still lived to feel wrinkles on their faces in this day and age suspiciously tugged at the hearts of America's last withstanding citizens.
"Earlier," Deadroot began, resisting the temptation to spit in Plywood's direction, "you agreed that nor you or you men or citizens would dare cross this border. And what I have you just done?"
"Crossed the border," Plywood smiled, revealing the many gaps among his grin.
A vein throbbed against Deadroot's stress-wrinkled forehead as he clenched his fists. "You know damn well what this means."
"Indeed I do. We'll have to play another game because of my foolish actions," he sighed, shrugging. He lifted his arms and dropped them again to his sides. "What can you do?"
"What I can do," Deadroot spat--and damn, was that great to let out--"is kick your ass at this game.
Plywood grinned and nodded before promptly turning and walking away, with his men. Deadroot snorted before turning and stomped off, parting the small layer of ashes like an ocean.
Muttering under his breath, Deadroot reached the schoolhouse, whose exterior was colored black with white stripes. The man noticed graffiti scribbled onto the side. In yellow chalk, someone wrote, "FREE THEM FREE THEM FREE THEM OR WE WILL DESTROY" until someone took blood red chalk and covered the rest. To the side, the red chalk read, "liars all of them hippie faggots keep on working gov." At the last sentence, Deadroot smiled. At least some of his citizens had his back. Justified.
He entered the building and passed a security guard, to whom Deadroot said, "Make the announcement, group B."
The guard, who looked no younger than twenty three, lifted his left wrist to his mouth, pushing a button on his watch. "Send group B to the Waiting Room."
Deadroot reached a long room and stood in the middle, facing a wall. Pitter patters heard, a door opposite to the entrance opened, and a line of children shuffled inside. Shackles hung from their wrists and ankles, and all but a few kept their heads the down. The deviants dared to send a glare at their captor and then turned their glare toward the ground.
Once the children lined up against the wall, Deadroot stood in front of the child to the far left. He grabbed the boy's face and leaned close, staring with a hard gaze. He turned the boy's face to the left and then to the right. He grunted to himself and moved on to the next child. For five children he proceeded, grunting to himself after each inspection.
A school bell rang out.
All the children's heads turned simultaneously to the mayor.
His lip snarled, and to a guard, he motioned toward the children he looked over. The guard removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the children's shackles, and the six children shuffled through the door the mayor had first entered.
Along the halls, six coats had been hung for the children. Each child snatched one up and slipped their arms through the sleeves, looking at each other in silence. Deadroot stood several feet away, his eyes never drifting away. And once all the children were snug in the winter coats, the turned to another wall and plucked off gas masks.
The children walked outside as ash crunched below their feet. With Deadroot as the caboose, the train of children marched across the land, turning left at some point. They approached a large building, and on the other side of the fence, Deadroot glimpsed Plywood leading children to said building. Deadroot could recognize the children, one young girl's face in particular. His heart skipped a beat.
In the building laid a Roman Colosseum. Deadroot urged the kids through the entrance gate to the field. The major then joined a group of his people and stared at the upcoming spectacle.
"Who will fall this time?" one man whispered to another.
"One of ours, you just watch," the other man responded, nodding to the other side. In a lower voice with his face turned away from the mayor, the man added, "It will be his daughter."
"How could you say such a thing!" the first main said. The mayor glanced their way.
"That's karma for you. Shows how stupid we all are."
"Attention," cried a voice belonging to Plywood, who stood on the opposite side of the spectator's field. "Because my men crossed the border, we must now play this game yet again. Prisoner against prisoner. Life against life." He threw his arms up as his voice rose to a boom. "Those who remain alive will be allowed to return to their respective counties, but only after a prisoner is taken down and chokes on the smoky ash blanketed across the land.
"This game--begin!"
A prisoner of Plywood immediately began to gather ashes in his hand in a circular pattern like a snowball. Those on her side began to do the same. Startled, one of Deadroot's prisoners rushed at the first girl and kicked up the ashes. Plywood's prisoners threw ashballs at the other side while Deadroot's prisoners scrambled about, skinny elephants running a muck.
One prisoner of Plywood rolled a large ashball and ran for a prisoner of the other side. Plywood's prisoner successfully trapped Deadroot's, and other prisoners of Plywood stacked even larger ashballs onto the trapped child. After they stepped back, the ashman trembled, and the previously trapped prisoner of Deadroot stomped out, hurling an ashball into the air.
Ash continued to fly as the prisoners ran circles around each other. Some ash hit prisoners in the shoulder or stomach or leg, but the prisoners continued to collect their weapon. Some men in the audience shook their heads, already forgetting which prisoner was on who's side. Some mayors stared down at the field, eyes focused on one person each, blind to all the others.
And a gas mask flew into the air.
And a mayor stood up.
And a crowd of children dropped the ash in their hands.
As if awakened by a dream, the children walked slowly toward the fallen child. Beady eyes stared back at, blinking slowly, mouth agape, at little monsters. Gasping for breath. Ashes slipping into her throat.
And a mayor clapped with a smile.
And a father dropped his face in his hands.
And a man turned to the one standing beside him.
"This game won't solve anything."
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