Untitled

Title: Untitled
Rating: G
Genre: Angst , maybe
Status: Oneshot
Summary/Exerpt: "It seemed to her like the top of the world would never stop spinning."
Aside: Feedback is good, but please no slander, this is my child

It seemed to her like the top of the world would never stop spinning. The different coloured countries slipped through her fingers and as they fell, she remembered the old saying her father taught her over strong coffee and wicker chairs. “Flags for our fathers, falls for our friends”

Every Sunday she would be in her good dress, tapping her heels against the pavement and twirling around the world in her own little dance. And with the tune of her shiny black shoes, there would be the air of family, of friends, of a globe too innocent, too childlike for the country’s colours and homeland falls. Over time, her feet were taught a faster pace, to run with her fingers as she managed all the work that had to be done. Her globe grew bigger, her dance more precise as the air of authority began to drift in. Her heels did not tap, but march, in a dance to only silence as she learnt to keep heading north, even if things ended where they began.

On Sundays, she would sit between family and friends, but was always outlined by faces too grey to be living. Over the bursting of golden stars on the silver screen, she would watch the world sway, to the beat of shoes that couldn’t run fast enough. In her good dress, she would watch from wicker chairs as her country lost colour, and began to gain despair, bringing nothing to the homeland except flags for dead fathers and falls for the friends who had already lost.

Even now, it seemed like the world could never stop marching, to a tune that was too precise, too fast paced for all the work that had to be done. Sitting in wicker chairs, over strong coffee, she would place her fingertips on the edge of the globe, and watch it twirling, just like her shiny black shoes that could never stand still. Watching as the countries ran from the homelands, round and round, in a dance where they were taught the nations answer to silence. “Flags, for our fathers, falls for our friends” even if things ended where they begun.

The air of authority seemed to hold her heels still these days, as she could only march between family, not friends, and was always outlined by a face that was too grey to be living. It seemed to her like the top of the world would never stop spinning. Watching over strong coffee she placed her fingertips on the edge of the once colourful countries and hoped for the burst of light that would bring the golden stars whirling back, to the black top of the world, away from the silver screen. But even if the ever-turning planet never found its way there, she kept facing north, wearing her good dress, and swaying to the tune of silence, not despair