The Fleeting Cup

It was a Good Friday kind of day. A mass we always wanted to skip. The one where the congregation is urged to shout "Crucify him! Crucify him!" to further compound the fact and bring home the disgust, at having a human hand that reaches that far back with killer's blood coursing there just beneath the fingernails.

Gulls screech above, circling confusedly like buzzards. Bottle caps, shells, and those six-pack rings that choke the wildlife, poke between the toes, on an aimless walk. The debris upon the beach, washed up is unremarkable, except for one that toys with memory, if not imagination. It's these action figure legs, jackknifed into the landscape. Anonymous, yet familiar. The camo pants, the combat boots.

We know him, like our own reflections. Like childhood. Like John Doe. Joe.

I'm so far removed from the board walk. It's sunlight and amusements on a film strip. The ants unrelated to me. Eating, laughing, and recreating the impression of Life. It's colors.  The wind takes all their marching on, farther into the distance, and the greater gusts obscure my immediate footprint. My past insignificance highlighted in the glare of sand. Dark clouds, blazed from the underside where the sun has slid around and stuck its tongue out.

I can feel two quarters clanking in my shorts. Not gonna get me much. Not even hot or cold coffee these days. I approach closer to the G.I. Joe, I can see his torso's stuck in a cup. Styrofoam. Figures. A tenacious trap that won't decompose, and will leave him locked in that sinkhole, like a laughable foot soldier. Arms locked. All the more disposable. The good guy.

Rain makes a mockery of us both. His cup now full and stained with old grind residue. Darkness pools around the waist and on impulse I flick a coin to dislodge the legs. I don't know why I feel like he should get his head out of the sand or something. But I won't lean down to pluck the figure out. My clothes are dotting with cold drops, and my fingers slip. I miss. Just slightly, the soft edge rejects the metal and sends it back to land at my big toe. It stings. It doesn't hurt really. But I'm crying all the sudden.

It's just a thing, and then it isn't. Empty.

Show us, then, the wind whistles.

It's white on white on white. A glare.

"What's your name?" Bobby. Joe.

"Where you from?" Under the lamp arm.

"Which division?" First. From reality.

"It's a game. It's only a game."

"Bobby Joe, play with us."

"You be this one."

"Pow pow."

Teeth. White, on white.

Smile. Wince.

"Bobby?"

"It's only a game..."

"He's going to get up again."

"Right?"

"Bobby? Joe?"

"Galvanized iron."

"What?"

"Government issued."

"Not Gen Infantry?"

"No. Issue."

"Bobby Joe?"

White noise.

"Do you hear?"

"General issue."

"He's not responding..."

White on white, sheet.

There's the clouds. The soulless beach. There's reality I know nothing about.

This sad forgiveness that hangs heavy. A grain of sand like a boulder.

An empty shroud. A smear.

We were playing. We were just playing, until we weren't.

03.25.2024

Legless man Prose Fantasy Challenge for March @Prose