id: 430
name: Moth thing
author: MothAnon
date: 4th July 2021
text len: 5257
views: 19

>Paper shells
>They issued me. Paper. Shells.
>the ship moans and groans around us like a wounded whale
>all weak and hopeless
>which doesn't help the mood at all
>Pershing looks around the crowded hold
>before leaning in to whisper so that the other soldiers don't hear us
>"How bad have our supplies gotten if they're issuing you paper shells?" He whispers worriedly
>"Technically they're cardboard…" I mumble
>"Yeah?" Pershing scoffs
>his frustration slowly building
>"And technically I was supposed to get something more than some mothballed Navy ri--"
>a few soldiers turn to glare at us
>causing Pershing to bite his tongue and stare down at the floor
>"Sorry…" he mumbles. "Bad word."
>he looks to me for some encouragement
>but all I can do is offer him a quiet shrug
>and resume methodically working the shells through my trench gun one by one
>"They told me it'd be fine as long as I made sure to check them all beforehand..."
>"And what did they say to do with the ones that don't load?"
>"To toss 'em."
>something which helps to soothe Pershing's worries
>but if only for a moment
>because in no time at all, he's narrowing his eyes again
>"But wouldn't loading and unloading the shells just deform them even more?"
>I stop
>and glance up at Pershing with a sorrowful look in my eyes
>that tells him all he needs to know
>I'm not loading the shells to make sure they work
>I'm doing it because I'm scared
>the ship hits a wave, causing the lights to flicker
>and I need something to do
>because we all look like ghastly skeletons until the lights return to normal
>Pershing gives me an understanding nod
>before turning away to face the ocean of milling Brodie helmets before us
>but the nervous ambience of the ship is so unbearable
>that it's not long until he tries to strike up another conversation
>"Have you ever been to Blackmarog?" He asks anxiously
>"I visited it once."
>Pershing snaps to look at me as his eyes grow wide
>"B-But it was a long time ago!" I quickly clarify
>Pershing pulls back
>not wanting to be rude
>but is just too curious to leave it
>"Do you remember anything about it?" He says with a forced smile on his face
>"I remember the smog from all the factories." I say quietly. "They didn't call Blackmarog the 'Acrid Glow of the North' for nothing…"
>I rest my trench gun against my knee and stare down at the deck as I speak
>it's easier to talk to boots, than it is with people about things that scare you
>"Lots of whalers too. The harbors were full of them and their ships, most being repurposed warships."
>some of the nearby soldiers start to eavesdrop on our conversation
>it's something to break up the monotony of our dreadful voyage
>"And the buildings, they were built in this weird Victorian style, all Brutalist and square. I had never seen anything like it."
>with each straight angled like someone being marched around via the tall tip of a bayonet… 
>"Do old world humans build their cities differently then?" One soldier asks 
>"In a way," I confirm. "Because the streets would dart in all directions, crooked and hurried, like they were running from something. But the only thing they ever found were dead ends. It made the city feel like a meandering maze without a mind."
>which the soldiers don't like hearing at all
>a few start to pick at the wool of their uniforms like anxious little birds preening themselves
>because the last thing they want to think about
>is what it's like to be trapped between the bones of some great industrial whale's corpse
>it'd feel cold
>and lonely...
>one soldier throws me a dirty look for making him ponder such things
>and mocks me by scornfully calling, "'Blackmarog Stands!'"
>I hold my trench gun close as we all start to drown in dread I've let in
>but just before it can pull us under
>I remember my only pleasant memory of the city
>"But what was really beautiful about Blackmarog were the moon tulips."
>and just like that it's like a gasp of fresh air
>saved by such silly little things
>moon tulips…
>they'd heard of them before
>how could they not?
>"They grew in the forests just outside the city." I reminisce. "In meadows of moonlight that you would feel strangely peaceful walking through."
>I lean back against the thrumming hull of the ship and let the nostalgia take me by the hand
>"They were small and white like stars," I sigh. "They would even grab at your hands whenever the wind blew, all sweet and innocent. Like they were whispering for you to lie down with them."
>"What did they feel like?"
>"Warm and wistful…" I swoon. "Dreamy…"
>a good many soldiers smile at the thought
>hardly any remembering the last time they had felt anything delicate
>"They made Blackmarog look so haunting in the distance."
>like a lullaby in a twisted forest
>a soldier playfully punches me on the shoulder
>"Hey, maybe when we retake the city you can see them again."
>the spell of my nostalgia suddenly falls away
>leaving me feeling sad and cold
>and my chest seizing with worry
>I miss the Blackmarog I once knew
>I really do…
>but then again
>"Their petals would only remind me of moth silk."
>and just like that the ship goes back to being a cramped, crowded tomb
>a miserable tin can floating on the ocean
>That not even the gulls would pick at.