Morning all. I slept weirdly well last night, but I am not going to poke it. I am just going to enjoy the morning for once instead of requiring caffeine to get a running start. Let’s jump into our morning prompt and get this day moving.
No clue where this came from or where it is going but I will definitely use this somewhere.
Thursday, August 28th: Thousands of balloons were released into the sky.
Thousands of balloons were released into the sky. Each had a name attached to it on one side and on the other the battlefield in which the person died. Rexa let the string of her balloon slip through her fingers as it joined with the others. It had a blue string rather than a red. Looking up she saw that at least two thirds of the strings were blue.
It was a startling thought.
Red was for soldiers. Blue was for civilians caught in the crossfire. She knew that every soldier who died was represented. When preparing the balloons there was a list and the names were officially written and then passed out to those waiting in line if they didn’t have a blue stringed balloon. Those with the blue strings were done in the opposite way. A person who wanted to remember a fallen civilian had to give the name to someone official. Their death would be checked against the database and if no one had yet claimed the name, it was given and marked off the list so no one else would claim it.
Those in charge were willing to admit civilians fell during battle, but they didn’t want any repeats and wanted to, if possible minimize the numbers. They were only admitting it because of the public outcry when they planned to omit the civilians.
‘Lost in battle is lost in battle,’ Rexa thought. She rolled her shoulder. It still hurt when a storm was brewing. Remembering was bad, but forgetting seemed worse. She couldn’t forget. The enemy spilled into their towns and she along with everyone else picked up whatever came to had to use as a weapon, holding them off until the military could arrive.
Forgetting was impossible.
She stared at the balloon she let loose and thought of her neighbor. His name was attached to the string. She hadn’t known the name before that day. He was just someone she recognized and said hello to in passing. Yet they stood shoulder to shoulder when the attack came, slowing those coming after so a third neighbor with small children could get them to safety.
The sight of so many blue strings was a sobering one and Rexa knew that even outnumbering the red, there were many blue not represented. Those who died but left no one to represent them. There was a stage and she knew speeches were planned. She shifted her sight from the sky to the platform. Politicians waited. She wasn’t looking forward to that. No one was, she didn’t think.
A song started. It was an old folk ballad, one she knew. One everyone knew. The tone was slow and measured and acceptable to everyone’s voice. She sang with the rest, all who lost someone military or not. They all sang as one for their fallen.
The crowd started to turn, to move. Rexa followed them walking with them. They moved as one. Rexa realized they weren’t moving towards the platform with the politicians but away, towards the river where traditional ceremonies had always been held. It felt right but she knew there would be repercussions.
Ten til Midnight 