Broken Angels

17

There once lived a brave tin soldier, and he and all his brethren were cast from the same spoon. They dressed in blue. They marched in a line. They were feared and respected.

Moon stands across the street from the alehouse, waiting for his tin soldier, patient as ice. The lights of the city, the lights of the season, sparkle in the distance. Moon idles in darkness, watching the tin soldiers come and go from the alehouse, thinking of the fire that would reduce them to tinsel.

But this is not about the full box of soldiers-stacked and rigid and set at attention, tin bayonets fixed-just one. He is an aging warrior, still strong. It will not be easy.

At midnight this tin soldier will open the snuffbox and meet his goblin. At that time, in that concluding moment, there will be just be him and Moon. There will be no other soldiers to help, no paper lady to grieve. The fire will be terrible and he will shed his tin tears. Will it be the fire of love? Moon holds the matches in his hand. And waits.