By Leighton Tanaka, TIWP Student
August was born on the 13th of November. He was born just as he died, with glorious color. As his parents lovingly hugged him, he was fragile as a butterfly wing, his giggle made the world more vibrant.
As August grew up, his mother taught him how to live. And so even as he ran outside under the amber sun, he was weary of the approaching storm. Even as he frolicked as the rain tumbled from a sky of gray, watching as the daylight melted through the clouds, he was aware of the midnight in the bushes.
August’s mother breathed with the pink of spring, she blessed the world with flowers of the forest. Her grace made the sky dance with a bright red, then the sun set and doused the world in ink.
August lived on with his father, he was strong as the roots of a tree. Though his father tumbled from the weakened ground. His crimson fingertips stained the forest, his rusty voice carried in the wind. Sometimes August would run outside and forget to look into the secret whispers of the world, he would run into the arms of his father, everlasting as a forest.
August lived on until Autumn, he greeted the cold days from the inside of his empty house. August was taught by his father to fight, he became a master of the blade.
August lived on to become old enough to fight in the great battle. The battle every one of them would live on to claim their own glorious life. Why then, August wondered, did everything seem to fade away.
August lived on in a gray world. Still, he staggered on to find his own shade. He walked in a smoky field of grass. The sun was supposed to shine, he reminded himself. He knelt down and carefully plucked his scarlet flower, he watched it’s petals crumble away in the ashen morning. His careful words leaked his tears as he blessed the world with his own green.
The tales of August