“Son,” she said, “have I got a little story for you. The man you thought was your daddy was nothing more than a…”

She passed through the lights and sounds of a metal desert, another will-o-the-wisp of the ever roaming morning. Her words flittered through the air, cocooned with the smoke lazily floating up, up- light, meaningless, a butterfly with ashes for wings.

Paint curled up in yellow blankets as the butterfly mingled, danced, found more of its kin and swarmed the lungs of millions. It kissed its eggs goodbye in the woman’s lungs, kissed the forehead of the child at her heels, kissed the newspapers playing in the wind and kissed the rain clouds. In courteous reply, a small cloud of no particular worth shuddered, shrank back, and cried the wettest tears. The tears fell down, ever down into the friendly gutters, into the open yellow umbrellas, into the cheery alleyways and over the crumbling, welcoming buildings. The buildings shrugged off the tears, leaving them to plunge, determined to continue the falling cycle, to their deaths.

The small deluge drew up, fell down, cascaded down the friendly gutters, soaking feet and catching whatever small creatures of no particular worth it could. Through the gutters- ever friendly- and into the lawns, into the streets, into the rivers, over the bridges, the raging child of a ocean sped. The tiny rapids shove and crawl their way down the city, flooding the homes of the small, heralding the street-livers to move along, move along.

Some trudge their way back to a shelter, some shuffle their feet to a covered alleyway, some begin the same pursuit of home that signifies the beginning of a new day. One dreary creature without any particular worth ambles along in a gait that could be called confidence, could be called drunk ambition, and could be called a mild stupor, a raggedy denim jacket acting more like a badge of what once was than a protector being half-heartedly nabbed and tugged at by a slippery, dripping hand. The hand shook with a semi-conscious fret, blindly grasping rags and letting them fall, impertinent this minute, forgotten the next.

A rag bragging of crimson deeds flapped lazily in the wind, dripping a multitude of stories from it as the rain drained it of all worth, as it cleansed the sorry creature’s memory, cascaded, deluged, flooded its mind, soaked its feet, pulled and shoved its legs towards one goal to another, heralding move-along, it’s wet, and it’s raining, move-along.

The shadow of a creature- surely no longer a man, surely no longer a thinking, sentient human being- this entity of dirt and grime, of wetness and precious little else, lumbers towards what once was a stately bridge, now its fellow in nothing of any particular worth.

The wooden planks absorb the rain, spit out tiny trickles, and chastise the creatures thriving under it. The roar of soundless thunder as tears throw themselves at the wood drowns out, at least, the constant chant of the rapids: move-along, move-along, there will be no more moving along. The planks rot, they shield, they drip colours of the oddest colour with creatures of the oddest nature staring, sputtering, wondering if that call was to them, was it to them or to the other fellow?

One sputtering creature stops its noise, chews on nothing, smacks its black gums with a feverish pale tongue and stands up like a soldier drafted. It proudly takes a step, flings its head back, lets out a victorious laugh and saunters off into the rain. Its fellow watches with half-aware eyes, blinks, and lays back down. It accidentally nudges another creature of dirt and grime and receives a hiss of unguided disgust as the assailed sputters, blinks blind eyes, and falls back. When it does not move, the other gives it another nudge, shows something strangely akin to a grin with few teeth, and shoves the creature down, down, joining the tears in the never-ending quest for the lowest ground. It lands with a wet splash, slowly begins to stir, and is swept down, down, looking for the sea.

The creature sparks a look at this development, watching the sinking fellow sink lower and lower. The grin-like expression returns in grotesque victory, the little teeth remaining standing proud, yellowed, the final veterans in a war that could end tomorrow, could end tonight, could end this very morning. This one followed the friendly gutters down to the bridge, sucking its gums and falling, hunting for refuge from the herald. It crossed the same river earlier, slipped, fell in, dragged itself out, barked in victory then cried in sad achievement. It couldn’t possibly consider what it was that made it do so, it couldn’t possibly consider anything: it could only do, stutter, suck and bark.

Another lonesome, crowded creature across from the current subject tore at more rags, lay it shaking hand to rest, and gingerly eased itself down. A faint glimmer of what once was shone in its beads for eyes, a moment of thought, perhaps, but only fleeting: it disappeared the next moment, the glimmer smothered, the thoughts drowned. It grunted in response to an inquiry the dripping made, shouldering its way into the rags, groping for the deceased denim that hung limply.

The creature shudders, grasping for another rag, its mind searching, rummaging through images, glimpses, forgotten clutter, tearing through its flesh barriers and screaming, hunting down rhyme, reason, method, anything. The creature sees an image of an angel, reaches out for it, pulls back its shaking hand so sharply it smashes into the planks, cracking and complaining. The angel leans forwards, its wings falling into black rags, the heavenly gown flowing around it tearing at the seams and revealing torn, scarred flesh, the halo peeling away for dishevelled, matted hair. The impostor angel grasps at the sunken creature, the black rags tumbling around, suffocating it, its hands deftly searching it.

Having found failure, the impostor charges into the morning rain, twirls, hands raised to the sky, blood dripping from its mouth, eyes, ears; blood escaping from every way, running from the creature it had the misfortune to be in, blood sinking down into the earth, grasping for anything of some particular worth.

The hands reach up, searching for the sky, the blood-soaking finger tips touching the clouds, clutching the rain, squeezing all the precious little tears from the precious little cloud. The impostor laughs, giggles, is sent back to childhood and brought back to nothingness in the blink of an eye, sobs and cries, tears at its rags, calls for help, then crumples to the ground in a heap.

The rain trickles down its face, and the impostor drags itself up, renewed, and stands once more. “My children,” it cries, tears running down its face, dancing with the rain, “my children! Come to your mother! Come! Dance with your mother! Come, my darlings, my sweet ones, my dirty little bastards, come! Dance!” It howls like a banshee, slips, crumbles like pillars of dust. It does not get back up.

The creature watches the impostor angel, then turns back to the bridge. It watches the droplets fall like sand in the hour glass, laces its fingers through, touches each individual life as if all were its domain, caresses the falling sand, catches some, clutches some desperately until it is gone. Awed, it catches more, watches the puddle form in its crusted palm, clasps it firmly. Eyes go wide as the hand opens to nothing, the puddle gone, only tiny droplets glistening down its arm. It tears at the wet streaks, mopping up the escaped drops with a rag, laughs in happy ownership and shoves the rags in its bottomless pocket, patting it affectionately and cooing.

All motion and noise and stuttering stop for a moment as the rain hesitates, the herald passing, and soft thuds are heard from above. One adventurous creature peeks its head up, is cursed at by a man in black clutching a gun, rain dropping from the badge proudly displayed on his chest. The brave creature ducks back into safety, worms itself so deep into the river banks that it becomes more a part of nature than of humanity, blubbering to itself and crying.

The cursing man steps down, looks under the bridge, and swears, pulling out a small device. He talks quietly and quickly into it, glances back at the bridge-livers, and walks a few feet away. Seconds later, he reappears, looks at each baffled, fearful, face, and shakes his head in amazement. He leaves, and the group is happily lonely again.

Some creature jumps up suddenly, shoves its way into the light, and points to a flock of sounds. “Demons! The demons are here! They’ve come to talk my babies!” With a cry, it launches itself at a baffled man, tearing at him. The man shouts over his shoulder, and more come up, grabbing the creature by the arms and carrying it away. Three more men appear on the other side of the haven, softly saying sweet nothings to nobody. One creature of no particular worth is reached for, grabbed, and pulled out. It claws, tears, but is forced away. Another is taken out, hissing, sputtering, calling for lightning and thunder.

A shadow shrinks from another hand, then latches onto it, falling towards the man, grabs his torso, and protectively allows itself to be lead away, muttering words of thankful love and maternal blessings. The creature patting its denim pocket is grabbed, cursed, and hauled away. It bites the hand, staggers backwards, and scrambles its way to the water. Seething, it pulls out the damp rag, hugs it, pats it, coos to it, and falls in. It laughs as it sinks, the rag rising to the surface as the hand finally stops shaking.

The men quickly get the rest into large vehicles, clasping handcuffs and tying padded jackets, checking off forgotten names and staring slack-jawed. A count of twenty-seven out of forty-two missing is made, and the men pat themselves on the back and get back into their respective vehicles. The cloud stops crying long enough to allow the creatures passage from a world of suffering to a world of white walls, the rain stops its heralding long enough to watch the creatures move along, and the morning drifts away to a misty afternoon.

A creature glimpses the outside world once more with its excited eyes, the misshapen mouth pulling into a cringing grin, and it cries out in victorious uproar: “Welcome home, son! Welcome home, welcome home, welcome home! Welcome to beauty, son! See all the beauty? Isn’t it pretty? Come, pretty son, welcome! Don’t look at the newspaper, son, you can’t read: don’t watch the sky, son, you can’t dream: welcome home, son, welcome home! This is home, son, don’t cry: don’t cry, son, welcome home!”

The rain begins its heralding anew, the requiem complete. It carries the rapids from streets, friendly gutters, sheltering bridges, and happy alleyways; it deluges into cracks, floods creases, cascades down streams and creatures alike. A creature composed of shadow steps back into shelter, watching the white vehicle parade by, blankly accepting the noises and faces. It stutters, and wanders past the city, past the parks, into the woods. It finds a stream, laughs, cries, and pulls a body out.