Statues should be timeless; I am not.
I once was more—to myself, to the Boy: a knight (with a gun-like sword), a cowboy (oddly dressed), a spy. I charged, my cry a shrill violence to match The Boy’s: terror and courage overflowing. Life.
Now? I forget.
My voice is hollow, as is my left arm. One leg rotted through. Yet I am good: my face strong, though pocked; my left arm (I hope) still solid. My right leg warped but workable.
And so my hollow voice screams, even now, a war-cry of thanks for my transient flesh.
(This story is a part of Loren Eaton’s 2018 Advent Ghost 100-word storytelling. Click here to read others’ contributions.)