Angsty-ish. It's more reflective, actually. And if you were expecting a mindblowingly epic (and boring) oneshot like Hands of the Clock, I'm sorry to disappoint you.
Weird inspiration that slipped into my head, along with about 5 others. So expect a lot of new oneshots soon (as soon as I'm done typing them; they all seem to be quite long).
( t o r n )
It could have been anything. It could have been a fragment of any story, the corner of any life.
It is torn at one edge; the fibres of vivid bloodred are frayed like soft brushes. The fabric is worn and faded, unevenly coloured now, but it holds true to traces of the striking scarlet that once it was dressed in. You can see its beauty, its forlorn broken beauty, a shred of old cloth that never more will see its former light.
It could have been anything—a corner of a bright banner fluttering exuberantly in the wind, marking the arrival of an age-old conqueror in a new land. It could have been part of that glorious symbol of power, of victory, a brilliant mark of power—ripped to shreds by an enemy's spear, as the nation came to its twilight.
It could have been part of a thief's mask, a shield from the world, as the condemned man sped through the dark streets between the bright patches of streetlight, under the glaring red flashes of the siren lights whirling in the dead of night. It might have been the one thing that had guarded this fallen man's life for decades, a small piece of cloth that had flown across the dark streets in countless fantastical chases—torn from its one and only owner as he finally succumbed to the law, and they destroyed his disguise.
Why, it could have come from the corner of a cloak, of a youth grappling with his last test before he advanced—the cape that had faithfully guarded him against barrages of attacks from behind, that had cradled his life in its hands and kept him living—just a second longer, just a second longer—as he fought in his fatal battle, a dance with death. Perhaps it was a slash of an axe that sliced a corner from his worn, red clothing and threw it upon the ground like a fallen leaf, to be lost under footsteps or tossed about in the wind.
Maybe it was a corner of the shirt that a beginner wore, as he ventured into lands he didn't know were too dangerous for him. And maybe, as he had been mauled to death, the shirt had been stripped apart by powerful teeth, and it had been stained dark by blood, a permanent dye to the white cloth as it descended on the earth into forgetfulness.
It might even have been the corner of a young woman's handkerchief, carrying the dried tears of a thousand sorrows that she cried at the departure of a loved one. Maybe she tore it in her grief and rage, kept the larger part in her hand, and flung the forgotten corner away at the foot of the coffin, crumpled and fading.
It is just a worn corner, a portion of red cloth, a shadow of what it once might have been. It could have been everything; it could have gne to every corner of the world and fluttered in every wind, sweet or bitter, in its old times of glory.
But what it was, it will be no more. Just a shred of red cloth, lying alone in my hand, dirty, faded, unneeded—as I brood upon its past of misplaced glory, and its weft slowly unravels in the wind.