A Book

The Last Cloud
The last cloud stood still, so very, very still, over the tree by the ransacked garden of Eden.

Bandits with histories of brutality and violent renown to their name had long since broken the gate open, the combined effort of so much fiction had long since overpowered the confused seraphim, unable to adapt to the many adaptations of his long fantastical form.

Myth tends to do that.

The sun assimilated the corpse of Uriel, and Eden was, as was fated to be, ransacked.

The boy in red recovered little in the ensuing skirmish. Living legend was still rich in those early days, and for as unrelenting as he is, he is no army against the force of those whose feats (whether fact or fiction) were inscribed so deeply.

And once there was not a single blade of grass left to pluck out of those fields, it was abandoned, left to be forgotten.

Everyone forgot, as the war continued to rage on.

But we did not.
And it seems the last cloud did not, either.

Anything that entered that now sacrilegious place would surely be forgotten, lest they were engraved deeply enough, tethered to narrative through deeper means.
The clouds had long subsided, as water, with its plentiful entities and creatures to command over it, refused to boil over against the sun’s constants.
The wind perished soon after, as the world ceased to spin in a rational way, entangled between two positions, unable to decide itself, the sun chose to .
So, any water eviscerated by relentless heat found no respite in the sky, as it stagnated and festered in the same spot as it changed, unable to flee.
Spirits of water and spirits of air are plentiful, but spirits of clouds?
Far less common, weaker than the grandeur of the spirits of rain or rivers.
There was no hope for them, when words parted from paper.