Miss, Sir

She stood near a soldier at the train station, and while they were waiting for the train, they talked. For one the station wasn't particularly busy, and there weren't too many people, and the train they were boarding in particular had a stop to her street, and a stop to his barracks. So they talked.
"Windy day, isn't it, madam?" he grasped the hem of his cap.
"Yes, sir, that it is." she held onto the edge of her sun hat.
"I like windy days. They're usually quiet and the bullets miss your cheek."
"Maybe. I like them too. It looks nice when leaves fall down the road. You like autumn, don't you sir?"
"That I do, madam, miss."
"Sir, mister, monsieur." she bowed.
"Ma'am, mademoiselle, miss." he bowed.
"Nice meeting you, man."
"Likewise, woman."
"Tsk tsk, that's miss to you."
"And that's sir to you, I serve your country."
"And I, sir, grow your food."
"Farmer's daughter, are you?"
"Mhm."
"Well," he said as the train approached, "Thank you for keeping us alive, miss."
"And thank you too for keeping us alive, sir."
They both boarded and left the station, while orange and red autumn leaves rustled in the wind, lonely at the platform.

Insane Buddies - Black and White

It was one lone chair and one lone man. Beams of sunlight gently dotted his cheeks and he blinked his dull brown eyes. Why can't you listen to me? I sat in the other chair, the one across from him, in the dark corner. Why can't you listen to me, I wanted to ask. But he never listened. Just the intense staring. Why can't you listen to me, and you can't even speak for yourself! You don't know, you have your little green blackboard up and your chalks up and your own life up there hanging on that ceiling, somewhere. What a crazy man, why can't you listen to me? I know what's best, and after all, I really do. You just tape things to the ceiling mindlessly and then smear them with fingerpaint. Like a child. Man, why don't you just listen to me? We both stood up. We had to keep our heads, and I started taping things to the ceiling too. I taped myself and my hair and my nose. The man taped himself up along next to me and we waited. Footsteps, but there was no door. They couldn't possibly barge in on us, we had no door and the floor was red and blue, gray and yellow and green with paint. He painted a sunflower and I painted a cop car with a siren. I painted a raven and he painted a robin. I painted a fire and he painted a heaven. I painted black guns and he painted the face of my depression. I painted a raincloud and he painted the shape of my sins forgiven. Right. I'd known that. Yet he never listened to me. His little green blackboard and chalks. His little paints and doors and windows. It made me laugh, maybe. It made me cry. The footsteps finally came and the door finally opened and they finally took him away from the asylum and I was left alone with myself and myself and myself. Maybe it made me laugh, and maybe, maybe it made me cry. They always took the bright ones away; and he never listened to me.